Chapter 3 – Island of Saints γ
by Salted FishThe Listener walked along the dark and rugged corridor. The air was damp and cold, the rough hemp robe itching against his skin. At the fourth narrow fork in the path, he turned right.
He had “died” again. Though it was just a game, the sensation of death was real—the suffocation before dying, the fleeting relief as his pupils dilated, and the boundless darkness that swallowed him in the end. He had experienced it all countless times, each as vivid as the last.
After hearing The Penitent’s secret, he returned to his room to hide the gold, then headed to the refectory. Morning Prayer was still The Israelites Demand a King. Sitting on the small stool before the Tabernacle, he began noticing details he had previously overlooked—like how The Flagellant and The Ascetic were whispering to The Penitent, or how The Convert leaned against a pillar beside which rested a silver-inlaid slender bow, inevitably reminding him of the illustrious Archer.
While waiting for the bread to be distributed, the monks gathered in small groups. He stood up and walked into the crowd.
The Convert was on the other side of the gathering—that arrogant infidel, his black hair curling wildly, fluttering in the morning breeze as if about to dissolve into the sunlight. He had seen him kill before, fierce as a lion, swift as an eagle. So why did he seem uneasy now?
Just then, The Convert glanced over—just a fleeting look, quickly averted—but the way he did it… as if he was waiting for something.
The Listener couldn’t help but stare, observing his deliberately aloof yet slightly fluttering eyelashes. The Convert seemed aware of the gaze, growing even more restless—forcing The Listener to wonder if he was waiting for him.
But he was about to be disappointed.
When they were just five or six steps apart, The Listener turned sideways, veering away. He brushed past the slightly hunched Flagellant, past the layers of robed brothers, until he reached a child with blue eyes, about eleven or twelve, freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, and curly brown hair tumbling over his forehead—The Pious One from the scripture recitation group.
“Brother,” he called to the child, just as he had called The Convert countless times before.
The Pious One looked surprised but nodded politely at him.
“I heard you know the scriptures well?” The Listener glanced around out of habit, but unexpectedly met The Convert’s eyes from across the crowd—bright, beautiful, glaring at him with unmistakable resentment.
“There is no scripture I am not familiar with,” The Pious One said proudly.
The Listener was momentarily stunned by the glare, hesitating before turning back and whispering, “I need your knowledge.”
“Oh?” The Pious One smiled, pleased and somewhat smug.
“Tonight,” The Listener bent down, speaking into his small ear, “the Saints’ Tombs?”
The child’s eyes turned sly as he crossed his arms with an air of maturity. “And the price of my knowledge?”
“Of course,” The Listener slipped a gold coin from his sleeve into the boy’s tiny hand, “only gold is equal in value to knowledge.”
The Pious One suppressed his smile, tucking his small hand into the vast sleeve of his robe as if nothing had happened, then slowly brushed past him.
Leaving the refectory, The Listener deliberately walked slowly, waiting until The Firehand brushed breadcrumbs from his robes and moved ahead. He followed, trailing him toward the smoky, fiery blacksmith’s shed.
There was only one blacksmith on the Island of Saints. Many were willing to trade a spool of thread or a handful of sweet beans for a single nail, so business at the forge was thriving. The Listener kept a careful distance, wondering how to approach him, but The Firehand suddenly stopped without turning around.
“How long are you going to follow me?” His tone was sharp as a blade.
The Listener startled, then realized this one was nothing like the last. “Brother,” he said bluntly, “I have a deal for you.”
The Firehand tilted his head, casting a sidelong, suspicious glance. “Piss off.”
Instead of leaving, The Listener stepped forward. “If The Keeper came looking for you, would you tell him to piss off too?”
The Firehand frowned, turning fully. “How do you know…” He hesitated, cautious, “that we’re… close?”
The Listener faltered. He didn’t know how they were close. He opened his mouth, then said, “Last—last time, we were allies. You, me, and The Keeper. We were searching for a secr—”
“So what?” The Firehand cut him off. “That was last time. Besides,” he leaned in, staring firmly, “you failed.”
The Listener flushed with surprise.
The Firehand smirked. “If you’d succeeded, you wouldn’t be here asking me again.”
