No. 7's knees slammed onto the unforgiving stone. His peripheral vision tunneled, blackening at the edges, yet the cavern before him blazed into focus, a ghastly tableau deliberately illuminated by the spectral moonlight. Dominating the hollowed-out rock face, a colossal, twenty-meter statue of Jupiter loomed.
Candlelight. Hundreds upon hundreds of flickering tapers bathed the vast chamber in a light as bright as day, yet it was an unnatural, corpse-pale luminescence.
These were no ordinary beeswax candles. Cast from some unidentifiable animal tallow, they spat and crackled as they burned, minute explosions flinging sparks that solidified mid-air into drifting motes of greasy ash.
The cloying, saccharine perfume of rendering fat mingled with another, sharper, more acrid stench that pricked the nostrils.
The idol itself was a grotesque masterpiece. Jupiter's visage was sculpted with an unnerving, lifelike precision, every strand of his flowing beard rendered in painstaking detail. A crown of thorns encircled his brow, yet from his eyes—or rather, where his eyes should be—seemed to flow an almost tangible sorrow, as if he eternally pitied the suffering of mortals. His right hand, brandishing a thunderbolt, was raised in a classic pose of divine wrath. His left, however, was extended downwards in an unnervingly unorthodox gesture, palm open, fingers spread as if in welcome, or perhaps, acceptance—a posture entirely absent from any canonical scripture.
Two rubies, each the size of a clenched fist, were sunk deep within the idol's sockets, their polished surfaces catching the candlelight and reflecting it in shifting, malevolent glints. From any angle, one felt impaled by that infernal, jeweled gaze.
At the idol's feet, a macabre diorama unfolded, enacted by hundreds of bleached skeletons. Each was clad in white robes identical to their own, though the fabric was yellowed, brittle as autumn leaves. Withered wreaths, their desiccated petals still clinging to a semblance of their final, vibrant forms, adorned each skull, as if life had been violently siphoned from them in an instant.
These skeletal sentinels were frozen in their designated roles. Some, with bony hands, propped up stone plinths bearing yet more candles, their eyeless sockets upturned in perpetual adoration. Others lay prostrate, locked in devout, silent prayer. The majority, however, seemed to be caught mid-scramble, a frantic, osseous tide surging towards the idol, skeletal arms outstretched, fingers yearning to touch Jupiter's colossal form.
The dozen or so figures closest to the god-statue were suspended in mid-air, dangling from iron chains. Their finger bones strained forward, spines contorted into impossible, agonizing arcs, as if, even in their death throes, they had been consumed by a frenzied desire to grasp Jupiter's extended, beckoning hand.
Time had ravaged many. Some robes had disintegrated, their skeletal frames crumbling, limbs detached and scattered amongst their brethren below. The deeper one peered into the cavern's recesses, the more ancient the remains appeared. The innermost ranks, scores of them, had weathered to a sickly, yellowish-brown, their bones riddled with a fine filigree of cracks. Their floral crowns had long since crumbled to dust, leaving only a faint, greenish stain encircling their cervical vertebrae. Yet, at the very edge of this ossuary theatre, one pristine skeleton stood out, stark and unsettling.
Its bones were a blinding, almost incandescent white, seemingly radiating a cold, internal luminescence in the moonlight. This figure was meticulously arranged in a posture of kneeling supplication, finger bones interlaced in prayer, spine held unnaturally, rigidly straight—the exact pose of piety drilled into them during hymnody lessons. A stone amulet, strung on a simple cord around its neck, still swayed gently, its colored facets winking in the moonlight.
No. 7's legs, as if possessed, carried him forward. As the distance closed, more horrific details swam into focus: the skeletons' ribcages were stippled with fine, sharp bite marks, as if gnawed upon by some ravenous beast. The moment No. 7's shadow fell across the pristine skeleton, a frigid gust of wind billowed from the cavern's depths. Candle flames danced and swayed in a sudden, violent frenzy, casting writhing, elongated shadows within the skeletons' empty sockets. For a heart-stopping instant, the nearest figure seemed to blink at No. 7, a flicker of sentience in its dead gaze.
No. 6's weeping intensified, a raw, animalistic sound. She lay sprawled on the ground, her body wracked by helpless, shuddering tremors of grief, fury, and abject terror, as if she sought to exorcise her very soul through her cries.
