The void should have been still.
The White Confessor had been dragged screaming into the dark, its mouths closing one by one as the Overseers yanked their failed instrument back into silence. Chains had stopped rattling. The gears of the spire ground down to a deep, suffocating quiet.
But the Saint couldn't breathe.
He sat slumped against the base of the spire, clutching his head. Blood still leaked from his ears, drying down his neck like wax from a spent candle. His lips moved soundlessly, mouthing prayers, but nothing answered.
Not even the cold, mechanical voices that had always overseen him.
For the first time, the Overseers did not scold. Did not whisper. Did not promise. They simply watched.
That silence was worse than punishment.
I crouched across from him, one knee up, chin resting lazily in my palm. I studied him like a scholar studies a cracked jar.
"Your gods abandon you quickly, don't they? You'd think they'd at least scold you for straying. But no. Quiet. Like a butcher waiting for the lamb to stop twitching."
The Saint flinched at the word "lamb." He pressed his hands harder against his ears. "S-stop… stop talking."
"Oh? Do you prefer the Confessor's chorus? Confess. Confess. Confess." I mimicked the thousand mouths with a grin. "Catchy, wasn't it? Almost makes me want to kneel."
"Don't—" His voice cracked. His chains rattled with his trembling. "Don't mock it. Don't mock Him."
I leaned forward. "Which one?"
His eyes lifted to mine. And for a heartbeat, I saw it: not faith, but doubt.
Something stirred behind him.
The Saint stiffened, jerking his head around. His phantom—the crucified figure of himself, nails driven into invisible wood—was still there. It never left now. Its head lolled, face pale, blood dripping from its hands.
But it wasn't silent anymore.
It whispered in a voice wet with blood. "Master."
The Saint recoiled, crawling back as though from a beast. "No—don't call me that—don't—"
"Master. Command me."
He clawed at his own ears, eyes wild. "Shut up! You're not real, you're—"
But it only bled more, its wounds pulsing with every syllable. "Master. Let me serve."
I smirked, watching the scene. "Congratulations, Saint. Your first servant. Isn't it beautiful? That's what necromancy is. Not corpses. Not demons. Just you. Over and over. Wearing every mask you tried to hide."
"NO!" he roared, voice cracking, veins bulging on his neck. He curled into himself. "It's blasphemy—it's filth—it's you! You've poisoned me!"
"Correction." I tapped the air with one finger. "I've just shown you the mirror. You broke on your own."
His breathing grew ragged. He folded his hands tight, trembling so badly they knocked together. He began to whisper—louder now, desperate.
"Our Father, who watches, who binds, who weighs—"
The void gave no answer.
He prayed harder, faster, choking on his own words. "Our Father, who sanctifies—who sanctifies—who—"
Silence.
The Overseers remained unmoving, their watching presence as heavy as iron.
And still, they said nothing.
The Saint's voice cracked. "Why…? Why won't You answer me…?"
I tilted my head, feigning thought. "Maybe because you didn't pass the test. Maybe because you bent a knee to yourself instead of to them. Or maybe…"
I grinned, baring teeth. "…because they never cared in the first place."
The Saint's face twisted in anguish. His phantom leaned over his shoulder, bloody lips brushing his ear. "Master."
He screamed.
He lunged forward suddenly, chains scraping. His hands wrapped around my collar, shaking. His face was red, wet, feral.
"Kill me."
I blinked slowly. "Hmm?"
"Kill me!" His nails dug into my skin, drawing blood. "End it! Do you hear me? I would rather die a thousand times than—than become like you!"
I chuckled, low and sharp. "Flattering. But no."
"Please—please!" His voice broke, collapsing into sobs. He sagged against me, weeping. "I can't—I can't hold it—I hear it even when I close my eyes—I see myself—I hear me begging—"
I shoved him back, not cruelly, but firmly. His chains rattled as he collapsed against the spire again.
"You don't get to beg for death. Not from me. Not yet. You're useful alive."
His tear-streaked face twisted in hatred and despair. "You—monster—"
"Correct again," I said, calm as ice.
He clawed at his own chains. The three fractures along their surface glowed faintly, bleeding sparks. His hands shook as he tried to pry them apart, as if he could undo his own binding.
"I'll rip them off—I'll rip it all off—if I can't be Saint, if I can't be pure—then I'll—"
"Then you'll what?" I asked softly.
He froze, panting, staring at me with hollow eyes.
"Then you'll be nothing? Good." I leaned closer. "That's step one."
His lips trembled. "I don't… want to be nothing."
I tapped his chest with one finger, right over his heart. "You already are. You're hollow. Empty vessel. Do you know what happens to hollow things, Saint?"
He stared.
"They get filled."
That night—or what passed for night in the timeless void—he dreamt.
He dreamt of kneeling at the altar, his hands folded. But the altar was cracked stone, bleeding black water. The Confessor stood above him, mouthless helm glowing, demanding: Confess.
When he opened his mouth, no words came. Only blood.
And from the puddle of blood rose his phantom, crucified self staggering free of its nails, kneeling beside him like a loyal dog. Its bloody smile dripped into his lap. "Master."
He woke screaming.
And I was there, crouched in the dark, smiling. "You're progressing faster than I thought."
His face was white, his breath shallow. "It's—it's not progress. It's madness."
"Same thing," I said.
"You don't have to like it," I told him, casual, as though explaining arithmetic. "You just have to accept it. You want your phantom gone? Own it. Command it. Tell it to silence itself, and it will. That's necromancy. Authority over death. Authority over yourself."
He shook his head violently. "No—no, I will never—"
"Then it'll keep whispering. It'll keep kneeling. It'll keep calling you master until you acknowledge it."
He slammed his fists against the ground, bloodied knuckles scraping. "I AM NOT A NECROMANCER!"
The phantom behind him smiled through broken teeth. "Master."
He broke into sobs again.
Hours—or eternities—later, he sat slumped against the spire again. His tears had dried. His prayers were gone. His lips moved, but not with scripture. With nothing. Silent, empty words.
He looked up at me, voice hollow. "I don't hear Him anymore."
I smiled thinly. "Good."
"…Then what am I?"
"Nothing," I said. "And nothing is perfect. Hollow vessels don't shatter when you fill them. They hold."
His head bowed. "…Then I'm nothing."
I leaned in close, whispering against his ear.
"No, Saint. You're mine."
And in the silence, his phantom knelt lower.
The Overseers stirred faintly above, gears whispering.
<
<
<
But they did not intervene. Not yet.
And I, Seo-jin, smiled in the dark.
The Saint was breaking exactly as I wanted.