Chapter 4

(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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The words that you ought to write on the invocation had become a venom that you had to swallow slowly.

Tethering on the edge of precipice of spiritual vertigo, your clammy hands shook in dread as you crouched by the low stone desk tucked into the wall’s alcove.

Perturbed,  you dipped the trembling quill on the inkwell, the dark liquid rippling and sloshing at the contact.

Write it like scripture, she had said. Make it sound holy.

What the hell are you even supposed to write?

After all, every word could either damn you or save you.

You set the quill down, the feathered tip wavering and kissing the desk begore forcing yourself to pick it up again.

Start simple, you thought. Just the facts. Just the facts.

You pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment, forcing your breathing to steady and your hands to stop shaking — so that the ink wouldn’t smudge.

At the very top, you scrawled the invocation. 

This record is offered under oath and acceptance of Zyval’korr, as a loyal devotee of Yzrivis.

The ink bled slightly where your hand wavered, and for a moment, you simply stared at it, as though expecting it to magically write itself. 

However, after a moment, you eventually regained your focus and tried to fight back the lump forming in your throat by taking a deep breath.

Loyal devotee my ass, i don’t even believe in him.

A sharp, exasperated breath hissed through your teeth as your gaze burned into the paper; you already hated the formality that bled from every  word. 

But what else can you do?

That was how they wanted it — stiff and sacred, lyou have no choice but do that, because the alternative promised a spilling of blood.

You weren’t really looking forward to being killed just because your beliefs deviated from theirs, thus you continued to write.

At the third bell of the evening, while tasked with the bearing of sacrificial offerings to the Inner Sanctum, I was halted by an unknown figure.
He was of great height, bearing silver hair and pale blue eyes, an ethereal voice, and he moved without noise.

Your hand slowed down as you gazed down at the things that you have written.

“Wow… I probably would’ve been a great poet or an author..”

You chuckled quietly to yourself as you sat back for a moment, flexing your cramped fingers before straightening up and writing once again.

The figure placed his hand upon my wrist, though I sustained no physical harm. He—

You were about to write drag until you halted, because somehow, that word grated unpleasantly in your mind. 

“…Dragged sounds kinda informal… What’s the formal term of dragged again..? Pull?” you muttered to yourself, sifting through your mental lexicon for a more refined synonym. 

However, nothing came to your mind except for pull — and it sounds informal either way, so you just decided to just use drag and get on with the next part.

But when you were writing it, halfway through, you forgot the term for the way he knew things about you

Not psychic — that was an old word, from before.

You knew it in your mind but it wouldn’t come out in language, so you sat there, mouthing silent guesses.

“Pre… premonition? Clair… something?…” You scratched your head with the feathered end of the quill.

In the end you wrote:
“He spoke of things known only within my heart — private transgressions, and even some of my own thoughts.”

When the world resumed, the figure was gone. The offerings had vanished. My memory of the pathway home was fragmented. I confess confusion, but no malice nor intentional deviation from sacred duty.

For a fleeting moment, the temptation of lying fogged in your mind; you wanted to say that you had fainted, hallucinated, anything safer.

However, Lysara’s warning buzzed in your mind like a swarm of angry wasps.: Write it like a scripture.

Thus, you lowered your head and added, almost against your will.

It was a trial of Yzrivis, and i submit to judgment. If it was heresy, I beg for correction. Let my soul be weighed truly. Zev’korrin aeth Yrza’veth. Lu’kira semnar.

You signed your name last, before you pushed the parchment back with a trembling breath. 

Your hand seized the dagger resting on the table, and you dragged it across your flesh, splitting it open in a thin, trembling line, warm blood welling up immediately, thick and dark, spilling over your fingers.

You winced as you let it drip freely onto the waiting sheet of paper, the drops soaking into it like ink.

You remembered the verses—obscure, half-mad instructions—that said anything handwritten that mentions Yzrivis must be written in your own blood;  for blood is the only language the divine cannot ignore, or else it would be meaningless, and discarded.

