Chapter 21: The Rose Church Initiation
The Rose Church squatted in Liurnia's eastern wetlands like a cancer disguised as architecture, its stones weeping moisture that smelled of copper and regret. Blood-red roses bloomed in impossible profusion around corpses that served as fertilizer for beauty built on systematic murder. Each flower was perfect, pristine, absolutely gorgeous in ways that made the horror beneath more rather than less disturbing.
Varré waited at the church's entrance, his white mask gleaming in light that seemed to come from the roses themselves rather than any celestial source. His posture suggested he'd been expecting this meeting, had perhaps been waiting since their first encounter outside Limgrave's Chapel of Anticipation.
"Welcome, lambkin," he said, his voice carrying notes of satisfaction that transcended mere recruitment success. "Ready to renounce your Maiden and embrace the truth of blood?"
Gara approached with caution that felt insufficient for the circumstances. Every instinct he possessed screamed warnings about places where beauty and horror were so intimately intertwined, where aesthetic perfection was built on foundations of systematic cruelty.
But he needed access to Mohgwyn Palace. Needed the rune farming potential, the endgame equipment, the strategic positioning that could make future challenges survivable rather than merely educational. Want had become luxury; necessity was the only currency that mattered.
"I'm here," he said simply. "Tell me what needs to be done."
Varré's laughter was silk hiding razors, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. "Direct. Practical. My lord appreciates both qualities in his potential servants." He gestured toward the church's interior, where shadows moved with purpose that suggested occupancy by things that preferred darkness to illumination.
"The initiation is simple in concept, complex in execution. You must prove your commitment to the Lord of Blood by soaking this cloth in Maiden's blood." He produced fabric that was white as bone and twice as clean, ceremonial material that had never touched anything mundane. "Demonstrate that you've severed ties with Grace's guidance, that you choose blood over gold, reality over the comfortable lies that keep most Tarnished docile."
Gara studied the cloth while his mind raced through alternatives that might preserve both his objectives and his conscience. The requirement was specific but potentially exploitable—Maiden's blood, not necessarily murder. If he could provide the required substance without killing anyone...
"My Maiden abandoned me," he said, the lie flowing with practiced ease. "Decided I wasn't worth her guidance, left me to figure out resurrection mechanics on my own. Can I use... alternatives? Blood that meets the technical requirements without requiring fresh murder?"
Varré's head tilted with interest that suggested Gara had said something more significant than intended. "Clever. Desperate. My lord appreciates both qualities in equal measure." He paused, mask reflecting light in ways that made his expression unreadable. "Blood of equal purity would be acceptable. The ritual cares about essence, not source. Can you provide such substance?"
The loophole was open. Gara just needed to exploit his immortality one more time.
"I can provide blood that's served guidance functions," he said carefully. "Blood that's died in service to others, that's been sacrificed for purposes beyond personal gain. Will that suffice?"
"Fascinating interpretation. Yes, I believe it would. Go then, lambkin. Return when you've acquired the necessary essence. But remember—deception carries consequences. My lord sees through lies as easily as windows. Be certain your offering meets the spirit as well as the letter of requirement."
POV: Varré
The Tarnished departed with purpose that spoke to careful planning, leaving Varré alone among roses that whispered secrets in languages older than human speech. This one was different from the usual recruits—more calculating, more desperate, carrying secrets that made his blood taste of impossibility.
He's planning something clever. Some interpretation of requirement that satisfies technical demands while preserving whatever conscience he still claims to possess.
But cleverness was anticipated, planned for, encouraged even. The Lord of Blood preferred servants who thought creatively, who could find solutions where lesser minds saw only obstacles. And this Tarnished... this one carried potential that transcended normal limitation.
His blood tastes of resurrection. Sweet, recycled, impossible. What makes a Tarnished who cannot truly die? What dynasty could be built on blood that regenerates infinitely?
The questions carried weight beyond mere curiosity. Mohg had been watching this one since Limgrave, tracking his impossible persistence through blood-dreams that revealed truths hidden from normal perception. Each death catalogued, each resurrection analyzed, each demonstration of inhuman resilience adding to profile of someone who might serve purposes beyond conventional recruitment.
The lambkin thinks he's exploiting loopholes. He's walking into cage designed specifically for prey that cannot escape through death.
