Silence lingered like dust in untouched catacombs.
Simon stood before the Mask of Girte, the cold void-like porcelain seeming to breathe in the dim abyssal light.
He didn't rush to take it.
Power never demanded haste—only certainty.
Behind him, Eras waited in perfect, respectful stillness.
But curiosity burned faintly in his crimson eyes, flickering like a candle struggling against wind.
"You truly mean to use that artifact, my lord?" Eras finally asked.
Simon didn't answer immediately. His gaze stayed on the mask, as if reading it—no, measuring it.
Only after a long breath did he speak, calm as undisturbed water:
"I do."
Eras drew closer, not daring to stand beside him—only near enough to serve.
"If I may speak openly… the Mask of Girte is not a relic one wears lightly."
Simon tilted his head slightly.
"Explain."
Eras inhaled, gathering words like one handling glass shards.
"It was created in the era of the Eclipsed Court, when murder was considered diplomacy and deception was regarded as worship. The mask was forged not to hide a face—"
His voice lowered, reverent and fearful.
"—but to erase it."
Simon's eyes narrowed with interest.
"Erase?"
"Yes," Eras nodded. "It does not merely disguise appearance. It fills in perception. Whoever sees you will see only the identity you choose. They will see posture, hear voice, feel presence exactly as you desire."
Simon's voice was flat.
"Complete impersonation."
Eras swallowed.
"Perfect impersonation. Not likeness. Not mimicry. Reality, shaped to your will—at least for all who possess mana."
"And those who do not?" Simon asked.
Eras hesitated.
"They see you as you are. The mask does not deceive the powerless. The illusion anchors on the observer's mana perception. Without mana… there is no veil."
Simon nodded once.
"A logical limitation."
His tone made Eras blink.
Most would react with awe or fear.
Simon sounded like a scholar hearing a footnote.
"But be warned," Eras continued, voice hushed, "the longer you wear it, the more it demands. Identity, memory, emotion. The mask thrives on clarity of purpose. If your will falters—"
He paused, expression shadowed.
"It may devour what you are."
Simon never looked away from the mask.
His reply was simple, steady, unshaken:
"I do not falter."
Eras bowed his head.
"I do not doubt you, my lord."
They walked again—Simon leading, Eras a respectful shadow.
"Tell me its full capabilities," Simon said.
Eras obeyed.
"With the mask, you may assume the appearance of any figure you choose—even those long dead—provided you clearly envision them. Voice, gait, aura, presence… flawless."
"Flawless?" Simon repeated quietly.
"Yes. Even magical detection fails. Only two things can break the illusion:"
Eras raised two fingers.
"One—direct contact by one with greater will than yours."
Simon's expression remained unreadable.
"And two?"
Eras looked away.
"Self-doubt."
The torchlight crackled.
Simon's voice cut through it like a blade.
"I have lost too much to doubt."
Eras nodded slowly—almost reverently.
"In that case… the mask will be loyal to you."
Simon allowed a faint breath of satisfaction to escape.
Not emotion.
Acknowledgment.
"With this," he murmured, "I become Orba when needed."
Eras blinked.
"You plan to… impersonate him?"
"I do not plan," Simon corrected gently.
"I act."
There was no boasting. Only truth.
Eras bowed deeply.
"That is wisdom worthy of kings."
They stopped before another relic—a black obsidian sphere pulsing faintly.
Simon ignored it. His mind was already two steps ahead.
He visualized Orba's posture—crooked arrogance, predatory tilt, spite carved into bones.
He imagined his voice—arrogant, overconfident, thundering with false divinity.
Simon whispered, tone razor-sharp:
"In this abyss, I will be Orba when I choose."
"And when you leave?" Eras asked cautiously.
Simon turned his gaze, cold certainty burning beneath calm.
"When I walk among humans… I need no mask."
A strange flicker crossed Eras' expression—something like admiration twisted with discomfort.
"You speak as though you will walk there again," he murmured.
Simon's voice lowered, firm and quiet.
"One day. But not yet. I will solidify power in the abyss first. I will not wander as prey. I will rise as predator."
Eras lowered to one knee.
"Your path is flawless, my lord."
Simon did not smile.
But something like purpose hardened behind his eyes.
"Should the day come," he continued, "you will wear the mask. In my absence, you will serve as Orba."
Eras froze.
"Me?"
"Yes."
Eras' mouth opened, closed, working through shock.
"Y-you would entrust me with a king's mantle?"
"Trust," Simon replied, "is irrelevant."
Eras blinked.
"I choose you because you are efficient, observant, capable—and because you understand fear and loyalty evenly. Your usefulness is proven."
A beat of silence.
Then Eras bowed until his forehead touched the stone.
"It is the greatest honor of my existence."
They resumed walking among ancient relics.
Eras dared to speak again.
"My lord… you embrace deception without shame, but not in the manner of demons."
Simon glanced at him.
"You think deception belongs only to demons?"
"No," Eras said quickly, "but… demons deceive because they fear being seen. You deform truth with purpose. You do not hide weakness—you simply erase the need to show anything at all."
Simon's reply was quiet.
"Lies are not cowardice if the truth would achieve less."
Eras breathed out—awed and unsettled.
"That is… terrifyingly wise."
Simon stopped walking.
He raised a hand toward the mask—hovering a breath from touching it.
His voice sounded like a verdict carved in stone.
"I lied once to survive.
Now I deceive to rule."
His fingers finally closed around the mask.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Dark whispers shivered around him—fragments of illusions, echoes of stolen lives, promises of infinite faces.
The air trembled.
The vault dimmed.
The abyss felt as if it bowed.
The mask, cold as the void, rested in his grip.
It did not reject him.
It recognized him.
A man without hesitation.
A will without fracture.
A truth sharper than lies.
Simon turned to Eras.
"Let us leave. There is work to do."
Eras bowed deeply.
"Yes, my lord."
They walked away, steps echoing like prophecy.
Behind them, relics hummed—whispers of dead kings stirred.
The treasury had seen countless rulers.
But none like this.
Not a demon.
Not a tyrant.
Not a deceiver by nature.
A human who would rule hell with calm certainty
and never apologize.
Simon did not steal the shadows.
He commanded them.
They reached the gate again.
As it opened, the abyss breathed them out like a secret too heavy for its own depths.
Eras whispered—not to Simon, not to the abyss, but to fate.
"He does not seek to be king of abyssal…"