And the priests probably expects you to baptize the report with your own blood anyways.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You rolled it carefully, tying it with the thin strip of black cloth they’d given you for official reports.

When you straightened up, Lysara was already there at the door, arms folded and weight shifting impatiently like she’d been standing there longer than you realized.

“Ready?” she asked.

You nodded mutely, clutching the scroll so tight the parchment crinkled in protest.

You kept glancing at Lysara from the corner of your eye as you two walked.

She wasn’t speaking and her face was carefully blank — the kind of blankness that meant she was thinking very, very hard about things she didn’t want you to know.

And of course, your brain — your overactive, overanalyzer brain — started working overtime.

What if she turns me in? What if she thinks I’m a liability now? What if she’s only helping me so she can personally watch me be gutted for heresy?

What if she still remembers that time where i accidentally put salt instead of sugar in her coffee and took it to heart?

You inhaled sharply through your nose and tried to stop the spiral, but it was like catching smoke with bare hands.

She’s smart, she’s cautious, she knows the politics here better than i ever will. If she’s quiet, it’s because she’s calculating the odds, probably.

You thought about it clinically, before deciding that you have to do three things to ensure your survival first.

First, suppress your emotional reactions so it won’t be suspicious.

Second, analyze the potential environmental threats you could see, and lastly,  calculate survival strategies.

I am  not helpless. I am not cornered. I am observant. I will adapt, adjust, and prevail.

You gaslighted yourself; though, the only problem was — no matter how clinical you tried to be, your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

The priests stood waiting in the hall, where the stone walls rose into a dome carved with images of death and rebirth.

One of them, taller and meaner-looking than the others, extended his hand wordlessly.

You placed the scroll into his palm, and his fingers closed over it with a little too much eagerness.

Meanwhile, your eyes kept darting around, looking for that old bitch of a priest — Father Myron — to see if you can twist his words and gaslight everyone here — but to your dismay, he wasn’t here.

“…Just my luck.” you mumbled, as your shoulders slumped in disappointment.

Lysara stepped forward, head dipping in a bow as she spoke, her onyx irises narrowing ever so slightly.

“Brother Tzalekh. As the witness to this confession, I affirm its sincerity. Vaelix acted in confusion, not malice; I recommend that you give mercy.”

Tzalekh grunted, tucking the scroll into the folds of his sleeves, and his sharp eyes never left your face as if he was weighing you and measuring you.

You fought the urge to flinch under the weight of that gaze as the priests muttered among themselves for a moment and you just stood there awkwardly.

When they finally finished talking, Tzalekh only nodded stiffly and said,

“We will consider it, after all, since Vaelix arrived, the crops have bloomed better and there were lesser attacks of the undead.”

“We will honor his contributions to the compound and consider it.”

You didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Did they thought that you were blessed or something?

You bowed your head in  a bare dip of deference anyway and held the pose until Lysara’s chin snapped up, and gestured for you to follow her.

You held your tongue until the last lingering echoes of the priests’ murmurs slowly got swallowed by the immense, groaning weight of the closing stone door.

Lysara let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, a small, relieved smile playing on her lips as she ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face. 

“Well,” she began, voice light. “That went better than expected.”

You stared at her, a disbelieving scoff escaping your lips. “Better? I thought they were two seconds away from flaying me alive.”

“They’re priests,” she sighed, a single shoulder lifting in a casual shrug. “They’re always two seconds away from flaying somebody alive.”

“But you survived the first trial. Be grateful that Yzrivis has let you live — Be grateful that Yzrivis used me to help you get out of that situation.”

She stepped closer, her gaze sharp, and jabbed a firm finger against your chest. 

You let out a heavy sigh and shook your head.

Damn.. you forgot that Lysara was still one of the zealots.. maybe the lesser crazy — but still a zealot.

