Chapter 11

(𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬)
This story contains dark and potentially distressing themes such as Twisted Religious aspects, Cult indoctrination , Gore, Psychological Horror and Death.

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You were raised in a house where God watched everything.

Not the soft, benevolent God from children’s picture Bibles — no.
Yours was the all-seeing warden, the one who kept tally of every stray thought and punished even the flickers of doubt.

Every prayer at dinner was a performance, every Sunday mass a theater where your parents forced you to smile and kneel while their hands left bruises behind closed doors.

You learned early that obedience was survival.

If you talked back, they’d drag you into the prayer room — a cramped, suffocating corner where a crucifix hung large there—at times, they threatened to crucify you too whenever you disobey. 

You were made to kneel on salt while they recited verses, over and over, until your legs bled and your throat was bruised from begging for forgiveness you didn’t even understand. 

Punishments were never about what you did, they were about control: a cup left unwashed, a laugh that is too loud, and a question asked in the wrong tone was a sin to them, hence they punish you. 

Each “sin” became an excuse to remind you that you were inherently wrong, inherently broken, and only faith could fix you.

The worst of it happened when you were nine; a stray cat bit your leg and scratched you on the way home from catechism class.

But your parents didn’t believe in vaccines, and all they say was that. “God will protect you,” as she wrapped the wound with holy water and gauze. 

Your father prayed over you like you were a possessed thing.

Multiple days had passed, and the wound darkened—fever gnawed at your body relentlessly, and you can’t stop vomiting every single second. 

You thought that you were going to die, thus you sneaked out of the house at dawn, limping toward the nearest clinic.

You remember the doctor’s face twist in horror when he saw the bite and how bad it was.

He gave you the shot in secret, locking the door and whispering, “Don’t tell them.”

Because he knew how faith can be a sickness if the devotion is way too extreme.

And in the town you grew in, faith was absolute.

You didn’t tell them, of course. If they found out, they would’ve called it blasphemy.

They would’ve punished you for choosing survival over submission.

That was the first time you realized that religion could kill you.

The trauma burrowed deep, festering in places no one could see until it just wasn’t  fear anymore — it was a constant, gnawing presence, like something had been stitched into your skin.

Even when you left the house, the indoctrination followed you.

Even when you tried to breathe, you heard their prayers in your head, looping like broken records. 

You flinched at church bells, and you avoided confessionals like plague pits. 

It got so bad to the point that faith wasn’t comfort to you — it was a parasite that had eaten into your bones.

When you were fifteen, you told them you wanted to become an author, but your parents only laughed. 

“Writing won’t put food on the table,” your father had said.

“God doesn’t reward vanity,” your mother added.

And just like that, the dream was dismissed — crushed beneath  practicality.

Another talented dreamer was wasted because of  pragmatism.

They wanted a future they could brag about in church; something respectable and something that made you a walking testimony of obedience.

So you opted for psychology instead, not because you wanted to fix anyone. But because you wanted to understand how people like them worked — how blind faith could rot a person from the inside out. 

How entire lives could be built on fear masquerading as devotion.

You dissected belief the way others dissect frogs, peeling back layers of indoctrination and guilt to see the tendons underneath.

But understanding didn’t bring you peace, because even now, you can’t fully untangle yourself.

Religion is a parasite.

That was your motto when you grew up.

But even then, religion made you meet the most important people that played a significant role in your life: you remember meeting Théodore Alexandre — or Theo in short— at a Catholic college that you got forced to attend— an institution dressed in piety, all polished marble floors and looming crucifixes, where faith was stitched into the curriculum as neatly as the uniforms students wore. 

He was the kind of boy who still bowed his head when he passed a chapel, who carried his rosary tucked into his pocket like a talisman against doubt. 

You, on the other hand, had already outgrown the illusion when you were in college.

From the moment that you first interacted with him, it was obvious that Theo was the type to get swept away. 

He wasn’t stupid — just earnest; he swallowed sermons like they were truths carved in stone, let theology professors shape his worldview. 

So you stepped in and befriended him, to influence him to well… become an atheist like you—since he was easily persuaded anyways.

