"Well then, keep your secrets," I muttered internally, as he closed the door behind me.
I moved toward the stairs, but as soon as I was sure no one was looking, I slipped the small knife from the healing room into my pocket. It wasn't a warrior's blade, but it could still be deadly if the right pressure was applied in the right place.
Did I really need to work for the Church? I was grateful for Tav's help—sort of—and I didn't mind paying off a debt, but tying myself to them? That felt like a step too far.
Still... Tav had said he'd find me if I didn't. And something about him made me believe he could. That creep probably had some other Blessing that let him sniff me out like a dog.
I was broke. Starving. If this favor meant food or coin...
Fuck it. I'm going.
The streets were quieter now. The golden inlays on the buildings glinted in the late afternoon light—clean, polished, fake. The whole city looked like it had been scrubbed by a god's hand.
I pressed a palm to my side, feeling the little knife hidden beneath the folds of my new brown tunic. It wasn't much. Wouldn't scare anyone. But it reminded me I wasn't completely helpless.
Tav had said to go to the Church of Heavenly Humility. Work off your debt. Sure. I'd go. But I wasn't about to kneel for the people who'd ruined the world. If this "favor" meant serving the Priestesses directly, I'd shove that knife into their throats before I scrubbed their floors.
Assuming I could even lift my arm right now.
I flexed my fingers. The pain was still there—dull, achy—but manageable, thanks to whatever Charity-blessing Tav had used. My body felt brittle, hollow. Three hundred fifty-nine years, and now I was a relic. A cracked sword, rusted over.
Still, I had to move. Pride alone was pushing one foot in front of the other.
I stopped a passerby—middle-aged, shaved head, brown tunic, same lifeless expression as the rest. "Hey. Where's Humility's Advent?"
He stared at me like I'd asked if dirt was edible. Blank. Then, after an awkward beat, he raised a hand and pointed north. "Just right there, Gracious sir."
A massive structure loomed in the distance. Dome-topped, arched gates, thick golden rings curling around its base like chains. At least fifteen stories high, towering over everything else. The symbol of interlocking circles—same as the ones etched into the others—was carved into the stone above the entrance. A giant golden bell crowned the top.
Then it rang.
A deep, booming note swept across the city, thick and slow like it was dragging time itself along with it. No one reacted. No flinches. No pauses. Just life continuing in lockstep. Must be normal—probably how they told time here.
I kept walking toward the Church, slow and stiff, dragging my aching limbs along like dead weight. People stared. Couldn't blame them. I looked like I'd clawed my way out of a grave—long, filthy hair, sunken eyes, a face half-covered in scruff. The only thing helping me blend in was the brown cloth Tav had tossed my way. Without it, I'd probably have been tackled on sight.
The doors to the Church slid open just like the clinic's—same sterile white, same quiet hiss. It struck me again: these buildings were all clones of each other. Like the whole city was made from the same mold.
Inside, a few people milled about. Some were clearly workers, scrubbing the floors, tending to flowers by the marble stairs. Others moved with purpose, likely attendants. A few knelt in front of wall-mounted shrines, heads bowed in silent prayer. Every motion was calm, efficient. Dutiful.
One of the attendants approached me—a woman, mid-thirties maybe, face calm, hands steepled together in a prayer gesture. She dipped her head. "Good afternoon, Gracious sir."
I blinked. "Afternoon."
That seemed to throw her off. Her polite expression faltered into a slight frown, then shifted into something more understanding. "Ah. You're a Waiter."
I sighed and waved it off. "Yeah, yeah. Centuries in magical limbo, yadda yadda. Laugh it up."
"You were not in Waiting for nothing," she said sharply, her tone suddenly firm. Then she bowed again, hands still pressed. "In this domain, we treat all people with reverence. And they, in turn, treat us the same. No one is greater than another. That is the teaching of Humility. Follow it, Gracious sir."
So that was their game. Humility's grand idea. Everyone the same, no status, no greatness. No warriors honored, no servants humbled. A flat, gray world pretending it's virtuous. If everyone's great, then no one is.
Still, I wasn't in shape to fight ideals today. I bowed stiffly, copying her earlier motion. "Of course, Gracious Madam."
Her smile returned, warm now. "You're a quick learner. Most Waiters aren't so... agreeable."
Not agreeable. Right. I was holding back everything I wanted to say.
"What brings you here, if I may ask? You're quite early for Daily Worship."
Daily worship? I didn't want to know what that meant. "I'm here to repay a debt," I said. "The healer in the North ward sent me."
