Silence lingered.
Othello didn't stand up from his position even after all the phenomena around him had disappeared. He just sat there, feeling the cold tiles rub against the palms of his hands.
His thoughts felt still.
Not the stillness that came after a storm had passed, but an unnatural stillness that dulled all his other emotions. There was no panic from his external changes, no fear of the unknown, and no uneasiness from the abrupt changes that had occurred to him.
His thoughts were clear, cohesive... and cold.
His eyes wandered towards the rising sun, taking a moment to understand the visible changes that had happened to him.
Then, he pushed off the ground with his foot, intending to stand up.
Othello's body reacted instantly.
There was no wobble, no strain, no hesitation. His body stood up in a motion so fluid that it felt practiced, and his posture was so impeccable that even he couldn't help but take a few glances at his upright body.
Othello's eyebrows wrinkled slightly.
He took a step forward, then another. Watching his actions flow smoothly like the gears of a well-oiled machine, Othello fists clenched and loosened.
His body felt... perfect.
Othello's body had been changed, fixed, modified into something far better, but he didn't feel the joy of such an event. Instead, he felt more unlucky than he had ever been in his life.
The constant dull ache at the back of his eyes was a reminder that he might have been given something inhuman, but something was taken from him too.
His emotions had been dulled, almost to the point of nonexistence.
This was the main reason why he hadn't taken any other actions than what was needed to observe his body.
To him, it was simply a thankless endeavour.
Othello walked to the door of the cathedral where he stood there, motionless.
The door had opened at some point. In addition, Patrick's engraving on the door had disappeared.
He took a step forward, but he suddenly stiffened. The strange yet familiar ache at the back of his eyes suddenly intensified. His breath hitched as he fell gracelessly to the ground.
It felt as if something within him had stirred awake, giving birth to countless strange whispers that caused his mind to turn adrift.
His consciousness blurred immediately, and all efforts he had made to prevent himself from falling failed instantly.
As he fell, he caught his reflection on a sheet of glass not far away from the entrance of the Cathedral.
He saw eyes that were nothing like his: pitch black without pupils, with thick veins sticking out of them.
A strangled sound sounded through his throat the moment he hit the ground. He felt as if someone was whispering insidious secrets directly into his consciousness, causing his mind to buzz.
He writhed on the ground as unfamiliar images appeared, mixing with his memories and rendering them indistinguishable from each other.
Vaguely, he seemed to see a tall spire shrouded by cobwebs. On this spire stood a black blade that seemed to call out to him.
The moment Othello felt the call, everything suddenly disappeared before his eyes, and his body's previous calm was immediately restored.
He didn't get up from his position immediately.
He lay on the cold tiles, his breathing uneven and heavy. When he calmed down, he sat up at the door of the cathedral while thinking to himself.
'This is the exact same thing that happened earlier. What could it even be?'
As he racked his brain to think of a plausible reason, he suddenly found out that there were a lot of unfamiliar things in his mind—memories that seemed to belong to him and at the same time did not.
The memories were hazy, as if they had been interfered with by a force in order to prevent him from accessing them. The only glaring memories in his mind were the image of a tall spire covered with cobwebs and a small shack located amidst filth and other similar houses.
'My shack,' Othello thought calmly as his pupils narrowed. 'Why is it in the new memories even when I already know where it is?'
He stepped outside the Cathedral as his thoughts spun. 'Could it be that there is something related to whatever I've become...?
He looked down at his naked self and wrinkled his eyebrows slightly. 'It's unimportant to think about that now... I need to get some clothes.'
Looking at his naked figure, Othello couldn't help but imagine an accidental meeting with another human. Even with his numbness, it would be an embarrassing encounter.
His brows straightened after a moment though, as he abruptly recalled matters far more important than his nakedness...
Matters like clarity on what happened to him.
'The memories are fragmented, but three things have been made clear.
'One, what happened to me is known as the Ritual of Impartment.
'Two, I am no more human.
'Three, I have received special abilities related to knowledge, whatever that means... and it comes at a cost.'
Othello gently rubbed his temples.
'The cost being a phenomenon called resurgence.'
Still trying to process the three pieces of information, Othello walked out of the now mundane surroundings of the cathedral and stepped on the path that had led him here.
It was a narrow path that led through a forest popularly known by the slum dwellers as the Ash Forest. According to them, ghosts resided in this particular forest and would appear from time to time, feasting on human flesh and blood.
Most didn't believe, but he knew it was true.
'Not that it matters for now,' Othello thought while walking forward calmly.
As he walked, he seemed to be able to sense everything around him clearly. His eyes captured the movements of ants below him with stark clarity, he could hear the subtle sounds of tiny worms burrowing through the earth, and the tiny vibrations in the air didn't escape his notice.
His expression was still cold and blank, but his mind was shocked.
'This... is simply...!'
Under the influence of his expanded senses, Othello suddenly heard a sharp scream.
'There are others!'