Pure silence filled the hall. All eyes locked on Micafer, newly crowned, the bitter taste of sheared blood still lingering on his tongue. Outwardly, he was composed—regal, firm—but inside, turmoil roiled. He did not know what effect—or side effect—was to come.
He had stood a long while, and nothing happened. Inside, terror twisted tighter.
What's meant to happen?
Did no Black Creed choose me?
Will I be rejected as king?
Unease filled his mind, each breath heavier beneath unbearable tension.
Then Galan's poetic voice sliced the silence from the right corner. He lazily turned his head, eyes fixing on a maid.
"Fetch me a drink, or I shall crumble to dust where I sit."
It was like a bullet to her head. Her beautiful frame went rigid, heart skipping past her soul. She bowed, forcing out, "Y-Y-Yes, my lord."
She dashed out as if to save a child. Moments later, she returned with an obsidian cup of clear liquid—likely water.
Presenting it on both knees, head bowed low.
Galan took the cup without gratitude, as if plucking it from a lifeless table. His eyes flickered over it as he raised it to his lips, then froze. A black spot marred the cup's surface.
His voice sharpened, gaze narrowing, tension lacing every word:
"Did you wash this cup?"
His tone rippled dread into the maid's soul.
She shivered—not from cold, but fear. Every eye turned to Galan and the trembling maid, leaving the king forgotten.
"Didn't I ask you a question?" Galan's voice roared, dreadful.
Sweat broke across her skin. Words spilled, automatic and panicked:
"Y-Yes, my lord."
No more words came—only a curse.
From feet to crown, the maid turned to glass. A crackling freeze filled the air.
She was dead.
Terror erupted among the maids, but composure remained. None wanted to be next.
Sera smirked beside Galan.
"That's what happens when you lie to the Black Creed of Truth."
The Five Pillars exchanged wary glances. One mistake, and even their number wouldn't save them.
But something stronger drew their eyes.
Micafer.
He struggled, fists clenched, eyes shut tight as if in invisible pain.
Dark smoke swirled from him in heavy waves, then exploded outward. The blast forced everyone—maids, assistants, Pillars—to retreat. Obsidian walls cracked.
"His awakening is terrifying," Sera murmured, dread threading her voice.
"That's an unusual amount of cursed energy," Kaelion peeked from behind the doorpost.
Fraudrin added, "Not ordinary cursed energy. What Black Creed awakens with that much essence?"
Micafer relaxed his fists, releasing a blast that hammered the ground.
Physically present, his consciousness had already left.
He stood in an unpenetrable shadow void—seeing nothing. Then a voice echoed.
The spirit of the Black Creed of Obedience:
"You seek to be one of us."
Another voice:
"He has an interesting soul," said the Black Creed of Truth.
"Handsome—both soul and body," rumbled the Black Creed of Lust.
Blind and disoriented, Micafer turned toward the voices.
"Destined for many falls and rises. I love that," smirked the Creed of Blood.
Then the Black Creed of Judgment:
"He's perfect. Finally, a compatible soul."
Suddenly, darkness condensed into five divine entities—angelic and demonic, faceless, disordered heads, commanding awe and authority.
"Time for our little egg to hatch," smirked the Creed of Blood.
They circled and bent low, performing an ancient rite. Moments later, they raised an enormous egg etched with five symbols: Truth, Obedience, Lust, Blood, Judgment.
Cracks formed.
Then broke open.
Dark energy shot out like escaping nutrients.
From the shattered shell emerged a tiny, graceful figure—too small for the massive egg but unmistakably powerful.
It unfolded into a perfect twilight form, more evolved than its makers. Long-eared, pointed-nosed, veil-born—like Micafer.
It squeaked sharply and flew straight into him, merging with his body.
Back in the hall, Micafer's eyes shone with holy light, palms glowing infernal darkness.
Then he spoke—or the Creed within him did:
"I am Creed Number Zero."
Shock froze the Pillars' faces. A sixth Creed had long been prophesied, but this—something else entirely.
Zero: a sacred number for one who embodies everything—a ten-man squad in a single soul.
The Black Creed's voice echoed:
"I am the Black Creed of Origin."
"Origin?" Kaelion gasped.
Sera chuckled. "Expected nothing less from our king."
"So he possesses all our Creeds—and one of his own?" Fraudrin asked, astonished.
Galan replied, "It is what it is, Fraudrin. He'll surpass us soon. Full authority now."
Micafer's eyes dimmed. He sank to one knee, returning to his own consciousness. The hall cleared of darkness.
Sera rushed forward, bowing low.
"Are you okay, my lord?" Concern laced her voice.
The others followed, still awestruck.
Kaelion stepped forward, smirking:
"You are officially the greatest member of the Black Creed above all!"
Micafer felt the new energy flowing beneath his veins, humming an ancient rhythm.
Fear transformed into determination.
He rose, adjusted his crown, lifted his head high, and with commanding resolve, roared:
"What's next?"