It's been a long time since I've felt this full—this content.
Torry, Cassia, Lina, and I made our way back from dinner, the warm weight of a good meal still settling in my stomach.
That soup… I didn't know what it was called or what was in it, but I had a feeling its taste would stay with me for the rest of my life.
From what I'd gathered, the orphanage divided its lodging strictly—boys on the second floor, girls on the third. The children here were all under thirteen, but I supposed the separation was to avoid any "incidents."
Not to mention, Conservative values, church influence… They more than likely wanted to keep boys and girls from mingling more than necessary.
Still, I was surprised to learn that Torry was eight, Lina ten, and Cassia eleven.
They spoke with a refinement far beyond their years, and they carried themselves without the restless energy most kids in my world had.
No fidgeting, no sparks of unguarded curiosity.
They were… Subdued.
No... Perhaps I should say dispirited?
Which, oddly, made them seem more mature.
Well... Save for Cassia, I guess...
As people grow, the world begins to press its weight down onto them—the money, rules, and survival. Curiosity begins to dull while routine sets in.
Bright-eyed dreams of childhood—becoming an astronaut, an artist, a hero—fade into the monotone gradient of adulthood.
I knew because it had happened to me.
In high school, I'd wanted to start a band with my friends, tour the world, and live for the music.
I had the money, I had the connections...
But I let that dream die, convincing myself it was unrealistic.
...
... Though it's far too pointless now...
...
…
A sigh slipped out before I could stop it.
"What's wrong?" Cassia glanced at me.
"Oh, it's nothing. Just tired. Long day."
He nodded once, accepting my answer without pressing further, and the four of us kept walking in quiet.
I don't know, I can't really make sense of it. Hell, how are children normally supposed to act?
Maybe they only seemed this way because they were wary of me, an outsider.
I wanted to believe that.
I wanted to believe that behind their carefully composed masks was the bright, unfiltered joy of children who'd barely begun to explore their world—where every sight, sound, and touch was still a first.
Why?
Because I didn't want to believe I was standing in a world that forced its children to grow up too fast.
To become jaded. Distrustful.
Old before their time.
I prayed...
But not for them, but for myself.
Because someone like me—a soft-handed city slicker—wouldn't last long in a place like this.
Torry and I stopped before the door reading "54."
"We'll be going on ahead!" Said Cassia with a slight bounce in his step.
I waved instead of answering, my head too cluttered for words.
With that, our day was over.
"Are you fine with me taking the top bunk?" I asked once we stepped inside.
Torry nodded almost instantly. "Heights are scary."
I didn't press him further.
Just changed into the pajamas Sister Marrow had lent me and climbed into bed, unaware that the night ahead would feel far longer than the day ever had.
++++++
The pain and the singing.
They came in a package.
At first, it was small.
A faint headache, irritating but bearable.
Then the melody slipped in. Soft. Almost soothing. Yet it crept into every unguarded corner of my mind, staking its claim.
And, as the darkness scrawled across the night, the pain, along with the song, swelled.
Soon, the headache evolved into a dull, rhythmic thump, like work boots stomping a wooden floor, keeping pace with my heartbeat.
The thump cracked into a painful pressure, like a dam about to burst.
Then it split, sharpening into a screech.
The walls gave way.
The bursts of discomfort became a flood.
The melody warped—no longer a tune, but a shriek that clawed at the inside of my skull, shaking my eyes in their sockets, pounding against my ribs from the inside out.
I felt sick.
My stomach lurched.
It was like a nail was being driven into my skull.
No—like a drill whirring—
spinning a hole into my head.
Boring through skin, bone, flesh—
Ripping through my thoughts.
It was unbearable.
Her voice ricocheted in my skull, shredding everything it touched.
Cutting up my brain.
Blending it.
Turning it into mush.
Molding my mind to her desire.
Into a mind that wasn't mine.
G̴͟E͜͏T.̸̶ ̴̢I̢̛T̨.̢͢ ̵͘O̶͘U̢Ţ.