The Listener pressed urgently, “We will succeed. We’re close—maybe this time—”
The Firehand raised a hand, signaling him to stop. “Why take it so seriously, brother? This is just a…” He didn’t say the word game, lowering his eyes with a shake of his head. “We’re here to escape. Why push ourselves? Just drift along.”
The Listener grabbed his arm. “This is how you drift?” He tugged at The Firehand’s tattered, shabby robe. “Living like a beggar in this coffin of a monastery?”
The Firehand’s gaze wavered. “Maybe there is no ‘outside’ to this Island of Saints.”
“You won’t know unless you look,” The Listener said, staring intently into his eyes. “Bring The Keeper.”
The Firehand seemed tempted, studying him seriously. “Who else?”
“The Pious One,” The Listener reached into his pocket for a gold coin. “The three of us. Now we just need a main DPS.”1DPS: Short for damage per second, and it does mean that, but is also used for the character specializing in dealing large amounts of damage in a game. This is what it means here, they’re looking for a “damage dealer.”
“Main DPS”—he hadn’t heard that term in years. The Firehand couldn’t help but laugh. “Damn, you’re really dragging me into this!” He weighed the coin in his hand. “When and where?”
“Tonight, the Saints’ Tombs,” The Listener released his arm, giving it a firm pat. “I’ll go find The Archer.”
“Don’t.” The Firehand said suddenly.
The Listener raised a brow. “Why not?”
“That guy’s no good,” The Firehand muttered, as if struggling to say it. “Behind the Saints’ Tombs, in that small grove, there’s a dead chestnut tree. Behind it, I saw…”
The Listener averted his gaze. He knew what he was about to say.
“I won’t say who the other person was,” The Firehand said with disgust, “but he was coercing him, using some kind of… substance.” He suddenly pointed at The Listener’s head. “Hey, it looked a lot like your hair.”
The Listener stared at him blankly.
“That kind of person,” The Firehand spat on the ground, “if you team up with him, I’m out.”
The Listener nodded slowly and turned to leave, but The Firehand called after him, “Why not ask him?” He mimed gripping a longsword in front of his chest. “That nobleman.”
The Listener knew who he meant. With a wave, he walked away.
The scriptorium was nearly empty in the morning. A rare, faint sunlight spilled through the southern window, casting dappled shadows like swaying leaves. Beneath the window sat a neatly groomed monk, his quill scratching across parchment in elegant script.
“Brother,” The Listener stood behind him.
The Swordsman paused his writing, turning halfway. His profile, backlit, was strikingly handsome, with the classical serenity of a Greek statue. “The Listener,” he recognized him, turning fully. “I’ve heard much about you.”
The Listener was surprised by his friendliness and refined demeanor. His eyes wandered over the desk, landing on the greatsword resting atop a stack of scriptures—I hope that’s a sword meant for killing. “May I speak with you privately?”
The Swordsman looked up at him, answering straightforwardly, “Of course.”
The Listener leaned in, standing respectfully beside him, bending to whisper his request into his ear.
A long silence followed. The Swordsman didn’t respond immediately, and The Listener grew impatient. Suddenly, the nobleman tugged lightly at his sleeve. “Fine,” he said with a smile, “but on one condition.” The Listener stared as something icy flashed in his seemingly gentle eyes. “Kill that filthy infidel for me.”
“The infidel… you mean?”
The Swordsman answered as if it were obvious. “The Convert. Who else?”
The Listener frowned. “Why?”
The Swordsman looked amused. “Why wouldn’t you kill an infidel?” He stood, tall and elegant, tilting his neck with aristocratic grace. “That kind of filth has no place in the Lord’s monastery. Besides, he’s promiscuous—he’s seduced many brothers. Didn’t you know?”
The Listener was silent for a moment before asking, “Why don’t you do it?”
“Me?” The Swordsman laughed as if it were a joke, idly toying with the quill’s feather. “He’s not worth my blade.”
The Listener disliked this man. He didn’t know if it was the character’s personality or the player’s, but it made him untrustworthy. “How am I supposed to kill him? That scimitar of his—”
“You can,” The Swordsman said, scanning him from head to toe as if examining a curiosity. “The Convert’s been asking about you. Seems quite interested.”
