A mocking laugh shatters the silence, slicing through the gloom like a well-honed blade. The Apostle's voice, cool and deliberate, fills the cramped corridor. "Not bad, human," she purrs, each syllable a spark that dances off her shimmering wings. Her eyes, deep red and smoldering, betray both amusement and a threat that coils around every word.
Tilus leans against a crumbling wall, his knuckles white from tension. "I'm assuming this was all part of your test?" he spits
The Apostle tilts her head, her lips curling into a feline smile. In one smooth motion, she steps from the shadows. As she draws closer, a single, almost imperceptible caress of her wing brushes against Tilus's cheek. "Test?" she muses, arching a brow. "No, no—consider it an unveiling. I merely needed to see what cinders lie beneath your ash."
Tilus's eyes narrow, a storm of defiance gathering behind his gaze. "And you couldn't have warned me?" His voice trembles between frustration and bitter humor as he wipes dirt and ash from his clothes.
Her laugh, soft and dangerous, rings out again. "Would warning you have changed anything?" she replies, her tone as sharp as shattered glass. "Trials aren't about planning—they strip you bare until only your raw self remains."
"Your words… sound like something a Constellation would spout," Tilus retorts
The Apostle's wings twitch in a deliberate display of power, the movement both elegant and predatory. "Perhaps," she concedes with a smirk that widens. "But while those distant lights burn indifferently, I prefer to hover close, where every crack, every flaw, is revealed up close."
A moment's silence follows—a silence heavy with the promise of what's to come. Then, in a tone almost conversational, she adds, "You earned your stigma today. A badge most mortals would kill for."
Tilus's voice is low, almost a whisper. "It doesn't feel like a victory… it feels like a weight."
Her eyes glimmer with something akin to pride mingled with cruelty. "Good. For if it were easy, you'd learn nothing. Power is never a comfort—it's a series of hard questions that gnaw at you until you doubt everything."
Tilus's hand tightens into a fist, and the air around him seems to pulse with his inner turmoil.
The Apostle moves with languid grace, perching on a broken column as if she had always belonged there. With each subtle motion—a tilt of her head, a slow unfurling of her dark, feathered wings—she exudes a magnetic danger. "What have you borne so far? It's merely a warm-up. The next stage will be a maelstrom, a children's game by comparison, and time is a luxury you no longer have."
Tilus's scowl deepens, and his voice takes on an edge of incredulity. "What do you mean ?""
A slow, knowing smile flickers across the Apostle's face as her crimson eyes brighten. "Oh, dear Tilus, time here is a fickle beast. You've barely spent an hour in this place, yet out there the clock ticks in a rhythm all its own. Three days—three brutal, unyielding days until Stage 2 at Co Loa Citadel."
His jaw clenches, the weight of her words sinking deep. "And this stigma—what exactly does it do?"
The Apostle waves a hand dismissively, her tone bored. "You've got the journal, don't you? Use it, you had a cheat item. We've given you enough tools. Besides, this isn't about me holding your hand. You'll figure it out when the time comes."
Tilus takes a step forward. "You love being cryptic, don't you?"
Her wings unfurl slightly, a flicker of dark energy trailing their edges. "Cryptic? No, I'm merely patient. Let me leave you with this: The Journal is a gift for what you had done, if others constellations and incarnations, the people who are blessed like you know about it… well you know about the consequences."
Tilus's brow furrows, but before he can respond, the sound of stone grinding against stone fills the space. A door materializes behind him, creaking open.
"Go on," the Apostle says, waving him off with a lazy smile. "Your next stage awaits. Do try not to die—you've only just begun to get interesting."
Without another word, Tilus turns toward the door. He steps through without looking back, even as the Apostle's mocking laughter echoes behind him.
[You have passed the Apostle's Trial. Rewards: 3 Life Pills, 1,000 Coins.]
[Stage 2: Co Loa Citadel. Time Remaining: 3 Days.]
The door closes with a resonant finality. The Apostle reclines on a makeshift throne built from shattered stone and forgotten memories, her wings folding in a calculated display of ownership. A wry smile twists her lips, now edged with something sinister.
