Morrison sighed heavily, and Wolfgang's expression remained grim. After confirming that Loren, despite his extreme state, posed no immediate danger to himself or the Priory, they left with their own heavy thoughts. The empty cloister was left to Erika, alone before the scarred wooden door.
The silence from behind the door was more unnerving than any sound.
Erika didn't leave. He stood silently for a moment, then slowly slid down to sit against the cold stone wall, drawing his knees to his chest. The posture was less threatening, avoiding the direct confrontation of facing the door.
He knew that the last thing Loren needed now was pity or lectures, and likely couldn't bear any external gaze. He needed something more subtle, less intrusive.
Erika closed his eyes, pushing aside distractions, slowly focusing his mind, attempting to build the faint, private thread of their Mind-voice connection. He wasn't sure if Loren could "hear," or if he knew how to respond, but it seemed the only thing he could do.
"Loren…" He sent the thought out gently, like a pebble dropped into a deep pool."I know you can feel this… I don't know what to say. But I remember our first meeting… in the cloister. You ran so… perfectly. So by the book. And me, like a wildman fresh from the mud." He tried to conjure neutral, even self-deprecating memories, avoiding any potential triggers.
"Later, in the 'Whispering Gate'… as awkward as I felt then, thinking back, thank you for showing me… another world. Even if that world wasn't for me." He projected a clumsy gratitude, acknowledging Loren's condescending "kindness" from that night.
"We know so little about the Sanctum, like blind men groping an elephant. I don't know what Instructor Wolfgang, Scholar Morrison… what they truly want, or what we've been pulled into…" He admitted his own ignorance and confusion, placing them on equal footing.
"But, Loren, right now… in this Sanctum… I think… the only person I can barely trust… is you." The thought was difficult to form, yet fiercely firm. It was the most straightforward assessment of their situation, stripped of all external identities and pretenses.
"I need you to pull through." His mental voice carried a stubborn force."I truly need… the Loren de Witt from the bar, the one who kept his wit and composure even in the dark, to come back."
Just as his silent outpouring was ending, his sharp senses caught it—a faint, desperately suppressed sound from behind the door.
Not frantic scratching. Not angry pounding.
A… ragged, choked, intermittent sound of inhalation.
Sobbing.
Silent, yet conveying shattered pride, unvoiced anguish, and bone-deep loneliness and fear more powerfully than any wail.
Erika's heart clenched at the soundless weeping. He said no more, only sent one final thought, clear and slow, carrying a plea born of shared hardship and a thread of undeniable expectation:
"For your own sake…""And for mine.""Please… be at the ceremony."
He bound himself and Loren firmly together as "two manipulated, ignorant fellow travelers." Then, he ceased the Mind-voice, remaining seated quietly outside, offering his silent presence as the only support he could give.
The cloister held only the scarred door and the nearly imperceptible sound of a soul, shattered, trying painfully to piece itself back together.
The two days passed in a state of suspended, tense anticipation.
On the day of the ceremony, Erika and Morrison arrived early outside the Angel's Descent hall. The air was charged with an unusual, solemn lethality. Guards patrolled in multiplied numbers, their eyes sharp as they scanned anyone approaching. Without a word, the two passed through the stringent security and entered the roaring heart of energy once more.
The interior was fully prepared. The semi-transparent energy barriers were fully active, like great, sigil-etched crystal walls, clearly demarcating the central energy shaft from the observation areas and the section for the novice Clerics. Within the barriers, golden energy streams surged like tamed torrents through conduits and preset channels, emitting a suffocating pressure. Brothers still performed final checks and adjustments, ensuring every energy node was flawless.
They first saw Grand Cleric Hong Bo. The Sanctum's highest leader, clad in his most ornate ceremonial robes, stood on the high main dais, eyes closed as if gathering strength. Sensing Erika and Morrison's approach, he opened his eyes. His gaze rested on Erika for a moment, offering a meaningful, almost approving smile, before resuming its inscrutable authority. After paying their respects, the two retreated to the vicinity of the large, featureless statue of their Lord. It offered a clear view of the entire ceremonial ground.
Soon, heavy footsteps echoed. Wolfgang led a contingent of novice Clerics in uniform grey robes under the dome. These young faces, marked by excitement, anxiety, and a thirst for power, followed instructions and stood in orderly ranks within the area cordoned off by the energy barriers—like soldiers awaiting inspection, or vessels waiting to be filled with power.
Hong Bo moved to the very front of the dais. He spread his arms, and his sonorous, stirring voice, amplified by some device, reverberated through the vast space, momentarily overwhelming the energy's roar:
"My brothers and sisters! We gather here today not for personal glory, but to enact the supreme will of our Lord!"
His voice rose, burning with zealous faith:
"It was our Lord who, a millennium ago in the Age of Ignorance, granted us the authority to wield energy! It was our Lord who guided us to establish this Eternal Circuit, replacing chaos with order, dispelling darkness with light!"
"To spread this sacred order to farther lands! To bring more lost lambs back to our Lord's embrace! So that our Lord's glory, like this eternal energy, may illuminate every corner of the world!"
"We need strength! We need more loyal, fearless warriors to execute this great mission! Today, in our Lord's name, guided by this holy energy surge, we shall inscribe the mark of power upon these chosen seeds, making them our Lord's sharpest swords and sturdiest shields!"
His speech was profoundly affecting. The novice Clerics below ignited with fanatical fire in their eyes.
Yet, Erika, standing near the statue, saw Wolfgang, during Hong Bo's speech, turn his head slightly. His gaze found Erika and Morrison, and he shook his head, slowly, heavily. His eyes, devoid of their usual flintiness, held a deep, unspeakable bitterness and resignation. That subtle gesture was an ice pick, instantly puncturing the fervor woven by Hong Bo's words.
Next, Clerics in white robes—the higher-ranked, full Clerics stationed at the Sanctum, their numbers not great, clearly with most strength deployed for 'conversion' work elsewhere—filed in, taking their positions solemnly.
Hong Bo's speech concluded. The brother overseeing the ceremony announced loudly that all energy circuits were tested and operating perfectly.
The Angel's Descent hall fell into a brief, pre-storm silence. Energy raged within the barriers, golden light swirling. The ceremony could begin at any moment.
It was at this very moment, with all eyes watching and everything in readiness—
The light at the entrance dimmed slightly.
A figure, steps somewhat unsteady, entered alone.
All eyes instinctively turned.
Loren de Witt.
But his appearance made everyone who knew him gasp, and sent Erika's heart plummeting.
He still wore his signature, expensively tailored white formalwear, but it was no longer crisp. Stains and wrinkles marred the fabric, with a few inconspicuous tears. His always impeccably styled pale gold hair was a disheveled mess, strands stuck to his damp temples.
Most shocking was his face. The once handsome, pale features were now bloodless, tinged with an unhealthy greyish hue. His eyes were sunken, surrounded by deep, ink-dark shadows. And those ice-blue eyes, once full of cool appraisal and superiority, were now like stagnant pools—hollow, numb, as if all emotion and light had been drained, leaving only a near-void exhaustion.
Yet, deep within that dead stillness, something else seemed to burn—a cold, reckless, unsettling resolve.
And so, under the gaze of all, he walked silently, step by step, towards the ranks of the novice Clerics, like a soulless puppet marching towards a predetermined execution ground.
His arrival was a silent thunderclap, splitting the ceremony's facade of solemnity.