Interested. The Listener wasn’t sure how to interpret that, but The Swordsman clarified: “You could seduce him. Once he’s—”
“Wait,” The Listener cut him off, his earlier respect completely gone. “Just answer me—are you coming to the Saints’ Tombs or not?”
“Of course,” The Swordsman released the feather, his voice soft. “Once you kill The Convert.”
The Listener glared at him with loathing, his anger simmering until it suddenly deflated. “Forget it,” he said politely, forcing a smile as he bowed slightly. “Goodbye.”
He turned on his heel and left, not bothering to see The Swordsman’s reaction. Stepping out of the scriptorium, sunlight draped over his brow like a veil. He descended the stone steps, seething, when someone called from behind:
“Hey!”
He spun around. Emerging from the jagged shadows of the trees was a man with black hair, cat-like eyes, and a small black mole on the bridge of his nose—The Convert.
The Listener lowered his head, silent. The Convert approached slowly, his hesitation uncharacteristic.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked, his voice stiff and unnatural. “This morning. In the refectory.”
The Listener had a surge of anger rising in his gut, and he let it out now: “Why should I ask you?”
The Convert’s face stiffened, but he was too proud to lash out at such a provocation. His lashes fluttered lightly and quickly as he retorted with a gorgeous sneer, “If not me, then who?”
The Listener pitied him, scoffing dismissively. “I don’t need you for this round,” he said, meeting his gaze directly. “Go wait for the next Listener.”
The Convert faltered slightly, fury flashing between his brows. “The next one?”
“You’ve had countless Listeners, just like I’ve had countless Converts,” The Listener said flatly. “I can’t tell which one you are, and you can’t tell which one I am. No one is irreplaceable.”
Then, somewhat inappropriately, The Convert blurted out, “You were my first.”
The Listener gaped at him, his expression caught between skepticism and scrutiny. On the surface, The Convert remained haughty, his chin lifted proudly, but there was something almost pleading in his gaze. “And you’re wrong,” he muttered. “Not every Listener is like you.”
“Which one… are you?”
The Convert’s bewitching eyes flickered before finally locking onto him. The moment their gazes met, his stubborn arrogance melted away. “You told me about home, Allah, and dreams,” he paused, as if regretting his words, “or… do you say that to every Convert?”
The Listener recognized him then. The sunlight shifted southward, casting ambiguous rays into his eyes, making them sting. “No… only you…”
The Convert grew bashful, yet oddly defiant. “I recognized you at a glance,” he declared haughtily. “Your eyes, your walk, your expression—none of the others are like you.”
The Listener’s throat tightened. He nodded.
Had he truly failed to recognize him at all? No. He just hadn’t cared enough to remember.
“Finding you,” The Convert stepped closer, swallowing hard, “wasn’t easy.”
Finding? The Listener turned his head away in disbelief, unwilling to look at him. “Play your own game. Why look for me?”
The Convert was silenced, momentarily speechless. The Listener sneered, “Or are you like a bird that just hatched, imprinting on the first thing it sees? Am I supposed to mother you now?”
The Convert’s temper flared, his teeth clenched as he glared. “I’ve ‘died’ over and over—you know how that feels! I didn’t come here to be mocked!”
“Then don’t listen!” The Listener deliberately stepped back, raising his hand dismissively. “Go your own way!”
The Convert’s eyes reddened, but he didn’t move. Clearly, he didn’t want to leave. “Last time, in the Vestment Vault, I thought we were together—but you left me behind and just—”
“That was your last time, not mine” The Listener corrected coldly. “You’re just a passerby. I don’t waste my thoughts on passersby.”
The Convert stiffened, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the ground. He didn’t rage or argue. Instead, with restraint, he whispered, “I want in.”
“Not happening,” The Listener refused.
The Convert’s brows twitched. He glanced up hesitantly. “Why?”
The Listener didn’t answer immediately, thinking it over before saying, “Maybe it’s the ‘Convert’ who’s been blocking my path.”
The Convert didn’t understand, staring at him in confusion. The small mole on the bridge of his nose trembled faintly—achingly vulnerable. The Listener sighed. “Every time, I’ve teamed up with a Convert, and every time, I’ve failed,” he admitted frankly. “I think it’s time I changed teammates.”