G̕͠E̷͠T̴͡.̸͢ I̛͠T͡͞.̛͟ O͢Ų̢T̷͜.
GΣŦ. ĪŦ. ØỮŦ.
Saliva dripped from my lips as my breathing grew wild, ragged—akin to a diseased animal.
My stomach turned and churned, twisted and knotted.
Sweat soaked the pajamas Sister Marrow had lent me.
I writhed in bed, teeth gnashing, palms clutching my skull as though I could hold my brain in place and keep it from spilling out my ears.
I knew this pain.
I'd felt it before—only for a second, but enough to etch it into my mind forever.
That night.
That night, whenI looked down at the passing crowds with envy.
That night, when that twisted monster chased me up the shrine steps.
The night I first heard һеʀ vоісе.
h͠e͠r͠ v͠o͠i͠c͠e͠.
her vo—vo—voi̷c̷e̷.
h゙e゙r v゙o゙i゙c゙e゙・
h̡͜͜͡͏͟͟͠͝͏̵̢͟͟͝e̷̸̢̢͘͝͞͞͝͞͞͏̸͞͠r̸̷̵̢͘͢͢͡͏͜͜ ̸̵̷̸̶̸̢͡͝͝v̷̸͟͠͠͏͝o̴͏͢͟͟͝͠i̶̢͜͡͞͞͝͞c͏̷͜͜͝͠͝e̵̢̛͜͠͏͝͠.
—A sound broke through the agony—soft, metallic.
—A familiar sound.
—The sound of metal clinking.
The sound of my Talisman.
I'd kept it on without realizing. It had become a habit to tuck the talisman under my clothes 24/7 to ensure I wouldn't lose it.
Slowly, the pain began to dull as the Talisman simultaneously began to heat against my chest.
Eventually, the pain had subsided to a bearable level—but not completely.
And it seemed it would stay that way.
I shot up and hurriedly climbed down the bunk bed.
"Torry!" I screamed as I began shaking him.
But to my chagrin, he did not respond.
He lay there still as could be. If it weren't for his faint, hushed breaths against the soundless night, I would've thought he was dead.
I kept shaking him for a while longer, knowing full well the futility of my act.
"Torry! Torry! Wake up!"
I cared little for the ruckus I was making.
Eventually, my arms grew tired, and I realized—fully—that this won't get me anywhere.
Instead of trying to wake Torry—which wasn't happening—I should search for answers.
Carefully and slowly, I opened the wooden door leading to the corridor, jumping at the slight creaking noise it made.
My heart was pounding; the adrenaline caused by the pain earlier had yet to subside.
I peeked through the crack.
No one.
Lucky.
With muted strides, I began walking down the corridor, keeping my ears and eyes open for anyone or anything.
I wasn't sure where I was going.
My feet were just moving me down the familiar hallways, hoping that somehow, somewhere, I'd find the answers I sought.
I know it wasn't the safest move, but it was either that or lie in bed. And I surely wouldn't get answers by simply lying there.
Correspondingly, I needed to sort out my thoughts.
Like—
Wasn't the House of Saint Lyria supposed to be a holy place?
I'd assumed that since Ygros's shrine protected me from that agonizing song, all religious sanctuaries would offer the same safety.
But that was clearly an incorrect assumption.
Then... Is Saint Lyria not a relevant enough religious figure?
No, that couldn't be the case. It seemed like everyone in town knew of her, and she had, from what I could count, at least 87 followers in this mansion alone.
Not to mention, Ygros's shrine was found in a state of ruin.
Hell, it was abandoned. Not a single follower in sight.
Then was there something else I was misunderstanding?
Maybe I had to change my underlying assumptions.
I had, without putting much thought into it, assumed the singing belonged to a demon, and that holy power would negate said singing, like you'd see in games or novels.
Holy power is good, demonic power is bad.
But maybe I'm wrong?
Maybe Holy power and Demonic energy aren't on the opposite side of the same scale?