No. 7 reached out, a faint nimbus of blue light coalescing at his fingertips. As he channeled his Tidal Force into the boots adorning the pristine skeleton's feet, a blinding azure flare erupted, illuminating his own face, contorting his features into a mask of terrifying resolve—just as a bloodcurdling scream ripped the night asunder.
The Bishop's maniacal laughter detonated from beyond the door, a thunderclap of sound that clawed at their eardrums. It ricocheted around the cavern, striking an unholy resonance with the Jupiter idol's ruby eyes. The very rock walls began to tremble, shedding a rain of fine scree. The fragments pattered down upon the skeletal congregation with a chorus of sharp, dry clacks—a grotesque percussion accompanying the Bishop's glee.
No. 8's roar was a physical force, threatening to shatter eardrums. "You depraved, fucking monster! Defiler of eighteen generations of your own ancestors!" He snatched a jagged rock from the ground and hurled it at the wooden door. It arced through the air, only to be atomized by an invisible force an instant before impact. "You lunatic! You animal! You did this to No. 5, to No. 3—!"
No. 7's guttural howls, No. 6's heartbroken wails, No. 8's hysterical litany of curses, and the Bishop's booming, exultant laughter—all converged in that moment, a truly bizarre and horrifying chorus, as if the curtain were about to rise on some infernal grand guignol.
A deafening CRASH tore through the cacophony, brutally silencing all else. The Bishop's fist had smashed against the door. The shockwave sent the bone fragments Littering the stone platform skittering and dancing. The white bones chattered and clicked against each other—the susurrus of the whispering dead.
When the echoes finally died, they were supplanted by a soft, almost gentle knocking—thump, thump, thump—as polite and unassuming as a neighbor come to borrow salt.
"Children," the Bishop's voice, now oozing a sickeningly avuncular benevolence, was laced with feigned concern. "Do come out. Below this cliff lies the rushing Er River. A leap from here… not even your bones would remain. You have nowhere left to run."
"And in truth," his tone shifted, acquiring a wheedling, aggrieved quality, like an elder unjustly maligned, "the Most Holy Sanctuary requires but a single offering from each… class. If you simply duel amongst yourselves, until only one remains… I swear upon Jupiter's sacred name, the victor will depart for the capital. Alive."
No. 6's sobs choked off abruptly. She looked up, her tear-streaked face a mask of disbelief, towards No. 7. No. 8's fists were clenched so tight the knuckles were white, his nails biting deep into his palms, drawing blood that trickled between his fingers. But this time, he remained silent.
"Only one person dies tonight," No. 7 snarled, launching himself at the door, his boot crashing against the wood, shaking yet more loose stones from the frame. "And it's going to be you!"
The rustle of heavy fabric from beyond the door. The Bishop, it seemed, had settled himself down; his immense bulk made the floorboards groan in protest. "Commendable spirit," he actually applauded, the sound chillingly incongruous. "I confess, I am most curious… How did you come to learn Resonance? That particular curriculum should never have reached these halls."
No. 7's pupils contracted to pinpricks. He reined in his fury, his mind racing. Turn them against each other. "It was No. 1. He taught us."
Silence. A profound, suffocating stillness. Even the candle flames seemed to hold their breath. Within the cavern, only the vacant, staring sockets of the skeletal horde bore witness, as if in silent, grim anticipation.
"Ah… so that is how it is," the Bishop finally purred, his voice light, almost buoyant with dawning comprehension. "It was him." A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound that resonated with a deeply unsettling, almost orgasmic pleasure.
Suddenly, the door bolt shrieked, a harsh, metallic screech. Before their horrified gazes, the iron-clad oak beam, wreathed in an ethereal blue mist, levitated, then slowly, deliberately, slid from its clasps. The Cardinal of Sin could have breached their flimsy barricade at any moment. The preceding standoff had been nothing more than a cruel, elaborate game. The heavy bolt spun lazily in the air, then clattered to the ground, raising a small puff of ancient dust.
"Very well. Recess is over." The Bishop's shadow, a tangible entity, began to seep from beneath the door, spreading like a viscous inkblot dropped into clear water, inexorably, silently, covering the entire floor.
"Let us resume our… unfinished lesson. Today's enlightening topic is…"