Lysara stopped abruptly in the corridor, turning to face you as a thoughtful frown creased her brow. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she murmured, her gaze distant for a moment before focusing on you.

“Given what you wrote — and the fact that you were targeted by… something — it’s probably wise to cleanse you.”

You blinked in confusion. “Cleanse?”

“Zirath’korrin.” she declared, like it was obvious. 

The word hit you like a physical blow and a sudden, icy dread seized your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

No. No no no no no.

Fuck no!

You’d read about Zirath’korrin before, it was baptism — and it wasn’t sprinkling water on your head and singing hymns.

It was drowning.

It was a descent into the abyss, a literal drowning; held under the water until your heart fluttered and your mind broke open like a cracked egg — until you “shed impurity” and were “reborn gasping into Yzrivis’ light.”

Except lots of people didn’t gasp at all — and lots of people didn’t come back up — because the line between cleansing and annihilation  often blurred.

You must’ve gone pale because Lysara tilted her head, frowning slightly.

“You must surrender yourself to yzrivis — via Zirath’korrin and in that way, you will survive.”

She patted your shoulder — the first real touch she’d offered you since dragging you up by the wrist earlier — and said, “It will be alright. I will be there and I will make sure they don’t overdo it.”

“Good to know.” You forced a laugh.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

The baptismal chamber was worse than you remembered from the books.

The pool was deep, black, and smelled faintly of old iron and skewers water.

Torches flickered along the stone walls, their flames casting long, writhing shadows over the ceiling like restless spirits.

You shivered as the priests chanted low under their breath, circling the pool.

Some part of you knew the words — old, heavy syllables of devotion and submission — but hearing them spoken aloud made your skin crawl.

Lysara stood nearby, arms folded tightly across her chest, her mouth set in a thin line, her expression unreadable.

You stripped off your outer robe as they gestured, standing there bare-chested and barefoot, feeling more exposed than you ever had in your life.

Cold air licked your skin and every instinct screamed at you to run — but you stepped toward the pool when they beckoned.

Will I drown to death…? No, Lysara said that I won’t…

Tzalekh  placed a heavy hand on your shoulder and muttered a final prayer before shoving you forward.

The water was colder than you expected, shocking the breath from your lungs.

Before you could react, rough hands pressed down on your head, forcing you under.

Panic clawed immediately at your chest. You fought the instinct to thrash, to struggle, because you knew — struggling would only make it worse.

So you let yourself sink and let the dark water swallow you whole.

You could hear them chanting even through the muffled distortion of the water:

“Zev’korrin aeth Yrza’veth. Lu’kira semnar. Shed the filth. Be reborn.”

Your chest burned for air and you squeezed your eyes shut and clutched at the sleeves of the priest who held you down — not fighting — just begging, pleading.

Your mind broke open at the edges, fraying like an old rope under too much strain.

I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying—

Then, just as the pressure reached a peak so blinding you almost forgot your own name —
—a loud crack snapped through the chamber.

You barely registered it through the haze of drowning — just that the chanting had stopped.

You were yanked roughly from the water, coughing and choking, snot and water pouring from your nose, hands clutching blindly at whoever had pulled you up.

You collapsed on the cold stone floor, gasping, barely hearing the priests shouting over each other.

It wasn’t until you caught your breath in ragged sobs that you noticed the searing pain in your hand.

You looked down — and there it was: a torch had fallen, embers still smoldering around the handle, and your right hand was burned, an angry red mark blistering already along the base of your thumb.

Someone — Lysara? — yanked the torch fully away before it could do more damage.

“Enough!” she barked at the others, voice hard and commanding. “The cleansing is postponed. Yzrivis has given a sign.”

There was silence, heavy and confused and the other priests glanced at each other, uncertain.

Tzalekh narrowed his eyes at you — at the burn — and then spat on the floor, muttering something about impurity taking root deeper than expected.

But he did not argue.