Hell, maybe I should scratch the whole demon and holy powers theory entirely.
I have so many questions.
Why does the Ygros shrine protect me then?
Why aren't the others also in pain?
Why does the talisman also protect me?
Who does this voice belong to?
...
"…Wait."
A chill wormed into my stomach.
Could it be…?
Without thinking, I turned on my heel and made for the stairs.
"Fuck... This place is a damn maze."
If it weren't for my exceptional memory, I'd be having one hell of a time trying to navigate this mansion.
In no time, I was downstairs, having safely walked down the creaky stairs.
Passing by the grand dining hall, I spotted something coming from the living room.
Lamp light, faint murmurs, and shadows crossing and bending over the walls.
I sneaked closer, passing by a medium-sized oak buffet before practically gluing myself to the wall.
Straining my ears, I could make out the voice of Father Saff.
"Lady Marrow, may I ask you something?"
Lady Marrow?
"You may." Responded Sister Marrow.
Her voice had noticeably dropped a few octaves, and she lacked the serenity she normally held in her voice.
It was authoritative like a boss talking to an employee.
"The kid that you've picked up... Rhys, was it?—is he the one?" Asked Father Saff.
A brief silence.
"Yes." Responded Sister Marrow. "I'm quite certain he is a Fallen Child."
Fallen Child? What the hell is that?
"Auuhhh!"
A weird... Half gasp half... Moan? Erupted from Father Saff's mouth that nearly made me peek out from behind the wall.
It was a sound akin to a dying elk that can only be described as pure ecstasy and excitement.
Between Father Saff's ragged breaths, I could hear: "It is just as Goddess Iyashir ordained!"
"Calm yourself, Father Saff." Cut in a third, male voice. "It's disturbing."
A voice I also recognized.
Brother Vann
Iyashir?
That name, it was a name I also recognize... But from where?
I could feel something was being unlocked in my mind.
Droswen... Iyashir... Saint Lyria...
Like a door getting kicked—
"This... Is... Quite early..." Brother Vann said, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice.
"..."
Silence, to which I can only assume it's Sister Marrow nodding.
"We were foretold to receive the offering during winter, after the Snjóháttr, were we not?" Asked Brother Vann
Snjóháttr...
—A door that was now kicked wide open...
"It matters not. Why should we delay the creation of a demi-god?"
A wave of realization hit me like a tsunami.
My knees threatened to grow weak as a faint "Oh my god..." eeked from my lips.
Suddenly—
Guthud!
My leg had accidentally bumped into the oak buffet with a dull, traitorous thud that made my heart leap into my throat.
"!!!"
I could practically feel Sister Marrow whip her head around.
Thud
Thud
Thud
I could hear her rapidly approaching. I had no more than 4 seconds—nay, 2 seconds before she'd be upon me.
I wasn't sure what would happen to me if I were to get caught, but my gut told me I needed to hide.
Upon that realization, my body moved on instinct.
"Who are you!?"
++++++
"Who are you!?"
Sister Marrow flung the door open only to spot, to her surprise...
No one...
No one was there—the corridor was empty.
Her gunmetal eyes meticulously swept the hallway.
Not a soul in sight.
She stood a moment longer, carefully scanning everything, holding her breath so as not to let a single sound, a single creak, be left unheard
Still nothing.
"Calm down, Sister Marrow." Chimed Brother Vann. "The children are under Iyashir's influence. They're asleep."
"Then what was that noise?" Sister Marrow shot back.
It was less of a question and more of a sarcastic remark.
"A rodent?" Responded Brother Vann.
...
"Egh..."
Sister Marrow let out a mixed groan of uncertainty and annoyance.
"...Maybe..." She muttered.
"Let's move this conversation somewhere else." She continued, "We should increase our guard. With the Fallen Child secured, we can't afford to be discovered. Should the Sactum of the Keepers catch wind of this, Rhys's—and all our heads will roll."
