Chapter 5

(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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When you finally moved, it was with the stiffness of a rock, feeling like your very bones had been calcified.

You swung your legs over the cot’s edge, your feet touching the cold stone, sending a tingling sensation down your spine as ambivalence settled within your mind.

“..Hah.. what happened?”

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but for some reasons… you woke up, as if you were just having a dream, or rather, a nightmare.

But even then, all you remembered was him.

The veiled man and the soothing kiss that those succulent lips had pressed over your discolored burnt hand.

A queasy sensation welled up in your throat as your gaze returned to your hand; the skin was unbroken and smooth as if nothing had ever touched it, let alone fire.

You twisted your wrist, half-expecting the light to catch on cracked scabs or puckered, angry red flesh;  but there was nothing there — not even a pink mark or a single sign that it has been harmed by flames.

But you remember the heat and you remember the pain.

An aching pressure spread across your chest, growing heavier as the seconds passes by.

This wasn’t a hallucination… right?

You clutched your wrist to your chest tightly, teeth clamping down on your lower lip hard enough to the point that blood began to bloom from the slightly split flesh.

What the hell is happening to me?

Suddenly, a soft creak of hinges snagged your attention, prompting you to yank  your head up.

Lysara slipped through the narrow opening of the door, her silhouette momentarily framed against the dim hallway beyond.

Her face weary face softened instantly when she saw you. 

“Vaelix”  she breathed a soft exhalation of pure relief as her hands clasped together at her chest in delight.

“You’re finally awake,” She smiled warmly, nudging the door shut with her heel. “They said you might sleep through the night, but I told them you wouldn’t because you’re too… stubborn.”

“Hey…” You smiled softly, before gazing at your hand.

“..Lysara.. my hand,” you whispered softly as you lifted your arm up, the one that had been burned during the baptism.

“The one that burned during the baptism. it’s… it’s healed completely because of him.”

Lysara stopped short, her body freezing mid-step.

Her onyx eyes were wide with a sudden, sharp confusion, and it flicked down to your outstretched wrist, then back up to meet yours, brows creasing deeply.

“What are you talking about?” she questioned cautiously, a frown tugging at her lips.

“I mean…this,” You flexed your now healed arms.

“During the baptism when the torch fell on me.. You saw it— right? there were blisters. It hurts so much…i think i screamed.. i don’t know.. i don’t remember clearly..”

Lysara walked slowly toward you, as though she was approaching something volatile.  “What are you talking about? You didn’t get burned.”

You blinked, lips parted in confusion as your hands tightened into fists unconsciously, a chill tingling down your spine. “What?”

“You never screamed,” she continued as she shook her head, her frown deepening in bewilderment.

“You trembled, yes, but your head only got dipped on the Xyinth’ieth and you endured it in silence like a true penitent.”

“No,” A cold knot tightened in your stomach and you shook your head vehemently in denial. “That’s not right. I—”

“You didn’t cry out,” she asserted, her gaze unwavering. “Neither did you scream when they poured the oil.”

You stared at her, mouth dry as a sudden wave of nausea surged through your veins.

Your lungs suddenly felt too small and air clogged your throat, refusing to flow free and fill your lungs with oxygen fully.

What oil?

Fuck, you don’t remember anything about oil during the baptism.

“That’s not what happened,” you whispered, your breath catching in a sharp, painful hitch in your chest. “I remember—”

Her expression gentled slightly, but it was like the kind of gentleness some psychiatrists reserved for the mentally unstable people.

“You were likely in shock, Vaelix.” she stated gently as she shook her head once again. “That’s quite common during cleansing rites. The mind creates pain where there is none, or it forgets the body entirely, but there was no injury.”

A hot knot of frustration tightened in your gut, and your fixed your sharp gaze on her figure. “Then who is he?”

“Who is he? Who is he?”

Lysara inclined her head, brow arching up inquisitively. “Who?”

“The man,” you pressed, your voice gaining a brittle edge.

“The veiled one — when you brought me back here after the baptism, he kissed my wrist and then—he was gone.”

Lysara said nothing for a long, long moment, then, a slow deflating sigh escaped her as she folded her arms across her chest, her shoulders slumping in a gesture of profound disappointment.

“You’ve been seeing him more, haven’t you?”

She looked like she wanted to say something more, but instead shook her head and she turned and walked towards the door.

But before she exited, she glanced over her shoulder and spoke.

“Whatever he showed you… just remember that not all miracles are gifts.”

Then the door shut behind her, leaving you alone with your raging thoughts.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You sat there for what felt like hours after she left, mind spiraling, and wrist held protectively against your chest as if you could will the memory back into your skin.

