January 24, 1522
Old Walls Ruin — Carynthos
Once a fortress of kings, the Old Walls now stood in silent decay. It had been King Seliph's first conquest, the throne from which he ruled Teglardia in the war's opening years. But tonight, its weathered stones whispered darker truths.
A bonfire crackled at the center of an intricate ritual circle. Surrounding it were figures draped in long, white robes—tight at the chest, flowing below the waist—like a fusion of clergy and executioners. Their pointed hoods concealed their faces, except for cold porcelain masks etched with faint runes. On each chest shimmered the mark of the Abyssal Chain: a silver, iridescent ouroboros twisted around an ancient eye.
Chains looped loosely around their arms, engraved with mantras in a language the world had forgotten. Yet they moved with no clink or clatter. They were utterly still. Not a murmur. Not a breath. Only firewood splitting under flame.
From the dark archway, another figure emerged. Clad like the others, he walked into the circle's heart. The congregation turned in unison, eerily mechanical, raising their right palms toward him in silent greeting.
The man lifted his hand and began to speak.
It wasn't speech, not exactly. His voice came out twisted and layered, echoing like it traveled through a long-forgotten tomb. A dead tongue, spoken as if by something that had no lungs.
Then came silence.
He lowered his hand and looked at the fire.
"The Festival of Judgment has arrived."
His voice had now adopted a human tone, though it still sounded distant—like it echoed from behind a veil.
"For a thousand years, the ignorant have barred us from the embrace of the unknown. But the time has come. The suffering ends. The cycle will break. And they—those who resist—will be silenced. Our messiah, Icarus Lepidus, shall rise. He will lay low the false Seraphielthor and unravel the Four Pieth that chain our Lord!"
The cultists raised their hands once more, palms open. But this time, it felt like a vow. A silent oath to the abyss.
---
January 25, 1522 — Saturday
Ashenreach District — STF Facility
The days had passed uneventfully. At least, if you didn't count the constant banter and strange glances shared between certain people.
Kite was in the archive room with Kora and Lora, sorting old reports.
"So, Kite," Kora grinned, "anything going on between you and Ryenne lately?"
"Yeah, yeah, tell us," Lora echoed, nudging him.
"…No. Why?"
Kora leaned in, lowering her voice like it was some dark revelation. "Because she's been standing by the door glaring at us since we walked in."
Kite tilted his head slightly. Sure enough, Ryenne was just outside, arms crossed, eyes boring holes into them. But Kite knew her well—too well. That glare? It was her way of not asking something directly.
"Excuse me for a moment," Kite said, slipping out.
Ryenne was leaning against the wall now, acting casual. Too casual.
"What is it?" he asked.
She looked away. "You won't laugh?"
"…Huh?"
"Promise me. You won't laugh."
"Okay…" Kite raised an eyebrow.
"I mean, we've been in this district for days, and I haven't even seen the city yet…"
Kite blinked. Then it clicked.
"You want to go out?"
"Don't make it weird!" she snapped, flustered. "It's not a date or anything. I just… I don't know, thought it might be… interesting."
"…Fine," he said with a small smile. "Let's go."
Ryenne turned away, hiding the tiniest smirk on her face.
"Good. Be ready by noon, blockhead."