She turned around, muttered something incomprehensible, and receded back into the room, shutting the door behind her.
Silence had returned...
Except for the faint gasps of a petrified Rhys, curled up inside the cabinet of an oak buffet.
++++++
"Hah... Hah..."
As Sister Marrow's footsteps faded, I slowly unclenched my jaw and released the breath I'd been holding
That was dangerous, seriously dangerous.
Without thinking, I had ducked into the oak buffet. And somehow, by sheer dumb luck or perhaps divine pity, I didn't get caught.
What the fuck—what do they mean I'm a fallen child?
My heart slammed against my ribs, hammering like it wanted to escape my chest. But even as the seconds passed, it didn't calm.
Not because of my lingering fear, however.
No, it was because of something else.
It was rather because of a newfound realization.
One that was colder than steel, and made my stomach twist into knots.
The truth of this world.
++++++
Godslit.
—Is a 2019 tragedy written by a young, prodigious, Japanese author named Kaito Mori.
Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Kaito was the son of Okubo Mori, the charismatic CEO of a multi-million-dollar firm embedded deep in the bowels of Japan's entertainment industry.
Thanks to his father's influence, Kaito made an early entrance into the literary scene—publishing a string of short stories in Kagetsu Bungaku shortly after graduating high school. The stories gained traction, earning him widespread acclaim and ultimately the prestigious Akutagawa Prize.
But it was only after the sudden death of his father in a car accident that Kaito composed his magnum opus—
Godslit.
The award-winning novel follows a brilliant Korean youth named Jihoon Baek—a genius of his era—who, by the age of fifteen, had won the Talent Award of Korea, International Science and Engineering Fair Grand Award, and first place at the International Mathematical Olympiad—three of the world's most prestigious intellectual accolades.
And he would go on to win many more during his lifetime.
He was a figure that rivaled the intelligence of Einstein and Stephen Hawking.
He was a true genius in every sense of the word. He learned new, unfamiliar topics lightning fast. And he had a perfect memory that allowed him to memorize books by merely skimming through them.
But for all his fame and merits, Jihoon grew tired of life.
Nothing was a challenge.
And as if the world were mocking him, Jihoon was—ironically—diagnosed with ALS, a fatal, incurable disease that destroys the motor neurons in his brain and spine.
Those with ALS typically only live two to five years. Though some, like Stephen Hawking, live much longer.
As Jihoon's muscles withered and the world he once danced through slipped from his grasp, Jihoon turned to webnovels for comfort. He spent countless hours reading, retreating into fictional worlds that felt far kinder and more interesting than the one he was trapped in.
Among the stories that anchored him in the sea of despair was a long-running webnovel titled G.O.D.
It was set in a world with godlike beings and eldritch horrors.
A world with magic and danger at every corner.
It was a world full of excitement.
Excitement, Jihoon loved.
He followed it religiously—on hospital nights, on rainy days, on days when even blinking hurt, and through the haze of his body's slow demise. Every new chapter brought a little light to his dark world.
And it's precisely because of that religious following that the final chapter pained Jihoon so.
It was an ending that left a bitter, unsatisfied taste in Jihoon's mouth. A taste that tore a painful hole in his gut.
It was an ending not rooted in triumph, but tragedy, in which everyone dies, helplessly slaughtered by the Fallen Gods, as the world unceremoniously comes to an end.
Jihoon read the final sentence, gutted. He'd spend the next few years rereading that book with hopes that he'd be able to relive the magic.
But to no avail.
Yet, despite that ever-present wrenching feeling in Jihoon's gut, life moved on, and so did his disease, and after 2 years, Jihoon Baek closes his eyes, for the final time...
...While Soren Caelhart opens his.
++++++
This is the world I find myself in.
A world of my creation...
A world that shouldn't exist yet does.
Whatever the case is, I know there is one thing I must do.
I must lead this world away from its bad ending.
That is what I vowed to myself, as I lay huddled in the oak buffet.
[CH END]