“You can change,” The Convert said urgently. “A few more people won’t hur—”
The Listener lowered his head. “I don’t want you.”
The Convert understood—too well. But he stubbornly refused to say “okay.”
During Evening Prayer, The Listener felt The Swordsman’s gaze lingering on him.
The monks recited The Book of Nehemiah, their voices rising in prayer—“Remember me, O my God, for good.”
As the day ended, The Listener followed the crowd outside. Just as he was about to descend the steps, The Swordsman caught up from behind, slinging an arm over his shoulder with a genial smile.
“Brother,” he said pleasantly, “did you betray me?”
The Listener halted, frowning at him. Monks brushed past, some grumbling loudly as The Swordsman blocked the way—refusing to move, refusing to let The Listener move either. “I saw you,” The Swordsman said. “From the scriptorium window.”
He meant him and The Convert. The Listener found it laughable. “Talking to him means I betrayed you?”
“You refused my condition,” The Swordsman brushed dust from The Listener’s hood, “and then got cozy with him. What else am I supposed to think?”
Cozy? The Listener bristled at the word. “What would I gain from telling him?”
“Maybe…” The Swordsman stuck his thumb between his index and middle fingers in a crude gesture. “You want to fuck him?”
The Listener shoved him away and strode off, but The Swordsman yanked him back, gripping him tightly. “You know I could kill you, right?”
His voice was so quiet The Listener barely heard him. “Go ahead,” The Listener hissed back, locking eyes with him. “I’m not afraid. If I die, we die together!”
They were evenly matched. The Swordsman’s grip faltered slightly. “You know my secret.”
The Listener didn’t back down. “And you know mine.”
He meant the Saints’ Tombs. The Swordsman conceded—they were even. Slowly, his grip loosened. The Listener relaxed as well—until, abruptly, The Swordsman grinned.
“You know, that Saints’ Tomb of yours… I’m starting to get curious.”
Just then, someone bumped into them from behind. They staggered down the steps, turning to see the golden-haired Archer, adorned with an ostentatious gemstone necklace. “Brother,” he called to The Swordsman, “why are you mingling with the lower class?”
Behind him, The Convert appeared. When he spotted The Listener and The Swordsman, his eyes widened. The Archer quickly draped an arm around him, sweeping past like a self-crowned king.
Even from a distance, The Convert kept looking back.
The Swordsman and The Listener went to the Saints’ Tombs together. When they arrived, The Pious One and The Firehand were already waiting. A crescent moon hung high above the “King’s” tomb, the starry sky pressing down on the dark earth like a flat canvas.
The Listener pointed south. “The smallest one.”
The four of them filed into the tomb entrance. Fresh torches burned brightly, illuminating the entire passage. The reliefs on either side stood out sharply, shifting eerily with the flickering light.
“Archduke Maximilian canonizing a Saint,” The Swordsman interpreted the carvings. “Strange. This tomb belongs to a woman?”
The Listener shot him an annoyed glance. “I thought you weren’t coming?”
The Swordsman paused, then smirked. “Got curious. Thought I’d take a look.”
The Listener brushed past him with his torch. Ahead lay the long, dark path. He stood at the entrance, facing an inexplicable cold breeze. “The answer is down there.”
The others gathered around, raising their torches. “How deep is this hole? How was it even dug?”
“Who dug it?” The Firehand rolled his eyes. “It’s all fucking code.”
They descended, listening to the howling wind tear at the flames. After about four or five hundred steps, they reached the three-arched corridor. The Listener called The Pious One forward, pointing to the three inscriptions. “Which door do we take?”
The Pious One needed only a glance. “Only the left one is from the Sacred Scripture. The other two are wrong.”
The Listener was stunned. “Wrong?”
“The middle one—’For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country‘—should continue with ‘who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods.,'” The Pious One declared in his childlike voice. “The right one should be, ‘For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever.'”2The middle one is a splice of two different and unrelated verses, and the right one uses an incorrect pronoun, ‘ours’ vs ‘thine’ (which means yours)
That meant, The Listener realized, The Convert had taken the correct path last time. Which meant, in that world, he had already retrieved the item…
“Going in?” The Swordsman urged. The Listener snapped out of his thoughts. “Of course.”