Someone tossed a rough wool cloak over your shoulders, and Lysara seized your unburned arm, half-dragging you away from the pool.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You were still feeling like a soggy piece of bread, all wrapped up in Lysara’s scratchy bandages, sulking in the small cot she’d shoved into the corner of her sitting room.

Your hand throbbed under the wrappings — an angry, pulsing heat where the torch had fallen, your body humming with exhaustion.

You barely even registered the creak of the door until it was too late.

You shot upright, a jolt of adrenaline snapping through your spine, nearly knocking the water basin over with your knee.

Because sitting there — calm as a fucking cat — was him.

The veiled man from the garden.  

The one who had vanished into thin air like some  stage magician and the one who keeps on gaslighting you and twisting your words — the one who had almost choked the breath from your lungs.

Now he was here, perched on the edge of Lysara’s rickety table, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced, head tilted slightly as if examining an interesting specimen.

You gawked at him for a solid ten seconds, your mouth opening, closing, then opening again like a fish out of water.

Is he.. here to finish off the job now that you’re weakened or something? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help but swallow thickly.

“Y-you—” You pointed a trembling finger at him, the motion sending a fresh wave of pain through your bandaged hand. 

“You’re— You’re that guy…”

You licked your lips,  trying to pull yourself together and gathering whatever scraps of dignity you had left.

“Where did you go back then?” you blurted out.

The man was silent for a long, awkward moment — long enough that you thought maybe he didn’t even hear you. 

Then, finally, in a low voice that sounded almost amused, he spoke. “Elsewhere.”

You blinked at him, perplexed.

That was it….? That was his explanation…?

Elsewhere…?

You clenched your burnt hand, then immediately regretted it because searing pain laced all over your body.

“Okay,” you rasped, trying to regain some mental footing, rubbing your face with your good hand as the man straightened up a little.

“I’m a physician. Lysara has sent me here.” he said simply.

Your mind raced, trying to decipher what the fuck he meant by that.

“You’re a— You’re a doctor?”  you repeated in disbelief, voice cracking.

Nothing — absolutely nothing — about this man screamed doctor. A plague doctor — or a psychologist perhaps — because he did know to do a lot of mindgames and manipulate well — but a doctor?

He was dressed like a cult assassin!

His robes were black and embroidered in deep crimson thread, not the plain white linen of the temple healers.

He wore  gloves… and the veil?  

What kind of doctor needed to hide his face?!

A facemask would’ve been understandable, but a veil?!

Furthermore, what kind of doctor would choke someone almost to death and just dissipate in thin air?!

You wracked your brain — spinning into one of your classic overthinking spirals without even meaning to.

Maybe he’s not a real doctor.

Maybe he’s an inquisitor disguised as a physician.

Maybe he’s here to poison younslowly.

Maybe he’s here to drag you back for more drowning because they think the first time wasn’t traumatizing enough.

Maybe he’s here to finish off the job and kill you completely.

Your mind supplied you with a very vivid image of him pulling out a saw from beneath his robes and politely asking for your hand.

You shifted nervously on the bed, a knot of unease tightening in your stomach.

“I see…” You mumbled, before your mind went back to your previous interaction with him.

You probably shouldn’t ask him about his actions, so instead, you opted for his previous words that planted seeds of doubt in you instead.

“Hey… I have questions,” you muttered, trying to steady your voice.

The veiled man tilted his head slowly, like a wolf idly considering a cornered rabbit.

“And what makes you think I have answers?” he asked, voice low and unhurried.

Restless, you shifted again, your arms folding tight across your chest, careful not to jar the burns.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t try to feed me scripture every time I speak…” you muttered, picking at the hem of the rough blanket draped over your legs.

“And you know a lot of things. Why is that?”

“Is that what they’ve been doing?” he mused, taking a slow, measured step closer. “Teaching you how to be a good little follower?”