Whenever he’d talk about “God’s plan,” you’d shoot back that religion was just a coping mechanism — a story people told themselves to keep the dark from feeling so big.

“It’s like putting sugar on a poison so people won’t notice that it’s gonna kill them,” you’d say during late-night conversations at the dorm rooftop, cigarette between your fingers. 

“It makes it easier to swallow if you put sugar on a poisonous drink, but it still kills your ability to think.”

At first, Theo would laugh nervously, glance over his shoulder like someone might hear.

But he didn’t pull away, if anything, he leaned in and started saying his doubts about religion too. 

You started skipping mass together, at first accidentally, then deliberately.

You’d drag him to dingy cafés, late-night arcades, rooftops where no one was praying over you — places where doubt wasn’t a sin, just part of being alive.

Little by little, Theo began to loosen the grip of faith on his throat.

He stopped going to confession, he stopped quoting the Bible like it was law, and he started listening to you.

Really listening.

Meanwhile, you were changing too. College had given you just enough distance from your childhood cage that rebellion became your oxygen.

You cut classes, picked fights, smoked behind lecture halls. Your grades slipped, but you didn’t care — for once, you weren’t kneeling.

Theo followed your lead.

The good, obedient boy began sneaking out past curfew, his starched collars slowly giving way to ripped jackets and cigarettes he claimed he didn’t inhale.

He started laughing louder, questioning more. You taught him how to run without looking back, and he matched your stride like he was meant for it.

The two of you have become inseparable since then.

But then that incident from Zenderin ruined everything.

It was supposed to be just another dusty provincial town, tucked somewhere between mountains and crumbling churches. 

But it became the place where everything went sideways.

And perhaps, that place was the reason why you lost your memory too, because of the trauma your body and brain have gotten.

It was supposed to be a road trip.

You and Theo had piled into a rusted van with barely enough gas money to get there and back.

The town itself was strange — too quiet and too pious. Crosses hung from every post, candles burned in every window, and the people spoke with the kind of fervor that made your skin crawl.

You should’ve known something was off the moment Theo disappeared. One minute he was buying water from a roadside stall; the next, he was gone—a cult kidnapped him.

You went to the local police first, frantic, but they brushed you off with polite smiles.

“We can’t interfere with religious practice,” one of them said, as if Theo’s life was just some minor theological dispute.

You tried to explain — he was kidnapped, dragged by some hooded figures you’d seen at the edge of the square — but all you got were bureaucratic shrugs.

“We can’t interfere with religious practices,” they told you, hiding behind legal walls like cowards.

“It’s their religious freedom.”

“There is a separation of church and state, sir.”

Those are the words that sounded righteous until you realized they meant you’re on your own.

So you went alone.

You tracked them to a derelict chapel on the outskirts — a place that looked more like a tomb than a house of worship.

Inside, the cult gathered in white robes stained with dried blood, chanting in a mix of Latin prayers and songs, their voices overlapping like a swarm of locusts.

Their devotion revolved around Santa Muerte, the “Saint of Death,” and their goal was simple and horrifying: resurrect their fallen leader through blood sacrifice.

Theo was chosen.

Theo was bound to a stone altar at the center, pale and terrified while their dead leader’s body was laid out at the male’s feet, bones wrapped in rosaries, waiting for blood. 

They were going to slit Theo’s throat, offer him as a vessel to bring their leader back.

His brown eyes met yours when he saw you peeking from the window — wide and, disbelieving. 

You could’ve turned back and you could’ve run. But you didn’t—no, you couldn’t. Because for all your cynicism, all your hatred for religion, Theo wasn’t just another believer. 

He was someone special to you. Your best friend, your guiding light and your anchor.

You couldn’t leave him and you wouldn’t leave him.

Even if it meant killing for the first time and losing your life in the process.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒

When consciousness ensnared you within its arms and coaxed you back from the precipice of oblivion, what greeted your senses wasn’t the screaming, the fire, or the quake.

What greeted your senses was warmth and softness; your head rested heavily on something warm while long fingers that are cool as silk—combed slowly through your hair.