Right now, your mind was a prison and you were but a criminal that cannot get out in it; something kept on slithering along the edges of your thoughts like a persistent cough that doesn’t go away, because what if she’s right?

What if it’s you who was wrong?

What if you were just hallucinating? 

That must be it, yeah?

You pressed your palms so hard against your face that the bones of your skull ached, breathing in ragged gasps through clenched teeth, willing your mind to claw its way back to sanity.

Perhaps you were experiencing some kind of trauma response or post-ritual delirium and stress-induced visual hallucination.

The ceremony was extreme after all, and anyone could break under that.

Maybe it was dissociation or a fugue state?

You squeezed your eyes shut, the darkness behind your lids swirling with phantom shapes.

Depersonalization, maybe.. or derealization..? You’d felt disconnected ever since you woke up after all. 

You rubbed your arms now, and stood up, pacing slowly in the small room, movements erratic, mind racing.

Was it Psychosis you were experiencing?

You tried to think clinically and rationally, to dissect what you were experiencing symptom by symptom, just to feel the illusion of being in control again.

You stumbled to the mirror beside the altar shelf, gripping its wooden frame like a drowning man, watching as reflection stared back at you—disheveled, eyes bloodshot, mouth trembling.

“Am i schizoaffective?” you croaked, the words tearing at dry raw throat.

“Do i have acute stress disorder? Psychogenic amnesia? Religious mania? Religious Psychosis?”

You began listing diagnoses under your breath in a broken, desperate litany, each word making your throat clench even more.

You tried grounding techniques — touching the mirror, naming five things you could see — but even then, your reflection looked foreign.

As if someone else was wearing your face.

….No, is this even really your face?

And then, a veiled silhouette suddenly materialized behind you.

You slammed your fist hard against the cold glass, the impact jarring your bones as the glass exploded outwards in a violent burst of silvered shrapnel. “Get out of my head!”

A thousand jagged shards of the mirror glittered across the floor like fallen stars.

A searing pain blooming where the glass had bitten deep in your fists.

Your knuckles had ruptured from the force; the skin was torn and pulped, hence, you clamped the mangled limb against your side, in a desperate  attempt to staunch the searing agony that shot through every nerve.

The door creaked open once more.

But you didn’t look up; you couldn’t bear to meet another pair of eyes that saw only an empty space where he had been.

“Vaelix.”

Lysara’s voice boomed like a thunder, making you recoil  instinctively as the hairs on your nape prickled and stood on end. 

Lysara stood in the doorway, her silhouette cutting a harsh line against the candlelit corridor behind her, her onyx eyes were glaring daggers at you, face contorted in displeasure.

“I heard the glass break,” Lysara announced, voice as cold as ice. “And by the sound of it, it wasn’t an accident.”

You didn’t answer her, gaze still riveted on the crimson bloom in your hand, the thick blood trickling in sluggish rivulets down your wrist

“Lysara,” you whispered, voice shaking like a leaf caught in a hurricane. “I saw him… He was right there behind me.”

Lysara’s eyes narrowed, an austere flame blooming on the depths of her irises as she swept into the room and halted abruptly before the shattered mirror.

“I don’t know what’s more frustrating,” she snapped, voice rising with heat, “the fact that you insist on clinging to delusions, or the fact that you look at me like I’m the mad one for trying to save your soul.”

“I am always trying to be understanding to you Vaelix, I tried to soften myself. But what did you do?”

Your eyes snapped open, breath hitching in your throat in astonishment as you looked up at her,  feeling your tongue dry up.  “Lysara…”

“You’ve always been difficult,” she continued, her voice tight with restrained fury, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “Always questioning and always doubting.”

You opened your mouth, a protest rising from your throat, but she cut you off with a harsh, dismissive shake of her head.

“No, don’t speak and listen to me.”

She stepped closer to you and seized your chin, fingers digging into your flesh rather harshly as if she was trying to mold your thoughts into compliance.

“Maybe Yzrivis is testing you. Maybe all this—your hallucinations, your blasphemous dreams is a test of Yzrivis.”

Oxygen scraped against the closing walls of your lungs as you stared at her, petrified.

Why is Lysara acting like this?

She never acts like this to you at all.

Or was she that fed up?

“But it feels real—”

“You will go to the priest. You will confess that you’ve been entertaining doubt. You will speak of these visions and thoughts and dreams—every last one. And do you know why?”

A wave of dread skittered across your nerves and you shook your head, barely able to meet her eyes.

