[※ This Chapter contains unsettling thes and disturbing scenes. Reader discretion is advised!]
༺[Noel’s POV]༻
"...tor..."
"...oel..."
"...Praetor..."
The muffled voices rose like a tide in my head.
I jolted awake with a sharp inhale, clutching my temple as pain lanced through .
It felt as if nails were being hamred inside my skull, the pounding syncing with the rumble of wheels beneath .
"Ahh—!"
I groaned, slumping forward.
And just as quickly as it ca, the pain vanished, leaving dizzy.
"Praetor Noel, sir are you well?"
A voice pressed from beside .
I blinked.
The world swam into focus.
A place dressed in velvet reds and polished brass.
Brass lamps glowed with faint steam and the patterned curtains swayed with the motion of the train.
The sll of old wood, oil, and faint perfu filled the air.
I dragged a hand over my face.
"You looked... far away.
We tried calling to you."
The young man beside leaned forward, earnest in his tone.
His words sank like stones.
I turned toward the window.
Water foad below.
The bridge stretched on and the train cut across like a black snake of iron.
"Kalrim Bridge."
I whispered.
"We are already halfway."
"Yes," he said carefully, "you must have dozed for most of it."
I pressed fingers to my forehead.
Asleep? It did not feel like sleep.
It felt like drowning.
Fragnts of mory flickered—Gresha. The assignnt. Division IV.
I drew a deep breath, then pulled out the sealed docunt from my coat pocket. The parchnt was rough against my gloves, the words printed in stern black ink.
Reports of missing children.
The further I read, the tighter the train car seed to close around .
I folded the docunt quickly, as though hiding it could erase the truth.
When I leaned back, I realized how weak my hands felt.
The whistle shrieked overhead and the train slowed.
I stood, legs stiff.
The doors opened and cold Gresha air rushed in.
The sky was bruised crimson with the fall of evening, and the stone station lood like a relic from another age.
We split among carriages, Division IV and the rest of the assigned team scattering into separate groups.
The ride through the fields was quiet, trees lining the road like silent sentries.
The carriage halted.
Before us rose the Chapel of Saint Gresha.
At the doors stood a man draped in black robes trimd with silver.
A heavy cross glimred against his chest.
His hair was streaked grey, his skin darkened by years and sun, but his eyes were tired yet steady.
He bowed.
"Welco. I am Father Gideon Kelmor.
The goddess knows I prayed for this day."
His voice, low and solemn, seed to echo against the stone walls.
The doors opened with a groan, and we followed him in.
"This chapel was raised four centuries ago," Gideon said quietly, voice echoing. "It was once a place of healing, where even the sick found rest by stepping within its light." His steps slowed. "But the light... has gone."
He recited softly, as if rembering words etched into his bones.
"When the way of the holy fades,
the divine departs.
When the path is lost,
the light withers away."
He paused, eyes closing in prayer. His lips moved with old verses.
We passed caretakers and clergy.
Each bowed, whispering blessings as they pressed hands to their chests.
Gideon returned each gesture, his cross flashing under the candlelight.
He led us down a corridor where rows of wooden doors lined the walls.
If anything I think we had all noticed there were no presence of guards or knights under the Holy Church.
Anyone would quickly understand why.
We were shown to our quarters.
And later, when the bell tolled, we gathered in the hall for supper.
The tables were modest but filled with steaming bowls and warm bread.
Children filtered in cautiously, their small faces pale, their laughter buried under weeks of silence.
At first, they only watched us from a distance.
But slowly, as Division IV mingled and spoke, the air began to change.
A giggle here, a smile there.
The weight in the hall eased.
Cassel laughed with a boy who dread of knighthood, the child’s wooden spoon raised as a sword.
Phoebe knelt beside a shy girl clutching a stuffed bear, promising training when she grew older.
I found myself watching, a small ache twisting in my chest.
For a mont, the hall felt alive again.
Later, the children set up a stage with dolls and wooden props.
Their voices rose in playful tones as they told a story of hope, of a chapel that sheltered them from storms.
But midway through, one of the girls faltered.
Aelwen.
Her voice broke, her doll falling from her hand. Blood traced down from her nose.
She collapsed.
Panic struck the room like thunder.
Her friends cried her na, shaking her small shoulders.
I moved before thought, revolver in hand, instincts screaming.
The air itself felt wrong. Cold and choked.
The doll on the floor seed to grin at in the candlelight.
I steadied my aim, breath caught in my throat.
BANG!
The shot split the hall.
Children shrieked.
Adults clutched their crosses, prayers stamred into the air.
I stood frozen, revolver smoking in my grip, Aelwen limp in my arms, and Gideon’s horrified eyes fixed on .
***
As the smoke cleared, the truth settled in.
Their panic stilled when they saw where my revolver pointed.
Not at the girl.
At her doll.
The teddy bear lay a few inches from her outstretched hand.
A blackened hole split its chest wide where the bullet struck.
White stuffing poured out, floating up as if caught in an unseen breeze.
It should have been harmless. Just cotton.
But it wasn’t.
The air warped, shimring purple as the strands of fluff withered.
Then the doll itself began to die.
Its seams split as if so rot spread from inside out.
Fur peeled and lted like wax under a fla no one could see.
A low hiss filled the silence, followed by a pulse like a heartbeat, but not alive.
From the bullet hole seeped a dark violet haze.
It swirled like smoke yet pressed with a weight that clawed against the skin.