They huddled together and advanced. It grew colder, darker. The torchlight dimmed to a feeble glow—but even that was enough to reveal the murals on the walls. Crude, painted in what looked like animal blood, they depicted Archduke Maximilian forcing himself on a maiden and being rejected.
“Something’s off,” The Swordsman said.
“What?” The Listener asked.
“These paintings…” The Swordsman pointed. As they went deeper, the scenes grew more horrifying. The Archduke raped the girl, and when she still refused him, he ordered her fingers and toes severed. “They contradict the reliefs outside.”
“The woman got pregnant,” The Firehand followed the murals. “The Archduke had craftsmen build an iron cage with no door. He locked her inside until…”
“She starved to death!” The Pious One gasped. They had reached the end of the murals. “And then… he built this Island of Saints over her grave.”
“The door!” The Swordsman suddenly said. Everyone turned. There, at the end of the dark path, was an old wooden door, its surface wrapped in rotting parchment, faintly reeking.
“Inside…” The Firehand looked unnerved. “Will it be the corpse in the cage?”
A woman’s corpse—pregnant, missing fingers and toes? The Listener shook his head. The cage should hold something alive. A silver treasure beyond compare.
“Enough guessing,” The Swordsman unsheathed his greatsword, pressing it against the door. He shoved recklessly. “We’ll know once we—”
A metal plate shot down from the lintel. In an instant—before anyone could react—The Swordsman’s head went rolling past their feet.
Blood pooled in the darkness. The Listener immediately looked to The Pious One. The child was pressed against the wall, trembling. “I-It’s real!” he stammered. “Only the Scripture on this archway is true!”
The Listener turned to look at the door again. The wooden door stood silently closed, yet it seemed to yawn open like a gaping maw. “Move to the sides,” he ordered.
He was about to step forward when The Firehand stopped him. “Forget it. There’s no need…”
The Listener brushed his hand away and approached the door, scrutinizing it carefully. The door had a frame and a handle but no hinges. He frowned. “Not bright enough. More light!”
The Firehand and The Pious One pressed against the walls, holding their torches up. In the glaring light, he saw it clearly—this wasn’t a door at all. It was a mechanism disguised as one.
Mimicking The Swordsman’s earlier action, he gently pressed against the door. As he did, a thin metal plate slid out from the lintel—the very thing that had severed The Swordsman’s head.
“Let’s go,” The Listener said, easing the pressure and watching as the deadly plate retracted. “This path is a dead end.”
“The Sacred Scripture was just a decoy,” The Pious One said bitterly. “It was meant to lure us into this corridor to die!”
“It doesn’t matter,” The Listener patted his narrow shoulder and turned to leave. “We still have two more chances.”
“What about The Swordsman?” The Firehand crouched beside the headless corpse.
“Nothing we can do,” The Listener didn’t even pause. “He’s out of the game.”
They retreated to the entrance of the arched corridor, where three massive angels spread their arms in welcome. The Listener had taken the middle path last time—and died there. Now, he stared into the pitch-black opening, hesitating before taking a step forward.
“What about the right path?” The Firehand suddenly suggested.
“Why the right?” The Listener asked.
“The correct answer usually isn’t the middle one,” The Firehand said seriously. “It just feels too… obvious.”
The Pious One also looked over. “But the designer is cunning. He used the Sacred Scripture to lure us left, and he might have deliberately set the answer in the middle too.”
“Right,” The Listener decided firmly. “We go right first.”
“Wait,” The Pious One tried to argue. “I think—”
“I’ve already tried the middle.” The Listener didn’t even glance at him, striding straight toward the right path. Without him having to explain, The Pious One and The Firehand understood—he had died there before.
The right corridor was identical to the left—walls painted with the same bloody murals, down to the smallest details.
“Copy-pasted,” The Firehand sneered, waving his torch left and right in the dark passage. Soon, they saw a door—identical to the one in the left corridor, rotten wood wrapped in stinking parchment, blocking their way.
“What now?” The Pious One looked nervous. The Firehand was equally unsettled, glaring at the door. “This copy-paste is just too much…”
The Listener had already stepped forward, standing beneath the door and beckoning them for light.
