Niko's thoughts swirled like a storm. Did Iri know about this? About fate? About the gods? It seemed impossible she hadn't—if even fragments of this knowledge had survived in places like this library, maybe others knew too. Maybe more than he did.
But before the idea could root itself deeper, the heavy door creaked open and a figure burst in, panting, sweat clinging to his brow. His eyes swept the shelves until they landed on Niko.
"There you are," he huffed. "C'mon. Boss called for everyone. Urgent."
Niko blinked—half-still in the echo of Uriah's tale—but quickly masked it with a nod. "Right," he said.
His fingers loosened around the book, and The Tale of Uriah the Calm fell quietly to the floor, landing with its spine facing upward—as if the story was watching him go. Niko tucked that moment into his memory, then followed the man, cloak swaying behind him.
They walked in near silence, the underground corridors winding like veins, dim torchlight dancing across the stone. Niko's mind tried to stitch itself back together. They have a boss. A leader. His heart beat faster, not from fear—but from the certainty that he was finally stepping into the eye of the storm.
Eventually, the hallway opened wide—far wider than expected—and Niko found himself staring at a massive chamber built like an amphitheater or theatre, but stripped of any luxury. No seats. No comfort. Just one stone stage, raised above a barren floor.
And kneeling below it… at least sixty figures, all wrapped in the same cloak he wore. Their hoods drawn, heads low. Silent.
Niko hesitated only a second, then fell in line and dropped to his knees beside them. The stone was cold against his legs, and the air thick with some invisible pressure. He risked a glance upward toward the stage.
Then the lights dimmed—no, shifted—as if obeying an unseen will.
A figure stepped into the center of the stage.
They were human, or at least looked it—tall, straight-backed, face hidden in a black veil embroidered with curling silver lines. The weight of their presence made Niko's stomach twist. Something about this person felt wrong, or maybe just… too right.
The figure raised their arms slowly.
"It has been long," they began, voice smooth but laced with steel. "Years of building. Of patience. Of bleeding in silence."
No one moved. The cloaked audience was still as statues.
"But today," the figure continued, "we have reached our threshold. The final number has been met. Our work, our harvesting, our sacrifices—they were not in vain."
Niko's brow furrowed beneath his hood.
The speaker's voice grew louder, echoing across the stone like a war drum.
"We have gathered enough. Enough humans—enough vessels—for the awakening. The War God stirs beneath us, restless in chains. And now…"
The figure spread their arms wider.
"…now, we give him what he is owed."
A wave of murmured devotion rippled through the kneeling crowd, like a dark prayer swallowed by stone.
Niko's breath caught in his throat.
They're going to sacrifice them? To awaken… a god?
Niko kept his head down, but his thoughts were burning. The words War God looped in his mind like a cursed mantra, hollowing out his certainty. This wasn't like the tricks and lies back in the House. This felt old. Real. Heavy with dust and blood and the kind of belief that outlasted civilizations.
He didn't believe in gods. He didn't want to.
But what if they believe enough to make it real?
On stage, the robed speaker took another step forward, voice deepening into something ceremonial.
"Long ago," the figure intoned, "he walked beside us. In the Age of Fires, before the veil was drawn, the War God led us against the devils. Against corruption. Against the rot." A pause. "He did not fall in battle. He fell in betrayal."
A ripple of unease stirred through the kneeling crowd. The War God had fallen?
The speaker's tone turned grave, almost mournful. "They call it a holy war now. A lie told by those who serve another. A brighter one. A protector god who watches over them—the ones who live in towers and palaces. The ones with names etched into gold and banners stitched with firebirds." A hiss entered the voice. "The ones called Dem Oche."
Niko's eyes narrowed beneath the hood. That name again… Every time it surfaced, the ground seemed to shift a little.
"They serve a false light," the speaker said. "And they think their god shields them from consequence. But we remember the old one. The War God. The true flame."
A silence followed—sharp and reverent. No one moved.
Niko was barely breathing. The cloak around his body felt heavier, like it now carried history in its folds. The War God… cast down in a war of holiness against devils? And another god—one of light—watching over the royal family?
Dem Oche, he thought. Their name was etched into Uriah's pendant too…
His mind leapt back to the book he had read in the library just minutes ago. Uriah, who tried to defy fate—who was erased for speaking forbidden truths.
Are these gods really fighting? Is this why the Pale Arc feels… wrong?
The voice on stage picked up again. "They buried our god beneath stone and memory. But gods are not so easily killed. No… he dreams still. And we will wake him. With fire. With flesh. With blood."
At that, several people in the crowd bowed lower, nearly pressing foreheads to the cold stone floor. Niko stayed still, stiff as bone, trying not to tremble—not with fear, but with the weight of what he was hearing.
This wasn't just a cult. This was a crusade.
And he had walked into the heart of it.
What if they're right? What if there really was a war—and one god was lost, buried, while the other took the throne through the Dem Oche?
What does that make the House?
No answers came. Only more questions, and the steady rising pulse of dread.
He needed to see the chamber. He needed to see the sacrifices. He needed to know if the War God was a myth, or something waiting—watching—from behind a wall too thin to last much longer.
Because if it was true…
He wouldn't just be too late.
He might already be part of the offering.
But then, amidst the noise in his mind, Niko clenched his jaw.
Gods. Fate. Holy wars and buried truths.
It didn't matter.
He forced the spiraling thoughts down, pressed them into silence like he was snuffing out a flame beneath his boot. Whether it was a god with a sword, a cult with fire in their lungs, or fate itself clawing to drag him down—none of it changed his goal.
He would survive this.
He would escape the House.
Even if he had to carve a path through legends to do it.
His eyes—shaded beneath the hood—hardened like stone. The weight of the cloak, the whispers of the War God, the tension of kneeling among true believers—it all felt like noise now. He couldn't afford to get lost in it. Not yet. Not until he knew how deep this rot ran.
Let the gods come, he thought, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. They bleed too, don't they?
He sat up straighter, muscles taut, gaze sharp. The fear was gone. The wonder, the doubt—all swallowed beneath something colder. Sharper.
Resolve.
He would not be erased like Uriah. He would not kneel forever like these people. And he sure as hell wouldn't be another name buried in some divine chess match.
He was Niko.
And he was getting out.
No matter what waited on the other side.
This wasn't just trafficking.
It was worship. It was ritual.