You shrugged stiffly, your fingers tightening against the sleeves of your tunic.

“Isn’t that what every society does?” you replied.

“Shape people into what they need them to be?”

“Yes.. but tell me,” he said, voice soft as a thread. “Why do you use it?”

You frowned. “Use what?”

“Psychology,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Is it to understand? Or is it to control?”

He’s trying to corner you again into yet another argument and it was working. Perhaps it’s merely a ragebait, but you were never the one to have immense patience, thus you fell for it.

“I don’t control people,” you retorted defensively.

He mirrored your small movements, turning fully to face you — veil fluttering faintly in the breeze leaking through the cracked window.

“Don’t you?” he murmured.

“You read their eyes, their breathing, their gestures; you probe with questions, and you watch for reactions. You’re doing it now—to me. You’re trying to categorize, name me, and define.”

Your mouth opened — but nothing came out.

“That’s what humans do,” he continued. “They name things to make them real — study things to make them manageable — hey twist knowledge into chains, and call it understanding.”.

“Isn’t it?”  he asked, softer now. “If not, tell me what is it to you?”

“It’s…” You hesitated, then squared your shoulders, fighting the tremble that wanted to crawl into your voice.

“It’s the study of the mind.. of the human behavior. It helps us understand why people do what they do.”

“And once you understand them,” he murmured, “you can predict them. Once you can predict them, you can control them.”

You scoffed, a spike of frustration lodging in your chest. “That’s not—”

“That’s not what you believe?” he interrupted, his voice a low whisper that somehow filled the entire room. “Or that’s not what you want to believe?”

Why is this guy.. he’s supposed to be a doctor, no? Why is he trying to play mindgames with me…

“Why are you twisting my words?” you demanded.

He chuckled. “Because it’s fun,” 

You shifted back instinctively.

“You think you’re in control of your thoughts,” he said, stepping closer until he loomed over you, “but I’ve barely spoken, and already you’re questioning yourself.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, your injured hand sending up a fresh spike of pain that almost made your eyes water.

“If you’re trying to ragebait me, then it’s working. You win.” you hissed.

“Hm.. maybe I am” he said lightly. “Or maybe I’m showing you something you refuse to see.”

You drew in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to lift your chin. “I know how to separate manipulation from logic,”  you said through gritted teeth.

“Do you?” he said, voice almost playful. “Please do tell me of something I can’t twist.”

You opened your mouth, a retort poised on your tongue—but no words came out, because deep down, you realized — he was right.

Anything you said, he could twist.

Because words weren’t absolute, their meanings were mutable, hell even a simple phrase can warp perceptions.

And unfortunately for you, he has a way of spinning words that makes it way to your mind, coaxing you into believing him, and it was a huge blow to your pride.

Before you could gather your wits again, the man reached into the folds of his dark cloak, moving with that same unhurried grace — like he had all the time in the world — and pulled something small from within.

“Here,” he offered, extending his hand.

You hesitated before looking down, resting on his pale palm was a small, neatly wrapped piece of candy.

The wrapper was unfamiliar—deep purple with silver lettering in a language you didn’t recognize.

You frowned, regarding him with suspicion, evident in the way your brows furrowed. “What is it?”

Your eye twitched because your words seemingly elicited a chuckle from him — as if he found your weariness amusing. “Candy. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what that is.”

You scoffed then glanced up at him, still skeptical. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“Because you look like you need something sweet.”

“Is it poisoned?” You asked bluntly, gaze drilling into the small, wrapped candy in his outstretched hand, suspicion and intrigue warring across your features.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know”

Your brow furrowed, a faint line appearing between your eyebrows, but the undeniable pull of curiosity, tugged at you, thus you unwrapped the candy cautiously and popped it into your mouth.

The taste was incredible.

A deep, rich sweetness flooded your tongue—like honey, but with a complexity you couldn’t place.

There was a hint of fruit, something citrusy, yet mellow, and it melted slowly, leaving a warmth in your throat. 