A few of the nuns took he children to their rooms as Aelwen was taken to the chapel’s infirmary followed by Seris and Bran.
Silence pressed heavy over the group.
Cassel stepped forward, his blade gleaming in the candlelight.
"Eighth Law," he muttered. "The Law of Death. That’s no follower of Lumina’s work. That belongs to Noctis alone."
From his words I could see why soone would think so as well.
But then again in any society bound by laws there will always be those who break them.
I turned to him sharply.
"And yet, doctrines break. Faith breaks.
Don’t be surprised if soone here wears two faces."
Cassel said nothing, but his silence carried thought.
After we had a quick eting and decided to patrol the hallways and floors of the chapel. Father Gideon, Phoebe and I decided to interview each staff mber on the happenings while the rest of the team set on patrol as they split.
Just as we were continuing to visit every staff mber, my crystal buzzed.
I pressed it to my ear, already sensing tension on the other end.
"This is Cassel...
You’re going to want to co to the south wing..."
He said, voice low and tense.
"We’re in the hallway of the rooms where the missing children stayed..."
***
I didn’t waste a second.
Phoebe was already on her feet. Father Gideon, startled from whatever quiet prayers he’d been murmuring, stood pale as I barked at him to lead us to the South Wing.
We ran.
We turned the final corridor and stopped.
Cassel and Tallen were already there, faces tense, covering their noses with sleeves and cloths.
"What the hell..."
My head.
God, my head.
It felt like soone was driving nails through the back of my skull, hamring again and again, deeper, harder.
I staggered.
My knees gave out.
I crashed onto the chapel floor, palms scraping against the stone.
My revolver clattered beside , the sound muffled under the ringing in my ears.
Soone was calling my na.
Phoebe. Her voice, strained and high, like she was shouting from the other end of a long tunnel.
Cassel’s tone joined hers, sharp and commanding, but it blurred into static.
Even Father Gideon’s trembling prayers were drowned under the single truth echoing inside my skull...
Sothing was in here with us.
Sothing was trying to force its way into my head.
It clawed, raked, battered the walls of my mind like a beast trapped outside a cage.
Every strike sent white pain through , a splitting agony that made curl against the floor.
My teeth clenched so hard I swore I’d break them.
I wanted to scream.
But then.
I saw it.
Blood.
A lot of it.
Phoebe. Cassel. Tallen. Even Father Gideon. Their bodies were there, twisted in the ways I had already witnessed.
Their blood pooled over the chapel floor, dripping toward like the stone itself was bleeding.
I blinked.
And they were still standing.
Alive and unhard.
But I could feel it like I had already seen them die.
Had it happened? Or was it about to?
My chest heaved.
My lungs burned.
"Deja vu," I whispered.
My own voice shook.
How many tis had I seen this before?
The answer rattled inside ... too many.
The dolls.
The rot.
My revolver lighting up the hallways.
Every step we took deeper into that cursed wing made my chest tighten, like a noose pulling shut.
And then... the twins.
God help , the twins.
Leora and Lysette.
Hollow eyes. Heads turning where necks should snap.
The crows tearing into Tallen. Cassel’s sword through his own skull. Father Gideon’s cross jamd into his throat. Phoebe’s head falling, her blood spraying across my cheek.
I was watching it now.
And yet so part of knew I had seen this before.
Run.
I don’t even rember deciding.
My body just moved.
My legs buckled, then kicked off the ground.
The corridor tilted beneath as I stumbled forward, my breath tearing out of ragged and raw.
My heart scread against my ribs, louder than the birds had, louder than anything.
This wasn’t the disciplined composure of a Praetor.
This wasn’t Noel Saint Grenn.
This was .
Ju-Won.
Running.
The fight or flight buried under years of pretending strength.
The sa cowardice I had worn in my old world. The sa reflex.
I couldn’t stop.
Every corner I turned, I found blood. All from dead Division IV mbers.
I tripped. Fell. Scraped my knees, my palms. Got up. Kept running.
I was beginning to get very desperate.
"HELLO?!"
My voice tore out of .
"IS ANYONE THERE?!"
My throat ripped.
"ANSWER !!"
The chapel swallowed every sound, threw it back at hollow.
The walls stretched, longer and longer, like every stride pushed further from escape. The floor groaned beneath like it hated , like it wanted to collapse and stay here forever.
And still the pressure in my skull pounded.
Sothing clawing. Sothing trying to enter.
At that point it all dawned on .
"...this was another cycle..."
I tried to pull up my system window.
Nothing.
"What the hell..."
I gasped between heaving breaths.
"What the hell is happening...?"
I didn’t have ti to answer myself.
Because I slamd into sothing.
Hard.
I hit the floor on my backside, pain shooting up my spine.
My revolver nearly slipped from my grip as I blinked up, dazed.
"B-Brother Elian?"
The man reached down toward .
One of the chapel staff.
Soone Gideon had introduced during the interviews.
His face was calm, almost too calm.
Relief should’ve hit .
It didn’t.
Because my eyes fell on his arm.
Where his elbow bent, the skin wasn’t smooth.
It was split.
Thin, deliberate slits carved exactly where the joint folded.
Not just one.
Everywhere the body bent.
Wrists. Elbows. Knees. Fingers.
Like a doll.
Like a...
My breath hitched. My chest locked.
"A... puppet..."
I whispered, the word clawing its way out of my dry throat.
Brother Elian smiled.
***
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