CHAPTER 8
The day of the ritual had finally arrived.
The Six had already made their preparations. The plan was simple—leave once night fell, after the foster home had sunk into sleep. They would regroup at their usual meeting spot: the old abandoned building deep in the woods. There, away from prying eyes, they would perform the ritual.
Its purpose was absolute.
The outcome would determine whether they truly were the Six Vessels—or nothing at all. Failure wouldn't just end the ritual; it would shatter the very narrative they had built their lives upon.
Corvus and Cygnus had spent days translating the ritual guide to the best of their abilities. Most of it made sense—cryptic, archaic, but coherent. However, the final lines were different. Vague. Unsettlingly so. Almost as if they had been deliberately written to confuse, to mislead, or to fracture the resolve of anyone who attempted to decipher them.
Still, hesitation was not an option.
The ritual had to be performed.
[AT THE FOSTER HOME…]
It was nine in the morning.
Beneath the foster home, in the secret training hall concealed below its foundations, the Six were already at work. Training as usual—but this time, their focus ran deeper. Each movement, each breath, carried the weight of the night to come. Though their bodies trained, their minds were elsewhere, quietly bracing themselves for what they were about to attempt in secret.
Ms. Evelyn was notably absent.
Unlike most mornings, she had not joined them for training. Paperwork demanded her attention—matters confined to her private office, leaving the Six to train without her watchful presence.
Above ground, the rest of the foster home carried on as normal.
The remaining twelve children had finished breakfast and were gathering for their daily class sessions. Today's lessons were being led by one of the four foster parents, Ms. Alice. Her subjects covered the usual academic material—along with something far more unusual.
Ancient Latin.
Outside the foster home, Latin was not taught in schools or training institutions anywhere in the country. It held no practical value in modern society, an obsolete language long abandoned and nearly forgotten. Yet within these walls, its study was treated as essential.
None of the children questioned it.
Oblivious to its true purpose, they accepted it as just another part of their education.
By mid-morning, everything had fallen neatly into place. Classes were underway. The Six remained hidden below, immersed in training. Ms. Evelyn was occupied in her office. The remaining foster parents attended to their respective duties.
It was an ordinary day—indistinguishable from all the others.
And yet, unknown to them all, that fragile normalcy was already nearing its end.
Before nightfall, a strange visitor would arrive.
And with their arrival, the fate of every soul within the foster home would be sealed.
The doorbell rang repeatedly, its sharp chime echoing through the foster home and drawing the attention of everyone inside—everyone except the Six, who remained deep underground in the training hall, oblivious to what was unfolding above.
Ms. Ren, one of the four foster parents and the one usually responsible for preparing meals, hurried toward Ms. Evelyn's private office. A knot of unease tightened in her chest as she knocked once before barging in, unable to contain her panic.
They had a problem.
An unknown visitor stood at the front door.
There had been no prior appointments, no scheduled visits, and no mention of any outsider coming this week. The suddenness of it all had caught them completely off guard.
Ms. Evelyn, however, did not share Ms. Ren's alarm.
She remained seated behind her desk, posture composed, fingers lightly resting against one another as she listened. Her calm demeanor only heightened Ms. Ren's unease—it almost felt as though Ms. Evelyn had been expecting this interruption.
[Inner Monologue — Ms. Evelyn]— So… they've finally arrived then. I wonder…
She interlocked her fingers beneath her chin, carefully masking her excitement behind a look of mild concern.
With measured authority, Ms. Evelyn issued her instructions.
Ms. Ren was to receive the visitor—but with caution. Nayeli and Calista were to keep a close watch on the Six, ensuring they remained in the underground training hall until the visitor departed. Ms. Alice would stay with the remaining children, though her classes were to be temporarily suspended. And if circumstances demanded it, the visitor was to be escorted directly to Ms. Evelyn's private office for a brief conversation.
Once everyone had been briefed, Ms. Ren took a steadying breath and made her way to the front door, where the visitor continued to ring the bell, clearly growing impatient.
"Hm… that's strange," a voice muttered from outside."I could've sworn this was the right place. I've been ringing for quite a while now. Isn't anybody ho—"
The door opened.
Standing before her was a neatly dressed man, polished and composed, with the air of someone accustomed to being in control.
[Ms. Ren]— "Please forgive us for having you wait so long,"she said warmly, her voice gentle and uniquely melodic. "We truly weren't expecting visitors."