“Because the mind is where heresy begins,” she hissed.

“And if you don’t purge it now, it will make everything holy in you decay. You’ll keep seeing things, hearing things, touching people who aren’t there, and then one day, you’ll forget what’s real at all. That is the price of doubt. That is why we cleanse.”

Her words wrapped around your mind like a persistent intrusive thought and refused to let go no matter how hard you try to shake it off.

Lysara turned and walked back toward the door. “Be ready by dusk,” she said without looking back. “Your confession begins at nightfall.”

You watched her form shrink into the distance, a searing anger coiling in the pit of your stomach.

You?

Delusional?

“What the fuck did she just say?” You whispers, fists tightly clenched, straining against the violent impulses that you want to do.

You still remembered the way that she looked at you like a rabid dog, like you were the problem for not swallowing every bullshit they branded you with.

Yzrivis here, Yzrivis there.

 Do they ever shut up about him?

Can they ever even justify something without mentioning the name of their godforsaken deity?!

You are so fucking sick of hearing his name like it’s a cure-all for trauma, for confusion, and for everything.

[ 宗教精神病; 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 ]

You sat curled up on the straw-stuffed cot, knees drawn to your chest, forehead resting against the edge of your bandaged arm.

Lysara’s words still rang in your ears, pulsating and looping like a mantra.

The fire in the hearth had long since surrendered its last ember, leaving the room to a creeping chill and the mournful whisper of wind that snaked through the windowpane.

Just as you were getting lost in your reverie, a soft rap echoed from the door, making you jolt and look up as it groaned open.

Your eyes narrowed, face contorting into irritation, only to realize that it was Alri — and only then, did you let your expression ease as to not scare the little girl.

“…Alri?..  h-how did you get here?”

She peeked her head in, her curls a disheveled halo around a tear-streaked face, she had clearly run here—and there was even a scratch on her cheek, and her sandals were caked in temple dust.

She flung herself inside before you could speak.

“I thought you died,” she choked out, her wide eyes brimming, shimmering with unshed tears.

“I thought Lord Yzrivis took you.”

You blinked, stunned and unmoving as she flung herself against you, her small arms wrapping in a desperate vice around your waist.

Her small frame shook violently, and your body moved on instinct, cradling her against you.

“I—I asked where you were,” she hiccupped, “and Lysara said you  just finished going through zirath’korrin—and I know what that means. I know.”

You flinched, a tremor running through your arm, as your hand rose to card gently through her tangled hair.

“Alri,” you reassured her softly, “it’s okay. I’m alright now. I promise.”

She pulled back to look at you, her lip trembling. “But the baptism hurts. It hurts so much.”

A cold stone seemed to lodge in your throat. You swallowed hard, forcing a smile that felt brittle “I know,” 

“I know it does. But I’m okay now, see? You don’t need to worry. I don’t remember much. Just… heat. And water.”

She shook her head furiously. “No. You don’t know. It’s not like falling down, or getting scraped. It’s worse. And you—” Her voice caught, breath hitching. “I thought you were going to die.”

You reached for her, fingers brushing away the fresh tears welling in her eyes, until a strange, icy feeling of unease crawled insidiously through your veins.

For her to speak like that… then that must mean…

“Alri,” you asked, the gentleness in your voice belying the disquietude that you were feeling. “have you… already been through it?”

She nodded without hesitation. “I was six,” she whispered.

A sudden, crushing pressure coiled along your spine, squeezing the air from your lungs.  “Six..” you repeated.

“They say it’s holy; but it doesn’t feel holy. They said I was lucky because I remembered my sins, I told them I lied once to my sister and I took too many berries from the garden. But I didn’t know that was a sin, really, I just… I was hungry.”

A sickening swirl churned in your gut and your injured hands balled into fists at your sides unconsciously.

“And what did they do to you?” 

“They don’t hurt you in front of everyone.. You go into the dark pool room; the black one… and they put water in your nose and mouth until you can’t breathe. They say it’s like being reborn, that Lord Yzrivis drowns the sin out of your soul and pulls you back… but if you struggle too hard…”

“Sometimes they don’t pull you back.”

You stared at her, blood rushing in your ears, heart knocking unevenly against your ribs.

They baptized a six-year-old….

They nearly drowned her and told her it was holy.

You swallowed, trying to stay still, but your thoughts had already begun slipping from their leash.

They say it’s purification. But how does violence purify?

How does water make you holy when it’s shoved down your throat like a punishment?

The priests says that people are born sinners and that a child can carry corruption inside their chest from the moment they breathe, and that the only way to make them “worthy” is to make them suffer; to break them and then rebuild them.