"Ah, of course. Waiters rarely have any coin after their return," she said, serene as ever. "Then you'll assist the workers on the upper floors. We're preparing for tonight's Worship. Follow me, Gracious sir."
I clenched my teeth and nodded. Another flight of stairs. Another pointless task. But I followed anyway.
For now.
Without a word, the attendant turned and began ascending the spiral staircase—at a pace I could barely match. I followed, breath ragged, each step grinding against sore muscles and half-healed wounds. My knees screamed, and my lungs burned like I'd swallowed smoke.
As we climbed, we passed through multiple levels of the Church.
One floor opened into a sprawling library, its shelves packed to bursting with massive tomes bound in white leather and gold thread. Every book was pristine. Holy texts, probably, all copies of the same brainwashing scripture.
The next floor was lined with tight rows of bunk beds, all made with military precision. No clutter, no belongings—just folded brown tunics at the foot of each mattress. A sleeping hall for the workers and attendants, no doubt. Uniform, impersonal. Like living in a hive.
Then came the baths. Steam clung to the walls, curling in the air from private stalls and glinting off mirrors far cleaner than anything I'd ever seen in my time. Silver faucets. Glossy ceramic tubs. Bottles of thick liquids labeled with symbols I couldn't read. Nothing like the rough rivers or buckets I used back in the old world.
We kept climbing.
One floor below the top, the scent hit me—food. Thick, starchy, not entirely pleasant, but still enough to make my stomach tighten with a dull ache. Cooks stood over steaming cauldrons, stirring thick pastes with wooden paddles. My mouth watered. I hadn't eaten anything real since waking up—unless lizard counted.
"Can I get something to eat?" I asked, panting as I caught up to the woman. We'd been walking nearly five minutes, and she hadn't broken stride once.
"You must pay your dues first," she replied without turning. "Then earn coins to purchase your portion. This is Humility, not Charity, Gracious sir."
I let out a dry laugh. So much for being virtuous.
You'd think, after centuries of people being spat out of magical limbo by Patience's curse, someone would've set up a damn support program. But no. Here, you wake up starving, broken, and broke—and you're told to clean floors before you're allowed to eat.
Honestly, the forest was starting to look good again. At least there, the lizards didn't ask for payment.
"We're here," she said abruptly, stopping just as I was zoning out.
I didn't catch myself in time. My momentum shoved me into her shoulder. She stumbled slightly but caught herself with a dancer's grace, straightening immediately. Her expression flickered—first irritation, then back to that peaceful, neutral smile.
"Sorry," I muttered.
She didn't answer. Just stepped aside.
We'd reached the top. No ceiling, just open air. Wind curled around us, cool and sharp. Overhead, the enormous bell I'd seen earlier loomed on a stone platform, suspended by thick metal beams. A figure sat beside it, back turned, likely the bell-ringer. The sky had begun to darken. Evening already. It had been a full day since I woke up in that field—and I was no closer to anything. Still weak. Still lost.
Light droplets of rain began to fall. They tapped against my cheeks and shoulders, soaking into the cloth of my tunic. I squinted up at the dark clouds forming overhead.
"So," I said, rubbing my arms for warmth, "what do I have to do?"
She didn't hesitate. Just handed me a coarse broom she'd been carrying all along. "Sweep," she said. "Then mop. Then wipe the walls. The floor must shine before Daily Worship."
"Daily Worship..." I echoed. "How long until that?"
She gave me the same odd look the man outside had—like I was a confused child asking about the sky. Then her eyes lit with realization.
"Thirty minutes. Give or take," she said. "Since you don't know... everyone in the city will be here. Including the Heavenly Virtue Priestess herself." She gestured to the open room. "This floor must be spotless."
Humility... was coming here.
I didn't show it, but inside, my pulse quickened. Finally. After everything, after centuries in Waiting, after waking up broken—this was the first real opportunity. I could already feel the knife pressed against my belt, warmed by sweat and anticipation. No, I wasn't at full strength. But maybe, just maybe, I could get close enough.
The fallout would be chaos, sure. But I doubted anyone would mourn a dead Priestess. Especially not her. Humility was just another tyrant in plain robes.
I scanned the room again. Big space. Bare walls. No altar, no platform—nothing to indicate where she'd stand. And that was a problem. I had no idea what she looked like. If she really lived her virtue, she'd look like everyone else—shaved head, brown robes, same blank devotion. Blending in was the whole point.
