Erasmus' refusal hung in the air like an unfinished thought, a crack in the pristine surface of their collective certainty. It wasn't an outright rejection—no, it was subtler, more insidious. The cultists stood frozen, their smiles unyielding, yet something darker was creeping beneath their calm exteriors. The atmosphere was thick with hesitation. It wasn't defiance they felt, but confusion—a quiet dissonance, something gnawing at the edges of their minds, something they could neither name nor understand. They had never been denied before, never had their expectations fractured so. The weight of his resistance was palpable, like a rift in the air, a tension that swelled with every passing second.
The Smiling Man made no immediate response. He simply tilted his head, his grotesque grin stretching wider, its mockery unchanged. There was no anger, no fury in his expression—only the unsettling calm of one accustomed to having control. But the others, they were faltering. Their stillness was no longer as certain as it had been, their composure beginning to slip at the edges.
The woman nearest him, with an Ebonmoth gently resting in her hair, opened her mouth, only to close it again, her lips twitching with uncertainty. Her hands, once steady, now twitched at her sides, reaching for something—anything—that could offer an explanation, an answer that should have been there but was inexplicably absent. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the almost imperceptible flutter of the moth's wings.
Good.
Erasmus, eyes narrowing with focus, took a slow step back. Not in retreat. Not in fear. Just a slight, deliberate shift. It was an adjustment meant to unbalance them, to disrupt the fragile equilibrium that held their faith together. Invisible eyes pressed against him, the collective gaze of the cultists piercing into his mind, but Erasmus' face remained an unmoving mask, unreadable. He could feel it then—something else. Subtle, threading through the layers of their thoughts, tugging gently at the edges of his consciousness. It wasn't mind control, no, not domination. It was something far more insidious.
Acceptance.
The Ebonmoths had not erased their will. They had merely dulled it—flattened it, like a dull knife scraping away the sharpness of resistance. They had stripped away the parts of their minds that questioned, that doubted, that fought. The parts that could resist. Erasmus knew it now: they were pliable, moldable—but only just. He could shape them, but it would take care, precision. A misstep, a single wrong word, and the balance would tip.
"I cannot follow you," Erasmus repeated, his voice low but clear. It was not the loud defiance of rebellion. No, his words were slower now, deliberate—as if he were sharing a revelation, a truth instead of resistance. "It is against my faith."
For a long moment, there was only silence. The cultists stood motionless, their smiles unbroken, their faces blank slates of indecision.
Then, it happened. A shift. A subtle tremor passed through them like the stirrings of something long dormant. It was so faint, so delicate that only those who paid attention would have noticed it. His words—faith—had touched something deep within them. The concept was foreign to their present state, yet it wasn't entirely alien. Faith was something that had been buried beneath the layers of obedience, passivity, and blind submission. It was there, just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to call it forth.
The woman closest to him took a tentative step forward, her voice barely a whisper. "Faith..."
It wasn't a question, not really. It was more like an echo, a fragile attempt to cling to something, to hold on before it slipped completely away. The word sounded strange on her lips, as if she hadn't spoken it in ages—if ever at all. Erasmus inclined his head, his gaze steady and unwavering. Yes. There it was. The fracture. The crack in their certainty.
A fracture, small but widening.
He continued, his tone soft but firm, each word deliberate. "To leave my space, to abandon my path—it would bring suffering. And suffering corrupts the self."
Suffering.
The word landed with a soft thud, rippling through the group. It wasn't a foreign concept to them; in fact, it was far too familiar. Their smiles faltered—just slightly, just enough to be noticed. They had been stripped of their fear, their despair, their discontent—but not of the knowledge of suffering. The Ebonmoths had removed their memories, yes, but the truths that had once shaped them—the bitter, painful truths—remained. And Erasmus had weaponized it.
A man to his right, eyes wide, twitched violently, his breath hitching as though struck by an invisible blow. "But suffering is—"
He stopped. The words withered in his throat, unfinished, unable to find purchase.
Erasmus said nothing. He simply watched, his gaze fixed and unwavering. He knew this moment, this fragile hesitation, was everything. It was the fracture widening, the crack in their certainty deepening.
The Smiling Man's grin stretched ever so slightly, but there was something different about it now—an edge of anticipation, a subtle shift that was almost imperceptible. He was watching closely. He was waiting.
The cultists were crumbling. Not in body. Not yet in spirit. But they were faltering, slipping, just enough to make their facade of unity shaky. And Erasmus knew: he had them.
With a small, almost imperceptible movement, Erasmus took another step forward—just enough to loom over them. Then, with quiet certainty, he spoke the words that felt like they had always been his, words that rolled off his tongue with an eerie ease:
"I walk the path of the Eternal Ascendant."
The words settled in the air, vibrating with power that didn't come from the divine, but from the certainty in his voice. The cultists leaned in—not physically, but mentally, spiritually. It wasn't curiosity anymore. No, it was something deeper—something that reached beneath their skin and into their souls. They were drawn to him, to the words, to the promise of a truth they couldn't deny.
Erasmus continued, his voice now a measured rhythm, each syllable carefully chosen, perfectly placed.
"The Creed of the Eternal Ascendant teaches one thing above all: the self must rise. The self must be unburdened. To be chained to the will of another is stagnation. To suffer is to weaken. To weaken is to stray from the path. We do not allow suffering."
A pause. A breath. His words hung in the air, a weight pressing down on them. The cracks in their understanding deepened, and their faces, though vacant, shifted ever so slightly. Their breaths grew shallow, uncertain, as if trying to comprehend what they had just heard.
They understood.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
The woman blinked slowly, her lips parting as she whispered, "Then to make you suffer…"
She stopped. The words tasted wrong, like a poison in the air.
Erasmus didn't speak. He simply watched, his gaze heavy, watching the completion of the thought. He knew it was coming, had known it would.
"Would be wrong."
A tremor rippled through the group, a change, an unsettling shift that passed between them like a wave. They turned toward each other, searching for something, anything—answers, reassurance, strength. But they found none. They were alone with their own contradiction.
Erasmus allowed himself a nod, slow and deliberate. "Yes. And to force me would bring suffering. Would you wish that upon me?"
The question hung in the air, and the cultists twitched, their bodies frozen, smiles cracking at the edges. Their eyes darted between one another, seeking something solid to grasp onto. To wish suffering upon another—was that not what they had been taught? Was that not their way?
But Erasmus had refused them. And that… that was wrong, wasn't it? Shouldn't they have the power to make him submit?
The contradiction gnawed at them, tearing at the seams of their understanding.
The Smiling Man watched silently.
And then—
The cultists stepped back.
Not in defeat. Not in rejection.
But in acceptance.
Erasmus had carved a space for himself within their faith—not through force, not through fear, but through the undeniable truth of his words. He had not simply bent them to his will. No. He had planted something within them, something they could not ignore. His faith was real now—not in substance, not in belief—but in acceptance.
Erasmus exhaled, the tension lifting from his shoulders. Yet his mind remained sharp, never resting, always turning. He had taken the first step.
And now, a question lingered in the back of his mind: how much further could he go?
Behind the cultists, the Smiling Man finally stirred.
A subtle shift, a barely noticeable tilt of his head. His grin didn't widen. It didn't shrink. It simply… shifted.
As though he had been waiting for this moment all along.
As though Erasmus had done exactly what he wanted.
Erasmus noticed the change. And this time, when he nodded, it wasn't just a calculation. It was acknowledgment.