You blinked, caught off guard, a soft hum escaping your lips. “This is… really good.”

“I know,” he replied simply, watching you closely.

The last vestiges of sweetness dissolved on your tongue, then, you leaned towards him and questioned, “Where did you get this?”

“Does it matter?”

Your gaze sharpened, regarding him with skepticism once again. “I think it does.”

“Then let’s make a deal. You stop asking me where the candy came from, and I won’t ask you where you came from.”

Your lips parted before you pressed them firmly back together as a grudging acceptance settled over you.

It was fair trade, you suppose.  Hence, you shifted to another question. “What’s your name?” You questioned, curiosity lacing your voice once more.

This time, his response was immediate and clipped. “No.”

You frowned, a crease forming between your brows. “No?”

“No.” There was an amusement in his tone, but it was guarded. “You don’t need to know my name.”

“That’s unfair,” a pout made its way to your lips but it quickly dissipated as you changed the subject, not really wanting to anger him and risk getting asphyxiated by him once more.

“What do you know about Yzrivis?”

The man’s head canted, a subtle, almost imperceptible tilt, as if your abrupt shift had caught him off guard. 

“What do you know about Yzrivis?” 

He asked you back.

You let out a sigh of resignation — the deflection was precisely what you’d anticipated from him, to be candid.

“I just know that he’s their god, that they pray to him, dedicate everything to him, and that he ‘watches over us’ and all that.”

The silver haired man hummed, “And do you believe it?”

You hesitated, your teeth gently biting your lower lip — not really wanting to let your guard down, cause what if this man snitches on you?

You almost drowned because of their extreme religious beliefs after all — and this man had almost killed you.

You don’t want to risk getting your blood to paint the ground and your guts to spill from your body.

“I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, averting your gaze. “They talk about him like he’s real, and like he actually does something.”

“Maybe he does.”

Your frown deepened, and you arched an eyebrow. “Do you believe in him?”

He huffed softly and waved a dismissive hand through the space between you.  “That’s a complicated question.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he asked you another question. “Tell me, Vaelix—what have they taught you about Yzrivis?”

You crossed your arms, already hating the fact that he would answer you with another question whenever you would question him.

“He created us, he guides us, and he has a plan.”

“And?”

“That he protects the faithful,” you added, recalling Lysara’s words. “That those who stray will be lost.”

“Ah.” His voice was light, but there was something sharp underneath. “And what does that mean for you?”

You pursed your lips, pulse ticking up to a notch. “What?”

“Do you think you’re faithful?”

The question sent a prickle of unease running down your spine, because frankly, you weren’t sure; you were trying to blend in, to understand their world, but did that make you faithful? 

Probably not.

But this man—whoever he was—wasn’t like them; He wasn’t brainwashed, and he wasn’t mindlessly reciting the scripture.

He was too smart, and something about that made you uneasy.

“You still haven’t answered my question, y’know”  You huffed, demeanor as sour as a bilimbi as you regarded him with thinly veiled annoyance. “What do you know about Yzrivis?”

For the first time, he hesitated.

It was small—just a slight pause, a shift of weight, the kind of thing you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t paying attention.

Then, finally, he spoke. “Yzrivis is old.”

Your lips thinned, a sharp retort already forming. “Obviously.”

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Not like that. Older than they tell you.”

Confusion clouded your features and you tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he murmured softly, “that their god might not be what they think he is.”

You weren’t sure if he was deliberately evading your questions or meticulously laying a trap; he spoke in contradictions—layered meanings that folded in on themselves the moment you tried to grasp them.

And god, did it make you stand at the precipice of  ambivalence.

“Yzrivis is eternal,” he strokes his veiled chin in contemplation, “but not unchanging.”

Your confusion deepens at the ambiguity of his words. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?”

A prickle of frustration rose within you. This guy was really testing your patience.