Fine. I could adapt.
Time to clean.
. . .
The bell rang. Not like before—this time it was thunder crashing through bone since I was inside the damn church itself. My skull rattled. My teeth buzzed.
Thirty minutes gone. I could already hear footsteps rising from below, a tide of bodies climbing the stairs. Civilians. Worshippers. Maybe guards. Did this place have any guards? I didn't even notice them at the entrance of the reformed city.
I glanced at my work. The floor was mostly done, but only a quarter of the walls had been wiped down. Cleaning one-handed was a nightmare—each motion pulled at sore muscles and half-healed joints. Every sweep felt like a death sentence. Rain still trickled in, soaking my tunic and turning grit into sludge.
I was soaked, exhausted, half-blind with sweat—and no one had come to help. Of course they hadn't. This wasn't about work. It was a test. Humility's idea of penance. Bleed your pain into the floor until it shines.
The dust I'd collected sat in a dented metal pan by the corner. I'd dump it later—if I didn't collapse first.
I told myself it didn't matter. That all this would be over soon.
Because if I killed Humility, Tav wouldn't be owed anything anymore. That would be the repayment—more than he could ask for. Doing what his precious dissenters never could. That was the kind of thing Reygir used to do. And maybe still could.
The real question was how.
No platform meant no clear shot. No guards meant no distraction. And if I couldn't even identify her face…
I'd have to be smarter than I liked to be. Strategy had always been Alfred's game, not mine.
Still—I had a knife. I had a target. I had motive.
Now I just needed a moment.
Alfred...
"Rest in peace, friend," I thought, pressing the words into my skull like a blade into flesh. "I'll avenge you today."
But even as I made that vow, a bitter doubt crept in.
I had no plan. Not really. Just a knife, a crowd, and a name. My only hope was that Humility would do something obvious—lead a chant, stand before the others, shine like a false idol. If she showed herself, I'd strike.
But my heart pounded harder than it should've. Not with rage—nerves.
Reygir never used to get nervous.
But that Reygir was dead. That Reygir had strength. Precision. Allies.
Now I was alone, half-crippled, holding a glorified scalpel, trying to assassinate a demigod.
No time for doubt. Civilians were already filing up the stairs. Ninth floor. Fifth. Second. The crowd began pouring in from the halls, brown-robed bodies filing into neat rows like pieces on a board.
Chatter. Movement. Then stillness.
A hush dropped over the room like a shroud. I scanned the space, breath tight.
Nothing stood out. No platform. No guards. No figure bathed in light.
Had she not arrived yet?
Or—more likely—was she already here?
I pressed a hand to the knife at my belt. Cool. Solid. Reassuring. I'd know her when she acted. When she opened her mouth to speak, or moved to the center—
Wait.
Something was wrong.
A ripple was passing through the crowd. People shifted—not all at once, but in waves. A person would step aside. Then another. Then the space would close behind them, seamless, like a current moving through water.
Someone was walking.
But I couldn't see who.
Or what.
I narrowed my eyes. Still nothing. Just people making room for... air?
Was it a child? A servant? Someone tiny?
No. That ripple was too consistent. Too orderly. From the far wall, it inched toward the center—toward me.
The crowd didn't speak. They just moved.
And then the space reached my side. Fifth person from me stepped aside. Then fourth. Then third. Then second.
And then—
Something bumped me.
Not from behind. Not the side. Directly in front.
I staggered slightly from the impact. A body. I felt it. Soft pressure against my chest. Brushed against my legs.
But no one was there.
Nothing.
I stared, heart hammering now for a different reason. A sick kind of cold crept up my spine.
Then murmurs. From the crowd. Quiet, but tense. Like they saw something I didn't.
What the hell is happening—
"You really can't see me, can you?"
The voice dropped like velvet and stone. Soft, but weighty. It carried through the entire room without effort.
And it came from directly in front of me.
Right where the bump had landed.
I stumbled backward, crashing into someone behind me. They hissed and flinched away like I'd coughed blood in their face. A wave of bodies recoiled from my presence, as if my skin had become contagious.
I was shivering.
Not from cold.
But from the thing in front of me—no, around me. The dread in my spine spread like a poison, creeping up my neck, curling beneath my ribs.
Only one kind of people could do this. Make people sleep for eternity. Kill from miles away. Erase their own presence.
Priestesses.
Her voice floated from the space in front of me, soaked in power and velvet.
"What's your name?"
I opened my mouth, and my anger lunged out like a blade I couldn't sheath.
