Chapter 12

A new wall rose up — almost transparent, shimmering like heat off asphalt. It cut Mark off from Silas. No sound came through. No light. The blue glow was gone. Mark was trapped in a dark cube. He could see fragments of the room beyond — a slice of ceiling, a corner of the wall — but inside, there was only darkness. And Jan’s eyes, glowing red.

“He is boring me,” Jan said, his voice light, careless. The weight on Mark’s stomach shifted. Mark was certain his spine was about to crack — snap in half like a dry branch. “Uncomfortable?”

The solicitous tone made Mark want to scream.

“You weigh a ton!” he croaked. He did not care if the thing holding him took it as insolence. Let it tear his throat out.

“Oh, you are just weak.” Jan chuckled — soft, almost affectionate. He stood up, and the weight lifted. “But that can be fixed. Give me your hand.”

Mark’s arm — the one with the symbols — rose on its own. His will had nothing to do with it. He could not feel it at all. Nothing. Just dead weight that moved without his permission. He watched the symbols on his skin glow — deep red, pulsing, brightening. He could not feel that either. No heat. No pain. Just the sight of the light spreading across his arm.

When the glow matched the red of Jan’s eyes, the lightness came. His arm came back to him. He could feel it again — obedient, strong. Stronger than before. He had the sudden, terrifying certainty that he could punch through a wall with this hand.

The darkness was gone. Inside their space, everything was gray — all shades of gray, from pale silver to deep charcoal. Light ash snowflakes drifted down from above.

“Better?” Jan extended his hand. “Now you can stand up. Come on. Do not be afraid.”

Mark swung his legs off the bed — as far from Jan as possible — and pushed himself up in one sharp motion. His body obeyed without complaint, moving smoothly, the way it was supposed to. The dizziness from before was gone, the weakness had vanished, and the strange heaviness that had pressed down on his chest had lifted completely.

Beyond the faint shimmer of the transparent barrier, he could see the room. Silas, frozen in place, his lips moving soundlessly. The dark-haired woman lying unconscious on the floor.

“See? Simple.”

“Who are you?” Mark did not bother looking at himself. Nothing was blocking his movement anymore. The crawling tickle was gone. Only the back of his neck felt cold — a small patch, like someone had pressed an ice cube there and left it.

Jan smiled easily. A greenish ripple ran across his irises.

“A conduit. A guide. I look for men like you — confident, strong, loyal. To build a new order.” He waved a hand. “Do not make that face. You are not going to tell me this world does not need one. Look.”

He passed his hand through the air. Around Mark, reddish cubes bloomed like flowers — each side showing a different scene. A murder. A child being abused. Three teenagers beating an old man with sticks.

Mark swallowed hard. He swatted at the cubes — awkwardly, blindly. They spun around him, rearranging themselves, never stopping.

“You cannot fix that with one wish,” he said.

“Yes, you can.”

“What, kill everyone?”

Jan made a small sound — half scoff, half laugh. “No. Just teach a lesson. To the ones who do not understand yet. Watch.”

He raised a finger.

The teenagers froze mid-beat. Then they were lifted off the ground — yanked upward, dragged across the dirt, slammed into a wall. Three ragdolls crumpled at the base of the bricks. The old man stirred, trying to crawl away.

“See? They will remember now. That for every kind of strength, there is a greater one.” Jan’s smile did not waver. “I will not lie to you — some will have to be destroyed. They are past changing.”

Mark blinked. His sense of certainty was slipping.

“Is not your master’s goal the complete destruction of mankind?”

Jan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, please. Where did you pick up that nonsense? From your curly-haired friend?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Ridiculous. What would he do with this world then? Dance on the ashes with his little minions? A waste of time and energy. A desert benefits no one. What is the point?”

He nodded toward Silas, still frozen behind the barrier.

“My master — and his master too — wants order. Real order. But he does not believe in waiting for random stars to align, or for a second messiah to show up and take all of humanity’s sins onto his shoulders.” Jan’s voice dropped, almost confidential. “You could wait forever. The world has changed — not for the better. It needs order. And it is obvious — is not it? — that He cannot keep up. His rules only make things worse sometimes.”

He spread his hands.