Then, the soft sound of a mellifluous humming—a low, resonant melody that is  hauntingly beautiful, and for some reason, that voice was smoothing the tight knot of apprehension within your chest.

Beautiful and calming. That’s how you’d describe it. For a moment, you didn’t want to move and feared that if you breathe, the song might stop.

But the moment your eyelids fluttered open, the illusion shattered and a crimson tide had engulfed everything in your vision.

Not the warm blush of firelight or sunset—but a searing, malevolent, bleeding through every surface on the place.

You saw faces in the smoke-shrouded place, stuttering, their mouths opening and closing with silent screams that didn’t match their movements and limbs bent in ways they shouldn’t.

A shiver ran down your spine.

What the…

You tried to sit up, but the moment you moved, the world tilted violently and your skull pounded with nausea as the glitching scenery bled into grotesque shapes: a priest with no eyes chanting backwards, a mother clutching her child only for her arms to melt into bone, the crowd’s features peeling and stretching as though they were masks being tugged too far.

And yet—

Amidst the pandemonium, one figure was steady and untouched. 

Yzrivis.

No distortion warped his face, and there wasn’t a single flicker of red that drowned his form.

He was smiling—and you could see it clearly since he wasn’t really wearing his veil anymore.

“Yzrivis…?” Confusion and apprehension colored your voice. “Is that you…?” You asked hesitantly as you blinked hard.

“W-what—what the fuck is happening? You’re real, right?”

A pale finger pressed against your lips before you could spiral further on your hysteria.

“Shhh.” His voice was soft even if the world melted into nightmares around you. “Don’t waste your strength. Go back to sleep.”

His hand returned to your hair, threading through the strands and grounding you.

“Your body is still weak. You pushed yourself last night too hard, little wolf. You almost died.”

“What—”

Before you could even ask him to explain, the world convulsed again and a glitch tore across your vision—the ground beneath you began to pulse and the sky cracked with faces that weren’t faces at all.

You clutched at Yzrivis’s robes, terrified to let go. “What—what the fuck is happening? Am I hallucinating? Why do I see this—what is happening to me—?”

His smile only deepened, and for a terrible instant, you thought you saw fangs glinting beneath his lips.

“You’re seeing too much,” he murmured, thumb brushing your temple in something like affection. “You aren’t ready yet. Rest.”

“Rest—?!” The word tore from you, frantic, your voice almost drowned by the glitching howls around you.

“Where are we?!—”

“My domain.”

“What the fuck do you mean—”

Your protest cracked midway into a strangled gasp. Because in that moment—caught between the distorted world and Yzrivis’s unnervingly calm presence—you caught sight of yourself.

Reflected in those soulless eyes of his.

It was a clear, unbroken reflection—so sharp it cut through the glitching chaos like a blade through the fog—and what stared back at you made your blood curdle.

Your right eye… was covered.
Not by a patch of leather or metal, but by a strip of white cloth, hastily wound around your head. It was soaked through with a faint bloom of crimson at the edges, like a flower bleeding from its heart.

Your breath hitched. “What—”

Your hand instinctively rose to touch it. 

But your fingers met…the air.?

Your gaze dropped.

Where your right arm should’ve been, there was only absence.

Your breath quickened into panicked, shallow bursts as a dry, high sound clawed its way out of your throat.
“Wh—where’s—where’s my arm?”

You flailed, the world tilting into a sickening spiral. Yzrivis regarded your panic with the same serene patience one might offer a trembling child.

“You fainted,” he murmured softly, as if that explained everything. His pale hand shifted, and with a smooth motion, he reached behind him and drew something forward.

It was your arm.

Or rather—what was left of it.

The flesh was torn ragged in uneven crescents. There were bite marks, dozens of them. 

Deep enough to reach the bone in some places, the blood darkened and tacky. You could almost hear the wet tearing, could almost feel the phantom pain lancing up through the nerves that no longer existed.

“It happened while you were unconscious,” he murmured. “One of them must have found you. But I found you first.”

