Darkness…
That voice was there again. Gentle, caring, and as impossible as ever:
“Luk, wake up…”
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in the damp cold of the tunnel. But this was not today’s cold; it was the cold of the past, the one that froze the marrow of his eight-year-old bones. Behind him echoed the voice of Reis—the rough, gruff man who acted as his uncle, yet had a heart of gold:
“LUK! STOP! TURN BACK, BOY, THE AREA OUTSIDE THE STATION IS DANGEROUS!”
But he hadn’t stopped.
He had run until his small lungs burned, trying to pull his mother from the hands of those fanatics. As the Apostles dragged her away, he had lost the single shoe she left behind while running through the dark, freezing tunnels.
The abandoned stations zone was truly terrifying and desolate. A place where people once lived was now buried in darkness and cold. There was no turning back anymore. He had already crossed the safe boundaries of the independent station.
He ran and ran… until he saw the torchlight tearing through the darkness.
There was a silhouette standing in the very center of the tunnel.
Luk stopped.
His heart felt like it was about to burst from his chest. What he saw before him was the kind of sight that could permanently shatter a child’s mind.
His mother was there.
But she was not standing.
She was nailed by her hands and feet to an inverted cross made of old, rusted metal. Her white garment was stained with a dark red flow that streamed down from her abdomen. Her stomach had been split open like a piece of fruit, her “sins” seemingly drained out.
The Children of God’s “purification” ritual destroyed Luk’s world that day, in that tunnel.
His mother’s face had fallen to the side, as if she were whispering her final breath directly into Luk’s ear.
Luk wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
At that moment, a hand reached out from the darkness of the tunnel and grabbed his shoulder firmly.
Reis…
“Luk… Don’t look!”
Ice-cold water splashed against his face as he jolted awake in the chair he was bound to. The bloody tunnel of the past vanished, replaced by the disgusting yet terrifying interrogation room of the Children of God.
Everything was blurry from the heavy blow to his head; like barrels of beer inside a constantly rocking ship, nothing stayed still long enough to be clearly seen.
A red-robed figure stood beside him. The man was saying something, but Luk could only hear muffled sounds. It looked as if something had exploded on the man, splattering his robe with fragments.
Suddenly, there was a hard knock at the door.
KNOCK… KNOCK…
The red-robed man quickly moved to open it. Several figures entered, surrounded by guards. Luk’s vision began to clear slightly. That was when he noticed the symbol on the staff held by the man before him—
The “Bloody Wheat.”
The same symbol he had seen on the day his mother died.
Hatred surged inside him as his gaze locked onto the man. He clenched his teeth so tightly that the grinding sound could almost be heard from outside the room. If he hadn’t been tied to the chair, he would have torn the man apart without hesitation.
He needed to calm himself. He had to remember his training.
After his mother’s death, Reis had raised him not only as a father, but as a soldier.
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He had to remember what happened.
The whispers of the Apostles echoed in his mind—the voices he had heard while being dragged after the rifle butt struck his head:
“Why did the Firstborn demand another sacrifice? It hasn’t even been a month since the last one.”
“I have no idea, but I’m sick of these sacrifices and rituals.”
“Tell me about it… Look at what we do just to survive.”
Firstborn stepped closer to Luk with slow steps, speaking with a disturbing politeness:
“My son… One person would have been enough for the sacrifice, yet they brought you as well. What a coincidence—I had a proposal for you anyway. I heard Reis personally trained you. God does not wish for such a well-trained soldier to be wasted. Join us. Become one of the Children of God and cleanse yourself of your sins.”
Luk’s silence had already given his answer.
No matter what, he would never accept the poisonous offer of the fanatics who had sacrificed his mother. One day, he would turn this place into their grave.
Firstborn narrowed his eyes, an expression of disgust forming on his face. He turned away and left with the others.
Luk was now alone in the cell.
This place was different from other stations. The first thing that stood out was the air—it was clean. Unlike the heavy air that burned the lungs elsewhere, breathing here was easy.
As he searched the room for anything he could use to escape the chair, he realized the truth.
This was a torture chamber.
Saws lined the wall, still bearing blood and chunks of flesh. Pliers on the table were fresh with blood and torn fingernails. The room was filled with nothing but blood and pieces of human remains.
Now he understood why the robed man had been there when he first woke up—and why his robe was so soaked.
He was an Altar Priest.
If Luk stayed here, his fate would be no different from the others before him. He had to find a way out—fast.
The door creaked open, and the same crimson-robed man stepped inside.
For Luk, he was nothing less than a harbinger of slaughter.
Altar Priests were the lowest-ranking clergy who conducted the cult’s sacrificial rituals. When they first began their service, their robes were white. But after countless rituals, tortures, and sacrifices, they never cleaned the blood and flesh that stained them.
To them, the more blood a robe carried, the more forgiven their sins were.
As the Altar Priest approached, the horrific mask on his face became clearer. Luk could hear the snickering beneath it—it was obvious the man enjoyed what he did.
He circled behind Luk, examining the torture tools, picking one up, then another, as if eager to try something new.
“You should have accepted the offer, child,” the Altar Priest said. His voice was muffled and ominous beneath the mask.
“You’re going to suffer a great deal now. Don’t worry—I won’t kill you yet. We just need to prepare you for the sacrifice. You and that little child will be offered to God together.”
At that moment, Luk realized he had completely forgotten about Nerida’s child.
If he wanted to escape, the child would be a burden. But if he left that defenseless, helpless child behind, their fate would be no different from his mother’s.
If he was going to escape, he first had to overcome the crimson-robed obstacle in front of him.
Fortunately, he had already begun—during his conversation with the Firstborn.
Reis had taught him how to survive alone.
The ropes binding his hands were already loosened. He had won the silent battle against the knots.
The Altar Priest finally found what he was looking for. He brought the rusted mask—lined with sharp metal spikes—closer to Luk’s face. The stench of rotting flesh and old blood made his stomach churn.
As the Priest’s raspy breath washed over him, Luk remembered the lesson Reis had whispered to him in the tunnels:
“The moment your enemy feels strongest is when he is actually weakest. Victory intoxicates and blinds.”
The Altar Priest slowly moved the mask closer, savoring what he believed was his victim’s fear.
But Luk was not trembling.
He was waiting for the right second.
The moment the Priest reached out with both hands to force the mask onto his face, Luk released all the strength in his shoulders and wrists.
CRACK!
The old wooden chair shattered under the sudden pressure.
With his freed right hand, Luk grabbed the Priest by the throat and slammed his head into the table filled with torture tools. The Altar Priest stared at him in shock, unable to comprehend what had happened.
Luk knew he was racing against time.
Among the tools on the table, he saw it—a heavy, rusted blade, still sharp.
The moment he grasped the cleaver, the Altar Priest tried to push himself up using the table.
Luk did not hesitate for even a second.
The eight-year-old child was gone.
At the end of that blade was an act of vengeance that had waited far too long.
The cleaver sliced through the air before the Priest could even scream.
The sound it made—like smashing a hard melon—filled the entire room.