“You cannot just tell a person no. You have to show them — immediately — what happens if they break the rule.” He tilted his head. “You disagree?”

Mark did not answer. There was truth in Jan’s words — more than a little truth, actually, and if he thought about it logically, if he allowed himself to consider the possibility…

The transparent wall cracked.

Jan raised his hand. The air shimmered purple, and violet flames began to dance in the corners of the room — small, flickering tongues of fire that cast strange shadows across the walls.

“Divine justice,” the man said, and laughed.

Mark flinched back without meaning to. There was nothing human in that laugh — no warmth, no mockery, nothing familiar. Just sound that should not have come from a human throat.

“Look at him. The priest. His servant. The bearer of His word.” Jan tilted his head toward Silas, still frozen behind the barrier. “He has been given enormous power. He can control people. Influence them. Suppress their wills. Insist on his own way. And in exchange for his service — he has been granted immunity. Permission. Freedom from consequence.” Jan’s smile widened. “Interesting, is not it? Just obey, and you can do whatever you want. For him, there is no such thing as sin.” He turned back to Mark. “You have not known him long. Let me introduce you more closely to your friend. Yes?”

Another wave of his hand, and the crimson cubes rearranged themselves into a single wall. They flickered once, then merged into a continuous surface, the images shifting slowly, hypnotically.

Mark stepped back again.

The first image held him for a long moment. Silas stood in what looked like a basement — low ceiling, bare concrete walls, a single bulb casting harsh shadows. He was covered in blood — not splashed, not sprayed, but drenched, like he had stood under a waterfall of it. His cassock was black with wetness, clinging to his body. In both hands, he gripped an axe. The blade came down — again, again, again — and each time it rose, pieces of something that had once been human flew from the steel.

The image shifted.

Now Silas was kneeling at the edge of a dark pool — a reservoir, maybe, or an old flooded quarry. His hand was wrapped around a young girl’s throat, holding her head just beneath the surface. Her dark hair spread around her in a slow, drifting halo. Her blue eyes were wide open, staring up through the water, and there was nothing in them but terror — pure, absolute, the kind that does not scream because it is already too late.

Another shift.

A dim room, lit only by candles. Smoke hung in thick layers, curling toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Silas stood in the center, naked, his pale skin marked with symbols — not white scars this time, but fresh, red, glistening. He was twisting, arching, caught in someone’s arms — a figure Mark could not quite see, just a shape, a presence. The priest’s head was thrown back, his mouth open, his expression caught somewhere between ecstasy and agony.

The images kept changing, one after another, each more disturbing than the last.

“What separates His servants from everyone else? Power. Strength. The freedom to do whatever they want. And here is the difference — just a tiny one: my master does not hide behind pretty speeches. He does not promise paradise. He does not beg you to live correctly. He punishes the defectors — harshly — and brings Order to the earth. No sweet words. He does not tell you this is bad, that is good. He shows you that everything is permitted — but within strict boundaries. You must not break the laws. And no — there is no go and pray for forgiveness. Sin cannot be prayed away. Sin must be punished. Should be punished. Not sometime in a distant future that may never come. But here. And now.” Jan’s voice dropped. “Do you disagree? Answer me.”

Mark’s throat tightened under invisible claws.

“I need your answer, human. Do you think this is wrong?”

“No…”

“You see now? You and my master share the same view. So what is so bad about my master?”

The transparent barrier above them collapsed. The thing that had separated them from the world groaned, split open with deep fractures, and fell apart like a cardboard house.

The smell hit Mark’s nose — rot, sulfur, overripe fruit, and fresh blood, all tangled together. His stomach lurched. He nearly doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit.

Silas took a step forward.

“Amen,” he said shortly, bowing his head for just a moment.

The violet flames went out. In their place, the corners of the room filled with a soft white light — warm, alive, gentle.

“Finished already?” Jan stepped in front of Mark, blocking his view. Mocking. “I have to admit, I thought exorcisms took longer. I have never stayed to the end of one, forgive me.”

“The emissaries of the dark have no place here.” Silas tucked the Bible into his pocket and folded his hands. “Leave.”

“Of course. I am almost done here anyway. You are too late.”