His thumb brushed a tear that had escaped down your cheek. It smeared the crimson liquid instead of the tears that had spilled out unconsciously.

“You would have died,” he whispered, “Or worse. But I didn’t let that happen. I took care of it for you, little wolf.”

His other hand rested against your cheek, fingers cold and steady against your fever-hot skin.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and despite everything, your gaze snapped to his.

“You survived because I willed it so. Now… breathe.”

Your breathing came out in ragged bursts, and you shook your head over and over, as if that could will the truth away. “No… no, this—this isn’t real. I’m not—this isn’t—”

“[Name].”

Your name on his tongue was soft, but it snapped through your panic like a whip.

How… Did he even know your name? You’ve only just found out about it when you got your memories back…

So…

How?

Yzrivis’ fingers, still threaded through your hair, tightened just enough to hold you still.

His gaze bore down into you—steady, unblinking, terribly calm amid the carnage glitching at the edges of the world.

“Are you…” He whispered with narrowed eyes. “Doubting me?”

The question lanced through you sharper than any accusation, and your lips parted soundlessly.

Are you doubting him?

“I—no, I’m just—”

“Ah,” he breathed, smile widening as though he had caught you in a lie. “You are doubting me.”

“I’m not!” you protested desperately. “I just— I don’t understand—”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore as his hand slid from your cheek to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there.

A chill ran down at your spine at the touch. It reminded you of that one time where he almost tried to kill you.

“Doubt,” he murmured, voice dipping low. “is a sickness; it festers, corrupts, and turns loyalty into betrayal. You know this, little wolf.”

“This…” He motioned at the stump on your arm. “You have reaped what you have sown. You did the same to Alri. It’s only righteous that it should happen to you too, no?”

His words struck somewhere deep—past the confusion, past the panic—straight into that quiet, festering part of you that you have tried to bury six feet under.

Alri’s face flashed behind your eyelids in brutal clarity. He’s right, wasn’t he?

If your reason for chopping her arm off was valid, shouldn’t Yzrivis’ reason be valid too?

You’d told yourself you were being merciful. You’d told yourself there was no other way. Yzrivis probably thought of the same too.

So why are you doubting him?

Guilt slammed into you and your fingers trembled as you reached for his robes, clutching them like a lifeline. “I’m sorry,” you rasped.

Doubt is a sickness, Doubt is a sickness, Doubt is a sickness

Your mind repetitively whispered to you as you sobbed.
“I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to doubt you. You’re right.”

His gaze softened just enough to make the contrast cruel.

“You always are,” you whispered,
voice breaking. “You’re right, Yzrivis. I was wrong to question you. Please—don’t look at me like that.”

He tilted your chin up, the pad of his finger pressing lightly against your jaw as he kissed the corners of your lips. “You’re lucky,” he murmured. 

“That I allow you to live after what you’ve done. Most wouldn’t get that mercy from me.”

“So don’t let doubt cloud you again, little wolf,” he murmured. “You know I’m right.”

“Your god is always right.”

⤷ꫂ ၴႅၴ₊✦── .✧ 𝐘𝐙’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 ˎˊ˗ᯓ

(An illustration about how Yzrivis looks like)

⊹₊ ⋆𝐇𝐄𝐘 my lil puddings, I’ve recently uploaded another BL book entitled “Corrosive Cravings”— though, this one might be darker than this. Check it out if that kind of stories interests you.

Also, there are quite a few elements in this story that may seem ambiguous — and that’s entirely intentional. I won’t be explaining the reasons just yet. However, if you have any questions or curiosities about the story, please don’t hesitate to ask.

I won’t include specific warnings for this chapter, as doing so might spoil certain elements of the story. Please keep in mind that all of the content warnings mentioned in the previous chapters continue to apply to every chapter of this book.

And since the story is approaching its end, please be advised that the upcoming chapters will take on a noticeably darker tone:)

Make sure to add this to your library so you’ll get updates. Do join my discord server too — I post sneak peeks & updates for this story—and other stuff there.

Lastly, in case that this account  gets deleted (yuzhong), you can also find me on my backup account (yuzhonggg)