The Sacrament of Filth
[Date: August 6, 980 GD. Time: 07:30. Location: Nexus Hall -- Command Center]
I walked into the Command Center. My robe was thick, the high collar covering my pale neck. I walked upright, forcing each step with iron will to hide the fact that my knees felt like cracked glass.
Rian, Vianna, and Kael (via hologram) were already waiting. Kara stood in a corner, scraping dried blood off her boots—remnants of last night's "party."
The main screen displayed a map of the Under-City, now blinking with hundreds of orange dots. Chaos.
"Status report," I stated flatly, sitting in the command chair. I was grateful the seat had a heater.
"It's a massacre, Praetor," reported Kael, his voice calm yet heavy. "The five hundred convicts you released last night have spread. They're hungry, afraid their heads will explode, and they're armed."
Kael displayed live feed from drone cameras flying in the Rust-Works corridors.
I saw fire. I saw riots. A group of convicts with glowing red Collars were raiding a food warehouse belonging to the Iron Eaters gang. They weren't using tactics; they were using pure desperation. They bit, punched, and blew themselves up.
"Kora's forces are overwhelmed," Kael continued. "They're used to fighting enemies who fear death. They're not prepared for enemies already sentenced to die."
"Civilian casualties?" I asked.
Rian bowed his head, not daring to look at me. "High, Sir. The market in Layer -1 was completely looted. The emergency clinics are full."
"Statistics," I cut in coldly, suppressing the guilt trying to creep into my gut. "Vance? His response?"
"He's holed up in his bunker," answered Vianna. "He's sealed all Pipeline Syndicate doors. He's safe inside, but he's blind. The chaos outside has cut off his information network."
"He hasn't raised a white flag?"
"Not yet," Vianna replied. "No surrender signal. No request for negotiation."
I looked at the wall clock. 08:00.
Ultimatum time.
"Day One," I muttered, my eyes narrowing at Vance's bunker on the map.
"That old man is stubborn. He truly thinks he's a martyr. He thinks if he holds out long enough inside his shell, we'll hesitate. He thinks we're afraid of infrastructure damage."
(Wynter's Monologue) He's wrong. He thinks he's playing chess, waiting for his opponent to make a mistake. He doesn't realize I'm not playing chess. I'm burning the game board.
I pressed the button for the global intercom connected to the Suzerains.
"Titus. Silas. Kael."
Three holographic faces appeared before me.
Imperator Titus looked fresh, having just finished his morning training. Pontifex Silas was drinking tea in his garden. Kael was still in his dark office.
"The ultimatum has begun," I said to them. "Vance has chosen to test our resolve. It's time to show him that isolation isn't just a word."
I looked at Titus.
"Imperator. Activate Protocol: The Anvil."
Titus grinned widely, his silver teeth gleaming.
"With pleasure."
(Scene: Under-City Border -- Main Gate)
On the giant monitor screen, I saw Titus standing before the Iron Gate separating Zero Point City from the Under-City. Behind him, a company of War-Golems stood rigid—three-meter-tall giants made of black steel and rumbling Mana cores.
"Close the holes," Titus commanded.
The Golems moved. They didn't just close the door.
They lifted five-ton precast concrete slabs and dropped them right in front of the main entrance and large air vents.
BOOM.
Dust billowed.
Then, Valdor technician teams advanced with welding torches. They didn't lock the door; they welded it shut. They fused the iron door to its frame, then poured quick-drying cement into the gaps.
"Physical access: Totally Sealed," Titus reported proudly. "No one gets in. No one gets out. The rats are now locked in the cage with 500 rabid cats."
"Good," I replied after watching Titus seal the iron gate with brutal efficiency. One physical problem solved. Iron had separated them from the outside world. Now, it was time to attack what was inside their bodies.
I slowly swiveled my command chair. That simple movement sent a dull wave of pain from my hip joints to my spine, leftovers from the brutal thermal crash. My body screamed for rest, for heat, for death.
With a trembling hand, I pressed the button to open a channel to Aethelgard.
A second holographic screen lit up.
And instantly, the atmosphere in this gloomy, ozone-smelling Command Center changed.
On that screen, Pontifex Silas was not in a war room. He was not surrounded by tactical maps or casualty reports.