The Firehand immediately raised his torch. In the flickering glow, The Listener spotted iron hinges in the finely carved doorframe. “This one’s real.”
The Firehand moved to push, but The Listener stopped him. Testing the door like before, he pressed lightly several times, but nothing happened. “Step back,” he said, gripping the cold metal handle. “If we’re unlucky, see you next round!”
He pushed the door open. A gust of cold, musty air rushed into his nostrils. For a moment, they all shivered involuntarily, bracing for death—but no blade-like plate flew out. No arrows, no axes—just an open door leading deeper into the darkness.
“We… did it?” The Pious One gasped in disbelief.
The Listener smiled, ruffling the boy’s fluffy hair affectionately. Signaling to The Firehand, they stepped inside.
Only darkness awaited them. The three of them moved forward like lost souls, disconnected from time and direction. They trudged on for so long that their knees began to ache. The Listener, exhausted, suddenly bumped into something. Raising his torch, he saw—a wall.
Shining the light to either side, he realized—the entire corridor was a dead end!
The Firehand pushed past him, tossing his torch aside and slamming his fists against the wall. “Fuck! Wrong again!”
The Listener stood there, lowering his head wearily. “Let’s go,” he picked up the torch. “It’s almost dawn. We’ll come back tonight.”
Turning, he saw The Pious One holding his torch a few steps away. He forced a weak smile. “Should’ve listened to you.”
The Pious One grinned like a real child. “If it’s not here, it’s in the middle,” he said, cupping a hand to his ear. “We’ll just come back tonight and take it.”
The Listener couldn’t help but laugh, walking over to lightly high-five him.
After Morning Prayer and breakfast, The Listener went to the confessional to pack his belongings. If they succeeded tonight, they’d have to leave immediately. Flint, knives, waterskins—he had prepared everything in advance. As he double-checked his supplies, footsteps approached outside. He froze, quickly hiding the bundle in a pile of junk in the corner and grabbing a broom to feign cleaning.
Suddenly, the door swung open. Two of the High Priest’s lackeys entered. “Listener,” they ordered, “the High Priest wants you.”
Obediently, he followed them to the refectory. Inside the small alcove where the Tabernacle hung, the High Priest sat surrounded by senior monks. Opposite him was an empty chair.
The scene was eerily familiar. The Listener swallowed. That was the same spot where The Mute—the one with dirt under his nails—had once knelt.
“My elder,” he hunched his shoulders and approached the High Priest, kneeling to kiss the hem of his pristine robe in submission. “You summoned me.”
“Rise, child,” the High Priest said kindly, patting his arm. “The Swordsman is missing.”
The Listener feigned confusion. “Since when?”
“He didn’t appear at Morning Prayer,” the High Priest idly cleaned his nails. “Most unusual.” He gestured to his men. “They searched everywhere. He’s nowhere to be found.”
“It’s only been a little over an hour since Morning Prayer. Maybe—”
“Someone saw you with him yesterday,” the High Priest closed his fist around his nails. “After Evening Prayer.”
The Listener went silent. “I—I did speak to him, but—” He looked panicked. “After that, we went our separate ways!”
One of the lackeys stepped forward. “Shall we beat him?”
Without hesitation, the High Priest nodded. “Fetch the water and the old birch rods.”
What had happened to The Mute was about to happen to him! The Listener paled as they stripped off his robe, forcing him face-down over the chair. The enforcers worked swiftly. Soon, the sound of the rod dipping in water reached his ears—followed by a sharp crack. His back went numb, then erupted in burning pain that only grew more excruciating.
“God!” The Listener screamed. Before his cry faded, another lash came down. The skin on his back split open, blood trickling down to his waist.
“Where is The Swordsman?” they demanded. The Listener gritted his teeth, refusing to confess. After a dozen lashes, the alcove door burst open. Someone rushed in. “We’ve searched everywhere. The Listener’s room is clean—but we found this under The Swordsman’s pillow!”
The Listener turned to look—a leather-bound notebook, adorned with ornate brass studs. The High Priest took it, flipping through before ordering the whipping to stop.
“The Swordsman wrote here that if he were ever harmed, the suspect would be—”
No. The Listener could almost guess the name. And it wasn’t the truth!