"Reygir Bondyek. Mercenary of the Steel Claw. The one who's going to kill every last Virtue Priestess. And you're fucking Humility."
Gasps erupted through the room. Audible. Harsh. Like a collective intake of breath before a firestorm.
The crowd lurched back again, as if my name was a curse, my words a spell of death. Someone actually fell. I heard a stifled sob. Another began muttering a desperate prayer.
Good. Let them know what I was. Let her know.
I locked my eyes on the space in front of me. Waiting. Daring her to answer.
"Oh ho ho!" she laughed, rich and amused. "You're an arrogant one. But I'll overlook it. You're a Waiter, after all."
The voice slid into my left ear like a whisper poured straight into my skull.
I spun, heart stuttering, hand flashing to my belt. The knife was in my hand now, trembling slightly. Not from weakness—rage. Terror. Maybe both.
She wasn't in front of me anymore. She was beside me.
This was worse than I thought. An enemy who blends into the crowd is one thing. But one who vanishes? Who could breathe down your neck and leave no trace?
How the hell was I supposed to fight that?
"Fighting would be of no use," Humility said as if reading my thoughts. How could I be sure she couldn't? The voice was farther now. Right side. Calm. Distant. Detached.
She was moving around me like a wolf circling a crippled deer. She could've slit my throat ten times by now. That meant she wasn't here to kill me. Not yet.
Which meant—
She was toying with me. Or worse—recruiting.
I grit my teeth. I'd die before I joined their twisted little cult.
Think. Reygir, think.
I scanned the floor if I could spot her footprints since I couldn't see her. No dust. I'd cleaned it. Stupid.
No footsteps. Of course not. Her ability must've masked everything—sound, sight, maybe even smell.
But then-
The crowd.
Their eyes were darting.
Earlier, they moved for her. They must've seen something. And now—
Yes.
They were staring.
Not only at me.
But at two places.
One: me.
The other—just a few paces to my left.
That had to be her.
No footsteps. No shadow. No scent.
But the eyes of the faithful betrayed her.
And now I had something to go on.
It was now or never.
I tightened my grip on the knife until my knuckles turned bone white. I had no idea how tall she was or how far to strike to reach her vitals. I'd have to guess—go in blind and pray my instincts hadn't rotted completely.
This was it. My chance to carve a message into the bones of the world. The first of them to fall would be Humility. After that, I'd hunt down the others, build my army, and bury every last trace of their divine tyranny.
I lunged—deliberately in the wrong direction, keeping up the illusion that I still couldn't see her.
Then I twisted.
I spun my arm at the last second, adjusting for height, and slashed in an arc that would catch either her neck or skull, depending on where she stood.
The blade cut air.
"Impressive."
Her voice slid in a second before the impact did. My arm stopped cold.
Her hand had caught mine mid-swing—clean, effortless. The same arm that once held war daggers now trembled in her grasp.
Old Reygir would've never been stopped like this.
But I wasn't him anymore.
Pain shot through my wrist as she twisted it backward. My fingers gave in and the blade clattered to the floor.
"For someone so saturated with arrogance, you managed to see through my Holy Mandate. I must commend that."
She wrenched my arm again, forcing me to one knee.
A warrior—a former commander—brought low by an invisible hand.
Around me, the crowd stared. I scanned their faces: pity, anger, neutrality. No one moved. No one helped.
Not even Tav, the North healer. He didn't stand out in the crown, but he looked. . .ashamed, like he couldn't believe I was doing this.
Fuck him.
Cowards. Sheep. She was right in front of them—visible to their eyes, vulnerable. If we joined together, we could overwhelm her. Even without blades, fists would do.
But before I could even bark a word, her voice filled the room again, slicing through my rage like a calm blade.
"I give you one last option, Sir Bondyek. Accept the virtue of humility. Let your pride be washed away. Or suffer the weight of your sins."
I spat on the floor.
"Reygir bows to no one."
Even though I couldn't see her, I felt the smile in her silence. Perverse. Patient.
"So be it."
Her hand released my wrist—and a heartbeat later, settled on my chest.
The touch wasn't physical. It reached deeper.
It pervaded my soul.
I am the strongest mercenary warrior in the North. Hell, in the entire country.
The wielder of twin obsidian blades—legendary, earned through agony and endless training. I deserve every good thing that happens to me.
I am an incredible man. Strong. Respected. A good friend.
I am Reygir Bondyek.
Wrong.
None of that was true anymore.
My pride . . . broke.