"Oh, it's quite alright," the man replied with a genuine smile. "If anything, I should be the one apologizing for showing up unannounced."
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to make formal arrangements to meet with whoever's in charge here."
Ms. Ren studied him more closely now.
[Ms. Ren]—"Pardon my asking, but whom might you be?"
The man's expression shifted briefly, as if realizing his oversight.
"How rude of me. Please forgive that. I'm from the Investigations Department. My name is… Reagan Armai."
Reagan Armai—an important member of the Investigations Department and a close associate of Detective Silvers.
His last visit to the hospital, where Silvers had been recovering, had compelled him to take a rare day off his packed schedule. Officially, he was here on Silvers' behalf, following up on a mere hunch related to the incident at Dr. Richard's residence.
Unofficially, it had become something far more personal.
After leaving the hospital, Reagan had done some digging into the foster home. What he found disturbed him. The facility did not exist on any official government registry. At first, he assumed it was a clerical oversight or a privately owned institution registered elsewhere.
But the deeper he searched, the worse it became.
There was nothing.
No records. No permits. No trace.
The realization unsettled him. An illegal foster home operating for years under the government's nose was hard to believe—but the evidence, or lack thereof, suggested exactly that. Silvers' instincts had been right.
Reagan became convinced the foster home was more than it appeared—possibly a base of operations. The question gnawed at him relentlessly.
A base for whom? Or for what?
His thoughts were briefly interrupted by Ms. Ren's presence. She was strikingly beautiful, dressed in a heart-shaped hollowed chest maid uniform, dark flowing hair framing her delicate features. Her presence caught him off guard; it didn't align with what he had expected after uncovering such troubling information.
Pleasantries were exchanged. Ms. Ren introduced herself, and Reagan offered a carefully constructed explanation—claiming he was canvassing the neighborhood, asking residents about a group of children who might be connected to an ongoing investigation.
It was a lie.
A necessary one.
While he intended to gather anything useful for the department, he also pursued his own private agenda. Ms. Ren listened attentively, sympathy softening her expression. After a moment, she politely invited him inside to discuss the matter further over a cup of tea.
Reagan accepted without hesitation.
This was exactly what he had hoped for.
As he stepped forward, barely two steps into the building, his body went cold.
He froze.
Something was wrong.
A thick, overwhelming presence pressed down on him from within—eerie, suffocating unnatural. A sharp ache bloomed behind his temples, and for the first time since arriving, Reagan felt it.
He had crossed into something he didn't understand.
The interior of the foster home was exceptionally well kept—tastefully decorated, warm, almost inviting. Yet no matter how pleasant it appeared, it failed to mask the eerie atmosphere that clung to the place like a shadow.
Reagan raised his right hand to the side of his head, pressing his fingers lightly against his temple as he endured the lingering ache. His eyes swept across the room in quick, instinctive motions, searching for anything out of place—any sign that might explain the sensation crawling beneath his skin.
Ms. Ren turned back toward him and immediately noticed his discomfort.
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked with a gentle smile. "You look a bit pale."
He met her gaze.
All he saw was a beautiful face, framed by warmth and sincerity. Her smile radiated innocence—untainted, genuine, and utterly oblivious to the oppressive presence bearing down on him. Behind her, several children played cheerfully, laughing as another foster parent watched over them. The scene painted the image of a happy, ordinary family.
Nothing seemed wrong.
Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pain vanished.
His thoughts cleared. His breathing steadied.
Reagan lowered his hand and straightened his posture, slipping effortlessly back into composure as though nothing had happened. He assured her he was fine, and Ms. Ren proceeded to guide him deeper into the foster home, toward Ms. Evelyn's private office, as instructed.
With every step forward, the sensation returned—stronger this time.
The air grew heavier. The presence thickened, pressing against him with increasing intensity. Whatever he had felt earlier was nothing compared to this.
They stopped before a wooden door.
Reagan stared at it.
On the other side lay the source of it all. An ungodly amount of bloodlust seeped through the cracks, leaking from every opening as though the door itself struggled to contain it. Yet Ms. Ren stood beside him without the slightest hint of discomfort, the children behind them laughing as if nothing were amiss.
He had no grounds to protest.
Ms. Ren reached for the handle.
She opened the door.
Reagan braced himself—only to realize, far too late, that stepping inside had been a grave mistake.