Darkness engulfed Othello's world.
There were no signs, no warnings, and no suspicious events. One moment, Othello was touching the strange book on the altar, and the next, he was in a boundless darkness where the concept of direction seemed to have been lost. His eyes couldn't make out a single thing as he felt like they had been ripped apart without his knowledge, and his senses were lost.
He just floated silently, unaware of the passage of time... or anything.
All unconcerned concepts seemed to have been stripped off at that moment, leaving only darkness.
In this darkness where stillness was the main theme, Othello's thoughts became active as a terror brewed silently within him. Flashes of Patrick's horrifying death and Reo's sudden explosion kept replaying in his mind, causing his body to tremble involuntarily.
Then—
Something moved in the darkness.
A stirring, subtle at first, like a ripple spreading across the surface of a still lake.
Othello felt it before he saw it—
A presence loomed in the darkness, ancient, vast and so overwhelming that his thoughts of fear were momentarily halted, frozen in place by whatever loomed before him.
At that moment, the darkness parted.
A black book floated before him, its size enlarged several times, its size becoming as cast as the very world he was in. There was no altar, only the tenebrous book that seemed to absorb whatever light that remained in the endless darkness. A cold and unfeeling eye emerged from behind the book, its gaze fixed on Othello with unnatural intensity.
Before he could recoil, the book suddenly opened.
The pages of the book did not flip over each other as he would have expected. Instead, they unfolded outwards, layering upon one another and revealing strange symbols that made Othello's head hurt the moment he tried to observe them.
The symbols were tiny but solid, with flaming edges.
They looked less like things to be read and more like things to be imprinted.
Without any warning, the symbols lifted off the pages.
One by one, they tore off their constraints and approached Othello, flowing through the void like shooting stars, each one gleaming with strange flames.
Before Othello could react, the first symbol pierced him.
There was no physical impact, but the pain that followed was sharp, immediate, and overwhelming. It felt as if a hot metal was being used to carve the symbols directly into his thoughts. His body convulsed as he tried to twitch with his limbs, but discovered that he couldn't feel them. He tried to scream, but his voice was stuck in his throat.
It was as if he had turned into a prisoner in his own body.
Oblivious or indifferent to his plight, the rest of the symbols followed. Each symbol bore its own pain that Othello felt distinctly. Some burned his body like hot coal, while some froze and cracked his body apart. Some did neither, instead causing his hazy consciousness to feel a suffocating force that made it feel like the world itself was pressing against him.
The symbols surged relentlessly, the pain continued and in the darkness, there was nothing but absolute silence.
If Othello could scream, he would have. If he were capable of begging, he might have, but there was no mercy to be found in the darkness. The symbols continued their work with absolute indifference, etching themselves deeper and deeper until Othello's sense of self began to blur.
After what seemed like a long while, Othello started to feel his body.
The tattered black cloak he had been wearing disintegrated first, turning into black ash that drifted into the void. A cold sensation washed over his being, jolting him awake, followed by a sensation that made his heart shudder.
His face was revealed, twisted in agony since the pain didn't subside.
Othello felt it—the rush of his crimson blood, the alignment between his body components, the subtle and glaring imperfections he had carried since birth. All of it was laid before him. Not through sight, but through something deeper—something far more invasive.
The symbols buried in his body began to glow, forming complex patterns that etched themselves around his body. His body groaned at first, seemingly protesting the foreign things in his body. Then, they were forced to accommodate the symbols. His bones cracked and his muscles stretched.
He could feel his body turning into something different, suited for a purpose that was out of his designs.
Othello should have been happy, but he was not. He knew that this was not some sort of magical healing. He was being reforged into something that could accommodate whatever the tenebrous book had in store for him.
In short, his agony was just beginning.
---
Outside the Cathedral, a sudden solemnity took hold of the world
The eerie mist churned as if stirred by a giant hand. Mournful wails echoed as hideous faces tried their best to break out, their terrifying faces wracked with horror.
The air twisted unnaturally due to their actions, space-bending and folding over itself. Cracks appeared, snaking towards the walls of the Cathedral, and were about to touch it when the solemn atmosphere suddenly vanished.
A violent suction force came from the windows of the cathedral, devouring every inch of mist and revealing a clear red sky.
At that moment, the crimson hue that had shrouded the sky for hours retreated.
As the blood coloured light dimmed, the radiant windows of the cathedral lost their unnatural glow, and the indescribable atmosphere that had permeated the surroundings of the cathedral vanished, leaving only a nondescript building standing in the middle of nowhere.
Everything went silent.
Inside the cathedral, the darkness had also vanished, leaving only a tall, well-proportioned naked body on the cold tiles of the floor.
Air rushed into Othello's lungs in a violent gasp as his senses returned to him. Pain gnawed beneath his skin, its intensity far less than moments before, and his body felt numb.
So, he just lay there, struggling to piece his mind together.
After a while, he pushed himself upright.
The first thing he noticed was clarity.
His senses were sharper than ever. He could hear the faint sound of rushing water somewhere not far away from the cathedral, he could feel the uneven patterns on the singular tiles beneath his body, and even the faint vibrations made by the air didn't escape his notice.
Before he could revel in his changes, a sudden feeling of nausea hit him. His eyes bulged and his breath hitched as he felt something crawling up his throat. He grabbed his chest to no avail and could only crouch over in agony, persisting.
Then, the feeling suddenly vanished as soon as it appeared, leaving behind an exhausted face and a pair of dead eyes.
"Is this a price for whatever happened to me?" Othello muttered to no one in particular.
He did not cry.
He did not panic.
He simply sat there, looking at the rising sun with a blank look.
"No turning back now."