Chapter 71: Vincent's Work
Since joining the Organization, Vincent had glimpsed the true face of the world—
necromancy, demons, and powers beyond mortal reach.
It was like a poor boy being led into an exclusive club.
The more he saw, the more he was consumed with obsession.
For greater strength—and for a chance to rise among the Organization's upper ranks—
he carried out every assignment with unwavering diligence.
Over the years, he had delivered countless sacrifices, each one rewarded with more power.
But power only sharpened his greed.
Not long ago, Vincent overheard whispers of another kind of offering:
The Skull of Despair.
It was said to come from a human brain, but under strict conditions.
First, the victim had to be an ordained member of the Church.
Second, before the beheading, they must be driven into utter despair,
their spirit crushed to the brink of collapse.
At that precise moment, a lobotomy could trap that despair permanently within their mind.
Finally, the head would be severed—completing the sacrifice.
Vincent had paid dearly to acquire this knowledge.
He didn't understand why the ritual required such precision,
but he knew better than to question things while still clawing his way upward.
The wise kept their mouths shut and their hands busy.
So he began his hunt.
But where to find clergy?
The town's priest was long gone—preserved as one of Vincent's wax statues,
still standing stiffly at the pulpit of the abandoned chapel.
He tried improvising, dragging young men and women into the church,
declaring them new "servants of God."
But the Organization wasn't fooled.
Those sacrifices failed, leaving only wasted materials and bloodstains to clean.
Through other channels, Vincent eventually learned the truth:
only those recognized by the Church in the eyes of the public qualified.
Which meant he'd need to import his next victim.
But that was dangerous.
On the day he joined, Azazel himself had warned him:
"The Church carries an ancient, unbroken lineage.
Even if, in the past century, they've let weaklings fill their ranks,
their true power still runs deep.
Never forget—our work belongs to the shadows."
Because of this, Vincent had never dared provoke the Church directly.
He had nearly abandoned the idea altogether.
Until fate delivered him a miracle—
a woman in a nun's habit wandering into Ambrose through the forest.
It was as though heaven itself had opened its hand.
During the hunt, Vincent restrained his strength, afraid he might accidentally kill her.
She was pathetically fragile—
waving a Bible around as though it could drive him off.
If all the Church's warriors were like her,
then perhaps he had been fearing ghosts all along.
In the end, he captured her alive and handed her to his brother Bo.
Bo's gift was the weaving of illusions so vivid they could crush a mind.
Perfect for inducing despair.
The plan should have been foolproof.
But this nun was different.
Some hidden force shielded her spirit.
Days passed, and Bo still couldn't break her will.
And now, Azazel would arrive within days to collect this batch of offerings.
Vincent couldn't afford to look incompetent.
Were it not forbidden to damage the vessel before completion,
he would already have turned to his usual methods—
boiling wax, cruel mockery, exquisite instruments of pain.
The hunger for torment stirred within him again.
After urging his brother to hasten the process,
Vincent made his way to his workshop.
---
Meanwhile, not far from Ambrose,
the abandoned car park was only a short walk from the town's edge.
After roughly bandaging Lester, Father Gideon Black led him across the stream.
Carly and Wade followed close behind.
To Gideon, the two were little more than baggage.
But the forest held dangers of its own,
and without Lester to guide them, the pair would likely die.
So he told them the truth—
and left the choice to them.
To his mild surprise, both chose to stay.
Together, the group of five reached the town's entrance.
Ambrose was small, its end visible at a glance.
They stood at the roadside, sunlight spilling gently across the empty street.
The calm air belied the blood that had soaked into this soil.
A single main road cut through the town,
lined with shuttered shops long abandoned.
At the far end loomed a church, its gray, weathered walls blending into the horizon.
Gideon did not rush forward.
Instead, as always, he first searched for an escape route.
"The stream cuts off the way we came.
If rain swells it, we could be trapped.
The brush nearby would only slow us in a chase."
The others stared at him, astonished.
Carly and Wade couldn't reconcile the contradiction—
this was the same priest who had stabbed Lester without hesitation,
yet now he was meticulously cautious.
Sadie, however, felt a pang of familiarity.
She had once known another man just as careful.
Lester, meanwhile, was sinking into despair.
What sort of man have I provoked?
If only he had pressed the gas instead of braking that day.
He prayed his brothers would kill these people quickly and set him free.
When Gideon finished his preparations,
he chose his battlefield: the gas station.
Fire could be summoned instantly here,
and fire melted wax.
In the original account, the Wax Museum had perished in flames.
If the brothers' powers were bound to wax,
this battleground would give him the upper hand.
He also laid down holy relics as a safeguard against the unexpected.
Once everything was ready,
he dragged Lester to the appointed spot
and shoved a gag into his mouth.
According to the plan, Gideon would act as bait,
drawing out the brothers,
while Sadie, Carly, and Wade seized the chance to storm the Wax Museum and rescue the nun.
Releasing his grip on Lester's collar,
Gideon inhaled deeply, then called out—
"Vincent! Bo!
Your brother's in my hands.
Come out and face me!"
The town was eerily silent, so his voice spread quickly through the empty streets.
Not far from the gas station, inside an old house—
Vincent carried in a bucket of freshly boiled wax. He pushed open a door and stepped into a room.
At its center sat a single chair.
Strapped tightly to it was another specimen—
a woman who had strayed into the forest and been dragged into Ambrose by Lester.
Vincent set the bucket down.
The room instantly filled with the sharp, suffocating scent of molten wax.
His brother Bo preferred to pour the scalding wax directly onto their victims.
But Vincent savored a slower approach.
Drawn-out torment was an art.
The woman's eyes widened in horror as she saw him.
"P-ple… ase… don't…" she stammered, voice breaking.
He didn't so much as glance at her.
Instead, he reached into the bucket and withdrew a wooden brush,
its bristles glistening with liquid fire.
The woman's tears spilled freely—despair sinking its claws into her soul.
Then, faintly, a noise drifted in from outside.
Vincent froze, frowning, and moved to the window.
Across the street, at the gas station, a man stood waiting.
As Vincent slid the window open, the words cut through the still air—
"Vincent! Get out here, now!"