"They've arrived."
The voice came from one of the eleven figures seated around a long obsidian table.
"The bait is set. All that remains is to reel it in—everything, for the pleasure of our Lord, Noir."
At the helm of the table sat a man shrouded entirely in darkness. His face rested in his hands. Some might have called it handsome, but that would be a woeful understatement. His gaze might have been described as piercing, but even that was a poor attempt to grasp its sheer intensity. He exuded an aura of grandeur, a being who knew the magnitude of his existence—yet his posture was as calm as a lamb.
This was Ascalon, the First Apostle. The one closest to the god Noir.
---
"Explain what happened to me."
Kime's voice was taut with urgency, betraying the mask of calm he usually wore. Try as he might, he couldn't hide the turmoil beneath.
Of the fifty students and three instructors sent into the dungeon, eight students and two instructors were dead. Seventeen lay critically wounded. Three students were missing—along with one instructor. The rest bore lighter injuries. Yet the most disturbing detail was this:
None of them remembered what had happened.
None… except one.
Kutote.
"It… it was Aitken. He had some instructors with him. I saw Instructor Keel Kun, Itekan, and Avery Ransthrol with him," Kutote said, voice trembling.
Kime clenched his jaw. The notion that three members of his staff had been double agents was almost too much to believe.
"This is very important," Kime said, trying to keep his composure. "Try your best to remember anything else—a ring, an emblem, anything. Anything that might help us find the missing trainees."
Kutote shifted in his bed, sitting up. "I… I don't remember much. I was too distracted by what was happening. Maybe I missed something. Can't you… check yourself?"
"I can," Kime said gently. "But I would need your permission to look into your mind. It's not something I take lightly."
"I know. And I give my consent," Kutote said firmly. "I want to catch Aitken. I'll help in any way I can."
Kime studied him, searching for any doubt. Finding none, he nodded. "Rest."
Kutote lay back. Kime placed his fore and middle fingers to his temple and whispered an incantation. A second later—he was inside.
The memory bank of a soul: an endless void filled with glowing bubbles, each one containing a moment of the past.
"Focus on yesterday," Kime spoke telepathically.
Kutote's thoughts honed in on the previous day.
Kime watched it unfold through Kutote's eyes. The boy had faced something horrifying—blood, chaos, betrayal. And yet, he didn't cry. Not until Flocker's death. And then, during Itekan's capture.
Kime remembered Kutote's past—three years of war, abandonment, death. He was already used to loss.
Then he saw it.
At the very end, during the capture—the black crow. Its eye, spiraling with serpents and shadows.
That eye…
Kime recoiled from Kutote's mind and gasped.
"Did you find anything?" Kutote asked, rubbing his temples.
"I did. Thank you. The headache will pass shortly."
With that, Kime left the room.
"Back so soon?" a nurse asked as he exited.
Kutote didn't answer. He fell back on the bed, he decided to another approach, he looked through his memories again but this time using his SE to replay the scene again, this time searching for anything he had missed.
---
Mt. Dekka…
Kime arrived in silence.
There was no sound, no flash, not even a ripple in the wind to mark his appearance. And yet, the very fabric of space groaned where he stood — not as an intruder, but as a force that reality was obligated to recognize. Still, no one should have noticed.
No one... but Carpathia.
The shadows that blanketed Mt. Dekka — across the stone, through the peaks, and into the bones of every soul living beneath the mountain — pulsed for a fraction of a second. That was all it took.
A figure emerged, black coat swaying though there was no breeze, purple hair bound neatly behind him. He stepped forward from nothing, as though the mountain itself had given him form.
"Kime," Carpathia greeted, a rare smirk tugging at his lip. "It's been a while."
"I won't stay long," Kime said, his tone brisk — too brisk for someone like him.
Carpathia noticed. "Let me guess... the dungeon incidents? The dead students?"
"It's Itekan," Kime said, but that was all he managed before the air changed.
It happened instantly — a pressure crushed the skies above them, the earth cracked like brittle glass beneath, and the shadows writhed unnaturally. Kime didn't flinch. He didn't need to. But a single bead of sweat rolled down his neck, not out of fear... but respect. Reverence, even. For when Carpathia was angry, it wasn't just dangerous — it was catastrophic.
And Kime knew exactly what this level of rage meant: Carpathia had already feared this might happen.
He waited until the suffocating bloodlust faded before continuing.
"He and another trainee, along with one of my instructors, were captured."
Carpathia's eyes narrowed. "By who?"
Kime's answer was heavy, deliberate. "Your former boss's people."
Carpathia's expression didn't shift. But in that emptiness — in that perfect stillness — was an entire history soaked in hatred and regret.
"Where?" he asked.
"I'm not sure yet. There are too many nations where the Apostles of Death hold influence." Kime exhaled. "But if I had to guess—"
"Tamoru," they said in unison.
Kime continued, "I can't leave the Four Stars unguarded — the barriers are strained. If I abandon my post, the entire region could collapse."
Carpathia turned, his coat flowing like ink across the air.
"Then leave it to me."
Without another word, Kime vanished — space bending and stitching itself shut as though he'd never been there.
Left alone with the sky above him and the shadows at his command, Carpathia closed his eyes for just a moment.
And a single thought pulsed through him:
"Why now…?"
---
Tamoru…
It had only been a month since the Apostle of Death arrived, and already the nation had been reborn.
Churches sprang up on every corner. The political and religious landscape had been turned inside out. The old gods had long gone silent. Their prayers went unanswered. Their pleas ignored.
All it took was a few miracles.
And now? A new god reigned.
A god who heard. A god who answered.
As Aitken walked the streets, citizens cried his name, falling to their knees.
This was him—the Twelfth Apostle. The last.
The one whose arrival signaled the beginning of the end of all their enemies.
Spiritual Energy -- SE
Spritual Sea -- SS
Spiritual Signatures -- SST