“If something is eternal, it means it doesn’t end. If it changes, then—”

“Then it is still eternal,” he cut in smoothly, his voice unwavering. “Because change is part of its nature.” he deduced.

“That’s—”

“—A contradiction?” His voice was amused. “Or just a truth you weren’t taught?”

He was definitely trying to pull you in another argument or is trying to ragebait you, that’s for sure.

You gritted your teeth, and let your furrowed eyebrows ease, refusing to let him pull you into another loop. “Fine. What about the apocalypse? Do you know how it happened?”

For the first time, he gave you a direct answer.

“Yes.”

That made you pause, and curiosity gnawed at your mind eagerly. “You do?”

“I do.”

Silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant wind, and you waited, breath held, for him to continue, but he remained stubbornly mute.

You let out a sharp, frustrated hiss of air, impatience radiating from you in waves. “Are you going to tell me, or—”

“How do you think it happened?” he interrupted.

Another hot wave of irritation washed over you, this guy was really grating on your nerves. “I don’t know, alright? No one talks about it.”

“Ah,” he mused. “And that doesn’t strike you as odd?”

“They just say the world ended,” you admitted, folding your arms across your chest only to hiss at the pain that suddenly began to pulsate once more.

“They just say that Yzrivis protected them.” Your throat clenched from both irritation and agony.

“They say a lot of things,” he murmured.

You eyed him warily, a prickle of unease starting on your skin as you tried to rub your hand, trying to soothe the aching flesh. “And what do you say?”

You leaned forward, your brow furrowing, the question hanging heavy in the air as he fell silent.

“There was no great disaster,” he finally spoke, voice  thoughtful. “There was no war and no sudden collapse.”

Confusion prickled at the edges of your mind once again. “Then—”

“The end didn’t come all at once; it started slow and small.”

“Elaborate,” You stated,

He tilted his head deliberately, and you could feel his  piercing gaze even through the veil, as if he was dissecting your very thoughts

“What is the difference between a person and a corpse?”

The random question caught you off guard. “What?”

“Life and death,” he began, his hand lifting slightly,  “A body rots when the soul leaves it, that’s what they believe, yes?”

Your head dipped in a nod. “I guess.”

“But if the body moves—if the corpse rises—does that mean the soul is still inside?”

“No… It’s not them anymore.”

“Not them.” He repeated the words slowly, as if testing them. “Then what is it?”

You hesitated, your shoulders hunching almost imperceptibly, your gaze darting away then back. “Something… else.”

“And if something else is inside, does that mean it came from nowhere?”

Your eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying,” he murmured, “that perhaps the dead do not return because they refuse to rest.”

“Then why do they come back?”

“Because something calls them.”

You swallowed hard, the sound loud in your own ears. Something calls them, huh… If he can say that, then he  had to know something about the apocalypse, yes?

But the moment you opened your mouth to ask more, he shifted, his veil catching in the wind.

“I wonder,” he mused idly, “how much of what you believe is truly yours.”

You barely registered the question, because your mind was still stuck on what he didn’t say.

He had told you how the world ended.

And yet—

He had said nothing at all…

Fuck, everything about it was confusing you.

“Do you have an idea?” he suddenly questioned, triggering that over passionate nerd side of you.

“My ideas…? well…” 

You began to yap uncontrollably.

You talked about science fiction and you tried to make sense of everything in logical terms, clinging to something that felt real.

“There are different theories about zombies,” you told him.

“Some say it’s a virus—like rabies, but mutated. Others think it’s a parasite that hijacks the brain, you know like how some parasites can possess an animals body and make them move? There are even theories about fungi, like Ophiocordyceps, which takes over insects and forces them to spread spores—”

He watched you quietly, his gaze steady, head tilted slightly to the side as if considering a complex puzzle.

“You know a great deal,” he noted, voicd laced with amusement.

You smiled slightly and gave a dismissive flick of your wrist. “Not really… It’s just.. from the stuff I read.”