“No.” The priest’s voice was certain. He tried to catch Mark’s eye.

Mark clenched his left hand into a fist. He could feel the burning in the symbols pulsing with his heartbeat. He could feel the rage building inside him — sharp, focused on one person. He could feel Jan’s arguments finding their places inside him, weaving into a perfect pattern, filling him with certainty.

Silas suddenly thrust his hand forward. His palm flashed white.

A bell tolled somewhere above the ceiling — low, muffled, but deep, like it was ringing through stone.

Jan slammed back against the wall. He spread his arms like a cross, braking his momentum, then hit hard — back first, spine cracking against the plaster.

“Everything you tell your victims is just a distortion of the truth. Your master is a master manipulator. He is a genius of omission.”

A beam of light struck Mark in the chest. He was thrown to the floor.

Images flooded his vision — but different now. Twisted.

The teenager and the old man. Except — the old man was not some random victim. An hour earlier, blind drunk, he had gotten behind the wheel of his car and run over the teenager’s mother. She had died on the pavement while the old man sat in his crumpled car, too drunk to understand what he had done.

“That is your justice,” Silas said. “Eye for an eye. An endless chain of punishment. With only one goal — to leave those who obey animal laws.”

The girl underwater. Her face twisted into a mask of fury. Her eyes turned yellow — sharp, glowing amber. Thick snakes pushed out of her ears and mouth, writhing, hissing.

Mark groaned. His head was splitting.

“In the end,” Silas said, his voice steady and clear, “you are fighting for fear. I am fighting for faith. That is the difference. I believe. Faith, not fear. Fear destroys the soul. Makes it doubt. Weakens it. Whatever name you give Him, He gives faith.” He took another step forward. “You have no place here. Leave.”

Jan hissed in response.

He was losing his human shape. A crown of golden-crimson snakes rose from his head, writhing, their tongues flickering. His legs bent at extra joints, lifting him until his skull nearly scraped the ceiling. His arms stretched — too long, wrong — and his fingers fused into two-clawed hands.

Silas cupped his hands together like a bowl, channeling the light streaming from his palms. White-gold sparks scattered in every direction. Several landed on Mark, and the skin on his left arm blazed — not burning, but searing, the symbols shifting under the translucent flames, their shapes twisting, rearranging into new patterns.

Mark shook his head and crawled forward on hands and knees, trying to reach the priest.

“Not so fast, hound.” The thing that had been Jan hissed again, dripping greenish saliva. “You have stepped in front of something you cannot handle.”

“You have no power over me.” Silas began whispering a prayer, gesturing for Mark to move back as far as he could.

Mark pushed against the floor, but familiar claws closed around his ankle. A long, thin centipede wrapped around his leg, its tiny legs moving fast, climbing higher. He wrenched one foot free and slammed his fist down on the creature’s head. It dissolved with a piercing shriek.

The floor beneath his hands began to disintegrate — silent, quick, like sand falling through a sieve. Mark could barely believe his eyes.

“Mark, keep crawling. It is all right. Trust me.”

Silas swept something luminous from his palms. The light spread across the floor, restoring it — ordinary carpet, ordinary boards. Mark crawled forward through the emptiness, his hands finding solid surface where there should have been nothing.

He reached the wall, pressed his forehead against it, and turned.

Silas had gone gray — paler than his enemy. His face glistened with sweat, his hair plastered to his skull, streaked with ash. Gray had crept into his temples. But he had not stepped back — not once. He kept praying, soundless, advancing in small, measured steps toward the writhing legate of Hell.

“My faith is strong,” Silas said — loud, certain — and placed his hands directly on the serpent crown.

Crimson light exploded in all directions.

Mark felt like knives had sliced into him — his ears, his nose — blood began to flow, warm and thick, down his lip. Something inside him was dying, painfully, calling him into darkness and emptiness, begging him to stop fighting. Silas shouted something, but Mark could not hear it anymore — just a distant echo beneath the roaring in his skull.

The crimson rays lightened. Thinned.

The room flooded with the sound of bells — not one, but many, ringing from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The light became blinding white — searing, absolute.

And in the flash, it was over.

“Can you stand?” a voice asked — unfamiliar, calm, someone he did not recognize.