But if you need to break a child to make them good—

—then what the fuck is your god, really?

“When i heard that you were getting baptized..  i was praying.”

You hugged her tighter, pressing her small form against you. “To Yzrivis?”

“No. To whoever’s really listening.”

The frantic shivers that had wracked her small frame began to subside, her pale, tight fingers still tangled in the hem of your sleeve and her heavy breathing gradually deepened, finding a calmer rhythm.

A slow, measured exhalation sifted through your nose as you pressed a feather-light kiss to Alri’s temple before reluctantly pulling back. 

Reluctantly, after what felt like a quiet eternity of stillness, you eventually stirred, annoyance simmering in your mind as you realized that you still have to go for reconciliation.

“I have to get ready,” you murmured, your fingers gently brushing her hair back from her forehead as they snagged softly against a stubborn tangle. “My confession is soon.”

“To Father Halren?”

Her nose wrinkled faintly in a tiny ripple of displeasure that she didn’t fully voice.

“Huh.. how did you know? Lysara didn’t even told me…” Confusion colored your voice, but Alri didn’t bothered elaborating further.

Then, she shifted, and a dull clatter echoed, followed by a muffled thud, and you turned just in time to see the hourglass teetering on the edge of the prayer table, then fall.

“Wait—!”

The hourglass fell and exploded into tiny bits of shards, while a bloom of sand fanned across the floor .

And Alri, wide-eyed and already crouched, reached to gather the glittering glass fragments with her small, bare hands.

“Alri, stop—!”

Alri  hissed and drew her hand back quickly as a bright bead of blood welled from a fresh, precise slice across her palm.

Her small fingers twitched, trembling uncontrollably, already sticky with the glistening red.

You were knelt down beside her, seizing her wrist firmly, frustration evident on your body language. “Why would you—? Damn it—give me that!”

“I didn’t mean to— i’m sorry! I just feel so dizzy—”  she choked out, tears welling in her already puffy eyes.

“I know you didn’t,” you said, sharper than intended, but your voice softened at the end. “But that doesn’t mean you grab broken glass with your bare hands, Alri. Gods…”

You took the shard from her, careful not to cut yourself, and she watched you with watery eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad,” you said, voice hushed. “Just—worried. You’re hurt.”

You held her hand up to the light, inspecting the wound, it was shallow, but still bleeding nonetheless and prone to infection.

You wrapped her hand with a piece of your sleeve, torn carefully, the blood blooming red through the pristine fabric.

“Is it bad?” she asked, sniffing.

“No.” You glanced at her. “But next time, let me handle it. You don’t fix things by hurting yourself, alright?”

She nodded again.

You sat back, cradling the hourglass remains in your lap. The frame had cracked through, split down the spine and it looks like there was no saving it.

You exhaled slowly, a long, shuddering breath, trying to calm the frantic drumbeat of your heart.

The blood had already soaked through the strip of sleeve, and gently, you peeled it back, ready to clean and redress the wound properly—

But  then you saw it.

The skin around the cut was… wrong.

The usual  red of an open wound was there, yes—but beneath it, spidering from the edges and creeping under the surface, veins bloomed like frostbitten branches.

Bluish-purple, almost black in places, and swollen.

Your eyelids fluttered, a frantic attempt to dispel the image, thinking that it’s just a hallucination, but it clung stubbornly to your vision.

It.. wasn’t just the dull, mottled purple of a simple bruise; it was pulsing.

“Alri…”

You turned her hand slightly, gently—but there, near the base of her thumb, half-hidden beneath the swelling, was the unmistakable imprint of teeth.

𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 ! !

Xyinth’ieth
—A sacred pool used in the rites of purification within the Yzrivic faith. Candidates are partially submerged—sometimes to the point of near-drowning—to symbolically sever their ties to the profane world and emerge cleansed under Yzrivis’ watch

Velthak izrun
—This means bite marks. The bite marks her as lost. To be bitten is to become other, so people who gained said marks becomes a heretic in flesh just by being bitten. It means that their soul is forfeit, exiled from the afterlife. There is no salvation, no absolution, no matter how kind they are and all of that — because people believed that the infected are people who are abandoned by Yzrivis himself.

Zhurak 
—The undead here are called Zhuraks. They don’t just hunt humans. They attack everything: people, animals, even each other. They consume indiscriminately, chewing through flesh, bone, and sinew like they’re starving for something they’ll never truly reach. They are driven by endless, senseless hunger—but not survival. Destruction is their only instinct. The only true way to end them is to destroy the brain.

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