“Read where?” 

You opened your mouth, a reply already forming on your tongue— but then, you stopped, your jaw going slack

Where had you read it?

You knew you had, but the memories felt distant, blurred at the edges; pages, screens, words—they floated in your mind, but there was no clear image of when or where they had been absorbed — everything was drenched in a hazy blur.

“You hesitate.” His head tilted further, a subtle shift that somehow felt like a deeper probe.

“I—I just don’t remember,” you admitted, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach. “It’s from before… before all of this.”

“Before, huh” He repeated the word slowly, before a soft sigh escaped him, his shoulders slumping  imperceptibly.

“Why are you even asking this?” you demanded, skepticism tightening your voice.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor? You’re deliberately trying to distract me. Aren’t you supposed to do your job and treat me?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything; he simply stood there, his posture unmoving like a marble statue.

Then, a chuckle escaped his lips. “You’re right,” he said simply, the admission delivered without inflection.

“I’m distracting you.”

Your mouth opened to argue further, a sharp retort already forming, but the admission caught you completely off guard, leaving you speechless. 

He shifted his weight slightly, folding his arms behind his back in a strange, almost formal posture. “I find it… entertaining…”

“—Talking to you.”

You huffed a breath through your nose in disbelief that you had deliberately fallen for his schemes. “..Tch”

He watched you a moment longer, then asked, “Would you like the quick way to heal… or the slow one?”

You blinked, your eyes widening slightly, thrown off balance by the sudden, jarring shift in topic, your mind scrambling to catch up..

“…Uh.. quick.. obviously.”

He hummed low in his throat, and without another word, he crossed the short distance between you in two strides.

You flinched instinctively as he reached for your bandaged hand, but he only touched it with the lightest graze of his fingertips.

His fingers curled beneath the lower hem of that strange opaque veil, and lifted it, and then, before you could even fully process what was happening, he leaned down — and pressed a kiss against the burned skin, right over the thin linen wrapping.

But the moment his lips touched you, a strange warmth bloomed beneath your skin.

Your vision then blurred, and a sudden, crushing exhaustion slammed into your body, the world tilted sharply sideways, and you collapsed back with a soft thud.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

When you woke, it was with a sharp, ragged intake of breath, a gasp that tore through your throat, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Your hand instinctively flew to your chest, pressing hard as if to quell the frantic beat.

The room was empty and silent, save for the faint, dying crackle of the embers in the hearth and the soft, whispering rustle of leaves just beyond the windowpane.

Your gaze drifted, unfocused, across the ceiling for a long, disoriented moment, your head feeling heavy on the pillow as a dull ache throbbed behind your eyes.

Was that real?… It felt real.. or.. where you just hallucinating once again?

Slowly, painstakingly, you lifted your arm, the muscles protesting with a leaden stiffness, half-expecting to see the grotesque, angry burns in your arm.

But the bandages had slipped loose in your sleep, pooling around your wrist, and beneath them, the skin of your wrist was whole, smooth, and unblemished — not a single trace of blistered flesh, or burns.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Zirath’korrin
—Zirath’korrin is how people of Xelvarith does baptism. The ritual begins with the initiate being bound, and they are submerged into a cold, and murky water. The initiate’s body is held under, forced to face the suffocating pressure, and if they drown, then their body will be burned. If they survive, they are fully cleansed.

Zev’korrin aeth Yrza’veth. Lu’kira semnar.
—It is an invocation that speaks of a binding, unwavering pledge. The blood used to inscribe it on paper makes it into a sacred prayer that binds the one who speaks it eternally to the said deity. In short, Reader had just sold himself to Yzrivis without his own knowledge — for he just assumed that the phrase just means something like “It’s Yzrivis’ will”

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a/n: For those interested in updates or sneak peeks or theory shit abt this book, then feel free to join my discord server—the link is on my profile.