He sat in the Sanctum Inner Garden—a private garden closed to the public. Morning sunlight filtered through the glass dome fell softly on his long, loose blonde hair, giving it a natural golden halo. He wore an unstained ivory-white casual robe.
Before him, on a marble stone table, was a set of porcelain teacups so thin they looked transparent. He was pouring pale purple herbal tea with a slow, graceful, hypnotic movement of his wrist.
In contrast to my state—wrapped in a thick blanket, shivering, hollow-eyed, and disheveled—he looked... Perfect.
And this is where the weirdness began to creep in.
I should have been disgusted. Alarms in my head should have been blaring. Rian had warned me about their mental manipulation. Kara spat every time Silas's name was mentioned. And my own logic—the analytical part of my brain—knew that behind that angelic face was a smiling cobra.
But when my eyes met his pale blue gaze on the screen... the pain in my bones seemed to fade.
A sense of Comfort spread in my chest, warm and numbing like cough syrup. An illogical comfort, as if his mere presence was a promise that "all sins are forgiven" and "all burdens will be lifted."
Amidst the chaos of my mind and physical suffering, Silas felt like a cool pillow on a feverish forehead. He felt like a Father. Or God.
For some reason, I trusted him.
Not tactical trust built on contracts, but a strange, blind conviction—like a sheep believing its shepherd carries a knife only to shear wool, not to slaughter.
(Wynter's Monologue) What is this? Mental magic? Moon-Lily pheromones transmitted through audio-visual means? Why do I feel like crying and handing over all the burden of this strategy to him? Why do I feel he's the only sane adult in this crazy world?
I bit my tongue hard, trying to use the pain to dispel the fog of suggestion. But the feeling remained, sticky and sweet.
"Pontifex," I called. My voice sounded hoarse, weak, and—damn it—pleading.
Silas looked up. He smiled. That smile. A smile full of unasked-for, yet needed, forgiveness.
"Praetor," he greeted. His voice was soft, like velvet brushing. "You look... tired. So very tired. Your soul trembles, Wynter. Is the weight of the crown beginning to hurt your scalp?"
He didn't ask about the enemy. He asked about me.
"I... I need your help, Silas," I said, ignoring his subtle sarcasm because I was too busy enjoying the soothing tone of his voice. It felt like I wanted to listen to him talk forever.
"Titus has closed the door. The rats are locked in. But they still have a leader. The Blind Prophet in The Sump... he's a problem."
I stared into Silas's eyes on the screen, seeking an anchor.
"He's a fanatic. He's insane. He threatens to poison the water if we attack. I can't fight him with logic, Silas. I need someone who understands the language of madness."
I leaned forward, my blanket slipping a little.
"I have a strange conviction that you know exactly how to deal with someone like him. You talk to him. Or... do something to him. Please."
Silas set down his teacup soundlessly. The delicate chime of porcelain meeting stone sounded like a church bell to my ears.
"The Blind Prophet," Silas murmured, his eyes gazing into the distance as if seeing something far away and disgusting. "A blind sheep, leading a blind flock towards a cliff."
He shook his head with theatrical, yet convincing, sorrow.
"He is not a fanatic, Wynter. He is a Cancer. He is a misguided growth of faith cells. He teaches that suffering is the goal, not the path. That is... pitiful."
Silas stood. He walked to his garden balcony overlooking the city's Water Treatment Plant. His back was to me, but his voice remained clear.
"You ask me to handle him? Of course. That is a Gardener's duty. When a weed is choking a rose, we do not negotiate with the weed. We uproot it. To its very roots."
"You can stop him from poisoning the water?" I asked hopefully.
Silas glanced slightly over his shoulder, his profile sharp and cold.
"Stop? Oh, no, Wynter. We will not stop anything. We will take over."
"Water is the source of life," he said, raising his right hand as if blessing the city below. "And also a source of correction."
"Execute Protocol: The Filter," I ordered. But it didn't feel like I was giving an order. It felt like I was granting him permission he had long awaited. "Make them understand their position."
"With pleasure," Silas whispered.
On the schematic screen on my desk, I saw real-time data.
The Aethelgard monks at the water treatment plant—white-robed figures usually known for gentleness—began moving with military precision. They turned giant, rusted iron valves.
