Erasmus moved like a whisper through the village, his posture warm, his steps deliberate. To the sick and weathered people, he was an image drawn from another world—glowing softly under the bruised sky, untouched by the filth and fatigue that clung to everything else. His cloak fluttered like woven moonlight, his boots shone against the gold-kissed stone. And most remarkably, his white hair, flowing and pristine, spilled over his shoulders like strands of living silk. No dirt, no fray, no blood or rot clung to him. He looked… incorruptible. And in this city built on coughs and cries, that alone made him holy.
A few villagers—tired, sickly, brittle-eyed—stepped forward to speak with him. They asked where he had come from, whether he had brought medicine, or food, or answers. Erasmus answered with gentle nods, half-smiles, and cryptic encouragements. But then a voice broke the spell.
"Who actually are you, kid?" asked a hunched old man, his voice raspy from infection, his eyes hard and unblinking. "You're better off just doing their errand. We already know you were hired to do harm again."
The crowd stirred. The enchantment that had wrapped around them like fog was lifting. Eyebrows knitted. Questions hung heavy in the air. They still didn't know who this boy was. And for all his calmness and smiles, there was still something—off.
Erasmus met the suspicion with a tender look. His milky white eyes glowed softly beneath the dim light. Then, he smiled—not with arrogance, but with the warmth of a hearth.
"I," he said, his voice measured, almost reverent, "am but a mortal who has been blessed. I have found the true path to Ascension. To liberation. I follow the Eternal Ascendant. And He has spoken directly to me. He is disappointed in you."
A shiver passed through the crowd. The coughing paused. The murmurs returned. The expressions changed—confusion, fear, anger.
"Preposterous!" someone barked from the back. "What more can we do? We already pray every day and try our best to ward off those sinning tower-lords!"
Erasmus didn't respond. He simply stood there—silent and still, his smile fading. And as the silence stretched, the crowd grew quiet again.
Then he spoke.
"The Ascendant does not help the unprogressive." His tone was no longer soft. "Why have you stayed silent all this time? They have guards? Kill the guards. They have a golden locked door? Shatter it. Splatter the ground with their arrogant blood. Only then will the Ascendant bless you."
The crowd shifted uneasily—then began to murmur again, louder, angrier. The pain buried beneath their bones rose to the surface. Then, a woman—frail, teary-eyed, clutching her newborn son—stepped forward. Her voice was wet with grief.
"They killed my husband," she whispered. "He just wanted to live..."
She looked at Erasmus, then to the others. Her tears flowed like rivers down her cracked cheeks.
"Kill them all!" she screamed. "Let them weep like we've wept! Bring them down from their thrones! Let them taste the wrath of the Eternal Ascendant!"
The crowd caught fire. One by one, voices joined hers, first quietly, then louder, rising into a chorus of fury. The chant began to take shape, ringing off the crumbling walls like prophecy. A circle began to form around Erasmus—tight, dense, fervent. Their eyes glimmered not with fear, but with a rekindled hope shaped by vengeance.
Erasmus watched them. His thoughts remained still, composed beneath the theatrics.
How easy it is to give hopeless people a new moral compass, he thought. Faith truly does excel in herding the unknowing.
He raised a hand, and the chanting softened, then ceased. They waited.
"The Eternal Ascendant approves of your devotion," Erasmus said, his voice solemn. "But He asks for silence. Punishment demands secrecy. We must move carefully. No word must escape. No whisper can leave this place."
The villagers nodded, some already weeping with reverence. Fervor burned in their hollowed eyes.
Erasmus scanned the crowd, then pointed to a young man—barefoot, wrapped in thin rags, eyes sunken but bright with new belief.
"You there, young man. Please guide this humble prophet to your church. I must prepare. We have no time to waste."
The man's face twisted in awe. He began nodding—rapid, erratic—as if he'd just been knighted by divinity itself.
"Mmm… Ah yes! Yes, follow me! I can take you to our church!" He barked at the crowd like a loyal pet, forcing a path open. "Make way for the prophet! Make way!"
Erasmus followed, his steps light as feathers. As they walked alone through the alley, the young man kept glancing back at him—furtive, almost guilty looks.
"Something to say, young man?" Erasmus asked, his tone unreadable.
The boy spun around and dropped to his knees, forehead nearly scraping the dirt. "Please forgive me, Prophet! Have mercy! I—"
"Worry not," Erasmus said gently. "Please. Say what's on your mind."
The boy stood, trembling, bowing again before speaking.
"This might be rude to say but… are you really confident we can escape? You see… my mother, she collapsed recently. I can't afford medicine. I can't find any. I—"
He clutched at the rags hanging from his frame, ashamed to even speak.
Erasmus tilted his head thoughtfully. "Hmm… I can heal your mother, if that's what you ask. Not now. But soon. I must prepare."
The boy's eyes watered. He dropped to his knees again, bowing over and over, choked by gratitude.
"Enough," Erasmus said, with a smile. "I can see the church. Thank you for guiding me, young man. I can feel the happiness coming from the Ascendant."
The boy burst into tears and fled, overwhelmed.
Erasmus approached the so-called church. It was hardly more than a house—half collapsed, door splintered, windows shattered. Strange faded inscriptions were scrawled on the broken glass. Inside was nothing but cracked stone, dust, and neglect.
He stepped in, closed the door behind him, and let the silence swallow him whole.
Then—they came.
Thousands of Ebonmoths unfurled from his body like inky phantoms. They crawled up his arms, his shoulders, his chest. They whispered no sound. And then, they shifted.
His face morphed into a golden crow-beaked mask. His hair poured like silver water over his back, covering his ears. From his cloak, he pulled the black stuffed toy—the same one he'd found in that repose. Without ceremony, he held it over the dark orange sphere and let it sink in. It vanished through the surface like the orb wasn't solid at all.
The sphere pulsed.
Erasmus returned it to his pocket.
He stood still.
Time to begin.