"Well, the fun has just begun," she murmurs, her voice soft but laced with anticipation. "I've played my part, just as you wished... Master."
Her gaze drifts upward, as if addressing someone—or something—far beyond the confines of the space. The faint shimmer of dark energy ripples around her wings, an unspoken promise hanging in the air.
"Let's see if the boy can live up to your expectations," she adds with a sly smirk, leaning back as the shadows deepen around her.
Tilus groaned as consciousness clawed its way back to him, the dull ache in his body a cruel reminder of the Constellation trial. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung dry, and the throbbing heat of the Stigma on his arm made it hard to focus.
Tilus gasps as he jerks awake, his body drenched in cold sweat. The dull, flickering light of a dying fire illuminates the crumbling walls around him. The stench of damp stone and ash fills the air, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the wasteland he just left.
He touches his right hand instinctively, feeling the faint warmth of the stigma etched into his skin. It's real. The trial wasn't just some nightmare—it happened.
Tilus sits up slowly, his muscles aching as if he'd been physically beaten. His thoughts race, but his heart feels... different. Not whole, not healed, but quieter. As if the endless storm of guilt and self-loathing had finally begun to settle.
The stigma burns faintly as he examines the mark on his hand, a memory flickering in his mind: his parents, their voices, their faces. This time, he doesn't shy away. Instead, he holds the memory close, letting it anchor him.
"Alive again. Against all odds. Fantastic,"he thought, his lips twitching in a dry smirk.
Tilus dragged himself into a sitting position.He extended his hand, willing the familiar system interface to appear. The faint glow of the Status Window materialized in front of him, displaying rows of neatly organized text.
[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Tilus
Title: Inheritor of Qliphoth
Level: 5
Status: Normal
Attributes:
Health: 90/100Mana: 10/10Magic: 10Aura: 8Strength: 8Vitality: 13Dexterity: 7Luck: 7
Coins: 147,632 (Usable in the Shop)
Stigma:
Blessing of Azazel: Using your own fear or the fear states of others, you can convert emotion into magic power.
Cost: A portion of your soul/lifespan per use.Soul Percentage Remaining: 100%Lifespan Remaining: 63 years
Inventory:
[Journal of Unknown Fate] (Rare): Contains cryptic future events, known only to its holder.[Pill of Life x3]: Slows infection rate of the C Virus.[Rusty Sword]: A barely serviceable weapon.
Tilus winced as he scanned the numbers. "Health: 90/100. Mana: 10/10. Soul: 100%. The Stigma: Blessing of Azazel, sigh he knows the Constellation loves their power with a cost but his soul or lifespan, they are asking him to die trying to survive.
He scrolled to his Inventory, his eyes locking on the journal sitting at the bottom of the list. Reaching his hand into the air and clicking on the screen, a book appears in front of him, he stumbles to reach out to it, the worn leather cover familiar beneath his fingertips. For all its weight—literal and metaphorical—it had kept him alive so far.
The neat, unyielding script of The one who opposed Fate entry stares back at him, its cryptic words heavy with implication
"The one who opposed Fate—a figure of unknown origin—wields the power of the Qliphoth Tree.
Stigma of the Qliphoth Tree once dominated demon kings; now, it is but a shard of that ancient might.
Demon Kings: Satan, Lilith, Asmodeus… and Azazel—demon of fear, who feeds on the terror of others to forge power.
Blessing of Azazel: Convert fear into strength. Beware—overindulgence leads to Corrosion: increased might at the price of sanity.
First activation requires a portion of your lifespan."
Tilus leaned back, exhaling slowly."So, fate's got a wicked sense of humor: get powerful by flirting with self-destruction."
There was no sugarcoating it—every time he tapped into this forbidden gift, a piece of him would vanish, his essence chipped away like erosion on stone. And yet, the alternative wasn't exactly an option.
Tilus closed the Journal with a measured snap, the silence after its cryptic pronouncement settling like dust in the air. The cost was high, but so was the price of inaction. In a tone that bordered on amused resignation, he mused, "Well, guess I'll have to dance with death a little longer than I planned."