POV: Gara Smith
Away from the church, hidden among ruins that predated current theological arrangements, Gara prepared for systematic exploitation of resurrection mechanics. The plan was elegant in its simplicity: die with the ceremonial cloth pressed against his chest, let his blood soak the fabric during the dying process, respawn with evidence that satisfied technical requirements.
Death cheat exploit. Use the system against itself. Provide Maiden's blood by becoming the Maiden temporarily.
He shifted all available stat points into Faith—not because he needed divine magic, but because Faith was the most expendable resource for his current build. Enhanced Constitution couldn't save him from fall damage if he committed properly to the descent, and losing Faith points wouldn't impact his combat effectiveness.
The cliff was perfect for his purposes—high enough to ensure fatal impact, rocky enough to guarantee sufficient bleeding, isolated enough to prevent witnesses from complicating his carefully constructed narrative.
Gara pressed the ceremonial cloth against his chest, took one final breath that tasted of regret and necessity, and threw himself into gravitational embrace.
Death #119: Intentional Cliff Diving. Impact rupture, extensive bleeding. 9/10 for execution, 1/10 for dignity.
The fall lasted long enough for reflection on choices that had brought him to this point—systematic self-destruction in pursuit of power that felt increasingly necessary for survival in world designed to kill everyone eventually. Each death had taught him something new about pain, about persistence, about the price of advancement in currencies that normal people couldn't spend.
Impact was educational, as always. Bones shattered, organs redistributed according to physics rather than biology, blood painting rocks that had waited centuries for such colorful contribution. The ceremonial cloth absorbed his life enthusiastically, transforming from pristine white to deep crimson that pulsed with warmth that transcended mere temperature.
He respawned at nearby Grace, body whole but Faith stat permanently diminished. The cloth retained its staining—proof that his blood had died in service to guidance, had been sacrificed for purposes beyond personal gain.
"The exploit worked. I feel like genius and monster simultaneously."
Returning to Rose Church, Gara presented the bloodied fabric with confidence that masked uncertainty about whether cleverness was wisdom or just elaborate self-deception.
Varré examined the cloth with intensity that suggested supernatural perception, his masked features processing information that normal senses couldn't detect. "This blood has died," he observed, his voice carrying notes of curiosity rather than disapproval. "Curious. Most Maiden's blood carries life until the moment of offering. This... this speaks to sacrifice already completed."
But he accepted it nonetheless, the ceremonial cloth disappearing into whatever pocket dimension serviced cult regalia requirements. "Acceptable. You've proven commitment through creative interpretation. My lord appreciates servants who think beyond conventional limitation."
He produced an object that made Gara's enhanced senses recoil—the Bloody Finger, red as fresh wounds and twice as eager for violence. Power radiated from the item like heat from forge, promising capabilities that came with prices he wasn't ready to contemplate.
"Go," Varré commanded, pressing the Finger into Gara's reluctant palm. "Soak yourself in others' blood three times. Prove your devotion through systematic violence. Demonstrate that you've abandoned Grace's guidance for blood's honest embrace."
Gara pocketed the item with false enthusiasm, already planning to fight off invaders instead of invading others. The Bloody Finger would grant access to Mohg's servants—but as defender rather than aggressor, survivor rather than predator.
But Varré's parting words chilled him to the core: "My lord has sensed you, lambkin. Your persistence across death fascinates him. Each resurrection catalogued, each return analyzed, each demonstration of impossible resilience adding to understanding of what you truly are."
The cult didn't recruit Gara. Mohg had been hunting him specifically, seeking someone whose blood could regenerate infinitely, whose death could be harvested repeatedly without depleting the source.
"I thought I was exploiting them. They've been studying me since Limgrave."
Returning to camp, Gara showed Nepheli the Bloody Finger with triumph that felt increasingly hollow. "I'm in. Now I just need to fake three invasions and—"
"You're being hunted." Her interruption was flat, certain, completely devoid of negotiation. "I can see it in your eyes. Whatever you walked into, it's watching you now."
He couldn't deny it. The sensation of observation had been growing since the ritual, weight of attention that felt cosmic in scope and malevolent in intent. Somewhere in blood-soaked darkness, something ancient had learned his name and found it... interesting.
The Rose Church waited behind them, beautiful and terrible in the evening light. Ahead lay challenges that would test whether his clever exploitation had been wisdom or elaborate preparation for becoming someone else's resource.
Either way, there was only one direction left: forward, toward whatever fresh education awaited in the blood ahead.
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