They closed the Blue Line valve (Pure Drinking Water from Nimbus). And they opened the Grey Line valve (Industrial Recycled Water).
Silas looked back at me. His eyes shone with a frightening intensity—not anger, but Ecstasy.
"See, Praetor," he said, pointing towards the virtual pipes.
"The water that will flow into the throats of 50,000 souls down there starting this second is no longer the clear water that pampers their bodies."
"It is waste water. Water already used by Upper City citizens for bathing, washing, and flushing waste. Water filtered only of coarse solids, leaving its essence... dirty."
He smiled broadly, showing his perfect white teeth.
"It will taste brackish. It will smell of sulfur and sin. Its color will be brown like the soil they come from. It will not kill them today, no. That is too quick. Death is an easy escape."
"This water will give them stomach cramps. It will make their skin itch and blister. It will make them aware every second that their bodies are rejecting what they drink."
Silas's tone rose, trembling with pure religious madness.
"I call it the Sacrament of Filth. Let them drink their own filth. Let them taste the impurity of rebellion on their tongues, until they crawl up, weeping, begging for a single drop of clear water from our hands. Only through physical suffering will they find spiritual humility."
"This is not punishment, Wynter," he whispered intimately. "This is Purification."
I looked at him. I saw the monster behind that white robe. I saw the fanaticism that considered mass torture a form of divine love.
But strangely...
My heart didn't race in fear. My stomach didn't turn in disgust.
Quite the opposite. I felt Relieved.
I felt relieved that there was another monster willing to do this dirty work for me. I felt safe because this monster, with all its madness, was on my side. His twisted logic somehow sounded reasonable to my weary ears.
Yes, I thought. They need a lesson. And Silas is the right teacher.
I found myself nodding slowly, swept away by the current of his charisma.
"You're terrifying, Silas," I murmured. But there was no accusatory tone in my voice. It sounded like praise.
Silas bowed his head slightly, accepting the compliment.
"And you need me, Praetor," he replied softly, his voice returning to a lulling whisper. "Sleep. Don't worry about this sin. Let the Church bear the moral burden this morning. Your hands remain clean."
The screen went dark.
That angelic face disappeared, leaving me back in the cold, quiet room.
I leaned back in my chair, pulling the blanket tighter around my chin. The false warmth from Silas's presence slowly faded, but its effect lingered.
Rian, standing in the corner of the room, stared at me with a deathly pale face, his eyes wide with horror. He had seen the interaction. He saw how I melted under Silas's words.
"Praetor..." Rian whispered, his voice trembling. "You... you just let him poison an entire city. You gave him permission to torture civilians with wastewater."
Rian swallowed, pointing at my face.
"And you... smiled? For God's sake, Sir, you smiled when he talked about the 'Sacrament of Filth'?"
I touched my face. Rian was right. The corners of my lips were slightly upturned. Remnants of Silas's charismatic influence still lingered in my facial muscles, forcing me to feel pleased about the cruelty.
I wiped the smile away forcefully, rubbing my face roughly until my skin stung.
"I didn't smile because I liked it, Rian," I answered defensively, my voice sounding empty even to my own ears. "I smiled because I knew it would work. It's strategy."
But deep down, in the coldest, darkest place, I knew it was a lie.
I smiled because for a moment... it felt incredibly pleasurable to surrender moral control to someone else. It felt relieving to have a "Father" tell me that torturing people was right and holy.
I stared at my still-trembling hands. I needed Solstice's heat for my body, but it seemed I was starting to need Silas's poison for my soul.
"One day down," I said, changing the subject, killing the guilt before it could grow. "Two days left before I actually have to blow something up."
"Send a message to Vance," I ordered Rian.
"The content, Sir?"
"One sentence: Day One: Sky Closed. Water Poisoned. Enjoy the dark."
I turned off the holographic screen. The room fell silent again.
Vianna looked at me with a new gaze.
"You're really not playing around, Ash," she said softly. "You're strangling 50,000 people just to break one old man."
"It's not me strangling them, Vianna," I replied, pulling the blanket tighter around my freezing body. "The system is doing it. I'm just... turning the tap."
I stared at my pale hands.
"One day down. Let's see how long his idealism lasts without clean water."