“—The Convert,” the High Priest snapped the book shut, his voice icy. “Bring him here!”
The Listener’s mouth was gagged with cloth. Not that it mattered—what could he reveal? He was on the verge of finding what he had longed for, on the verge of leaving this place. No one was worth risking that.
Soon, The Convert arrived. The moment he entered and saw the bloodied Listener, his hand instinctively went to his scimitar. The High Priest noticed and said smoothly, “The Swordsman is missing.”
The Convert’s hand paused. He glanced between The Listener and the High Priest before flashing a dazzling smile. “Oh. That was me.”
The Listener whipped his head around, staring at him as if he were an idiot.
Night fell. In the distance, a makeshift wooden frame had been erected before the “King’s” tomb. A figure dangled upside down, swaying in the night breeze.
“That’s The Convert,” The Firehand said, following The Listener and spitting into the grass. “He’s unlucky—taking the fall for us like that.”
The Listener said nothing.
The Pious One spoke up. “Should we cut him down?”
The Listener glanced at him. The boy’s blue eyes were wide with innocence. “If he talks to the High Priest’s men tomorrow to save himself, says he saw us tonight…”
“By then, we’ll be long gone.”
The Pious One looked at him seriously. “One night isn’t enough to get far.”
As they approached the frame, The Convert swayed limply like a corpse. The Listener looked up—his ankles were bound with coarse rope, so thin they seemed on the verge of snapping.
“It’s been twelve hours,” The Firehand turned toward the Female Saint’s tomb. “He won’t last.”
The Listener didn’t move. After a moment of silence, he set down his bundle and pulled out a handleless razor. “Hey, give me a boost.”
“Seriously?” The Firehand was surprised but complied, hoisting him up so he could cut the rope. Catching The Convert, he carefully lowered him to the ground. “Drag him somewhere quiet?”
The Listener crouched, checking The Convert’s pulse before slinging him over his back. “We’re taking him with us.”
The Pious One grabbed the hem of The Convert’s robe, yanking hard. “If we take him, we’re all screwed!”
The Listener was stubborn, dragging the child along while carrying the unconscious Convert, stubbornly pushing into the tomb entrance. The Pious One had no choice. “Then let’s set a time to regroup!”
The Firehand lit a torch. In the golden-red glow, The Listener turned. “What for?”
“With deadweight like him, we might not make it out,” The Pious One reasoned. “Even if we do, we don’t know what’s outside. If we die, regrouping at the same time increases our chances of ending up together again.”
He wasn’t wrong. The Listener nodded. “I need to rest and recover. I usually re-enter the game every forty-eight hours.”
The Pious One thought for a moment. “Fine. Exactly forty-eight hours, down to the minute.”
They entered the passage, their goal clear this time. The Firehand led with the torch, The Pious One in the middle, and The Listener bringing up the rear. Every few steps, he jostled the man on his back, afraid he might die unnoticed. Once or twice, he thought he felt movement—not limbs shifting, but the faintest tilt of the head, The Convert’s face sliding from the hood to press against the nape of his neck.
A sudden warmth made The Listener shiver. Had The Convert’s lips brushed his skin? He couldn’t be sure. “You awake?”
No answer. Whether it was his imagination or not, he felt the faint stirrings continue—soft, secretive, sending tingles down his spine.
They reached the arched corridor. The middle entrance bore the inscription: For the kingdom of heaven is as a man traveling into a far country, but of that day and hour knoweth no man. They strode in, torches swaying, stirring the darkness.
This time, the wooden door appeared quickly—identical to those in the left and right corridors, wrapped in rotting sheepskin parchment. The Firehand and The Pious One instinctively stepped aside, letting The Listener approach the final secret.
He should have set The Convert down. But he couldn’t bring himself to—or rather, he didn’t have the heart to.
Carrying the limp infidel, he pressed one shoulder against the door, his pulse quickening. After searching for so long, he was finally here. In his excitement, he grew careless, shoving forward with too much force.
In the blink of an eye, a metal plate shot down from the lintel—and severed his head clean from his shoulders.
The Pious One screamed, lunging forward to rifle through The Listener’s bundle. Finding the old razor, he plunged it into his own throat without hesitation. Blood bubbled from his lips as he collapsed.
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