“No,” Mark croaked. He pulled his knees toward his chest with difficulty and tried to open his eyes. Everything swam in greenish streaks. Through the haze, he could just make out a man crouching beside him — light-haired, someone he had never seen before.

The stranger sighed loudly, dropped to one knee, and hauled the detective to his feet with almost no effort. He slung Mark’s arm over his own shoulders. The man was a full head shorter than Mark but built the same way — broad, solid, heavy.

“Take a deep breath and make ten steps,” the stranger said. “Count as you go. It will be easier that way.”

Mark followed the advice, clenching his teeth and counting off the hardest ten steps of his life. He barely understood what was happening around him, barely registered the movement of his own feet. He just went where he was led.

They did not go far — just down the corridor to a room at the end of the hall.

The corridor was narrow and dimly lit, a single sconce flickering weakly on the wall. The panels were dark wood, scarred with age and something else — something that might have been claw marks or burns. Mark noticed that the door they had come through — the one leading back to the room where Jan had been — was charred around the edges, blackened like it had been burned from the inside. Through the gap, he caught a glimpse of scorched walls and a dark, wet stain spreading across the floor. Something had happened in there. Something final.

The room they entered now held two beds, similar to the one Mark had been lying on before. One was occupied by Silas, white as chalk. The priest lay on his back, barely breathing. His cassock was torn to shreds across his chest, revealing a torso crisscrossed with fresh cuts.

“Is he alive?” Mark asked, collapsing onto the empty bed.

“More or less,” the stranger said — not exactly reassuring, but not a lie either.

He left Mark and went to stand over the priest, leaning down to examine the wounds — the trembling eyelids, the scratches on Silas’s cheeks and neck, the burns across his palms.

“His condition is stable,” the man said. “How about you?”

Mark flinched. There was something in his voice — a certain cadence, a particular tone — that reminded him of Jan. The same calm. The same weight behind simple words.

“And who are you?” Mark asked.

“My name is Matteo.” The stranger did not smile. Instead, he studied Mark with warm, sunny blue eyes behind large glasses. “I am the head of His Order. Silas wrote to me as soon as things started spinning, but I could not get here any sooner. It is over now. No Foundation was created. The conduit is destroyed.”

Mark did not bother pointing out that this abbot looked even less like a churchman than his subordinate. Instead, he blinked a few times, then raised his hand and stared at the pale white symbols on his skin — etched into his flesh like scars, permanent now, but causing no discomfort at all.

“I thought Jan — that thing — was the Foundation.”

Matteo pulled a chair between the two beds, sat down heavily, and stretched out his legs. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. For just a moment, his shadow on the wall seemed to sprout horns — a trick of the light, Mark told himself, nothing more — but he flinched anyway.

“No,” Matteo said, crossing his arms and relaxing into the chair. “He was just the conduit. His job was to find the right vessel, to deliver what would become the Foundation. The essence.”

He was quiet for a moment, tapping the toe of his boot against the floor. Then he turned to look at Mark, squinting slightly.

“You were supposed to be the Foundation.”

Mark swore — a long, creative string of curses.

“Why did not he tell me?” He nodded toward the unconscious priest.

“What would have been the point?” Matteo shrugged. “This way was easier. You fought against evil you could see. It is better to overestimate the enemy, believe me. If you had been told from the beginning that you were the perfect candidate for the Devil’s vicar on earth — would that have helped? Or would it have planted doubts that did not need to be there?”

Mark swore again, but without real heat. Matteo answered with a wide, genuine smile.

“By the way,” the abbot said, “I asked your neighbor to take your dog for a while. I do not know how she is still alive with such a negligent owner.”

Mark’s ears went warm. For the first time in days, he felt something like shame — and something like gratitude, unexpected and uncomfortable.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Do not mention it.” Matteo snorted. “I have always wanted a dog. But all I can do is keep dreaming. I pet other people’s dogs when I visit — that is the closest I get.”

Mark smiled despite himself. The idle chatter was soothing. He did not want to think about tomorrow — or about yesterday either.

He closed his eyes and listened to the silence. His exhausted body hummed with ordinary fatigue. He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep.

And somewhere, faintly — as if from very far away — a cat was meowing.