The tunnel floor sloped downward in slow, steady descent.
At first it was just wet stone and rotted bone. Then carvings began to appear—half-erased symbols on the walls, glyphs chiseled in haste, not reverence. Prayers once sacred now smeared by soot and moss.
Kael ran a finger across a broken inscription and grimaced.
"These were blessings."
Leonis didn't stop walking. "They're wards now."
Kael tilted his head. "You think something down here scares them?"
"I think," Leonis said, "that they know the gods stopped listening."
They reached the bottom of the slope and stepped into silence.
Not just quiet.
Silence.
That deep, absolute kind—like the world had been vacuum-sealed.
Then the cavern opened.
A vast subterranean expanse stretched out before them. Crumbling buildings made of bone-colored stone leaned against one another like drunk old men. Fires flickered in metal bowls. Makeshift lanterns swung on chains above cracked streets. People—too thin, too still, too scarred—moved through the ruins like ghosts pretending to be alive.
Kael breathed out.
"Welcome to hell."
Leonis didn't reply. He was already moving.
Eyes followed them.
From alleys. From rooftops. From behind torn curtains.
Kael kept one hand on a dagger, the other on his hip, fingers twitching rhythmically—like he was counting enemies in his head.
But no one attacked.
They just watched.
And whispered.
"He's come."
"The Ash Prince."
"He carries the hunger."
Leonis moved through it all like a man walking through a memory. The city didn't surprise him. If anything, it seemed to be remembering him, too.
Kael finally caught up.
"This place isn't abandoned."
"No," Leonis said. "It's exiled."
They reached the city's heart just past a shattered fountain of crystalized blood. It stood before a structure that seemed to rise out of the rock itself—a chapel made of black stone, older than the Pantheon, its spire broken and leaning like a snapped neck.
No glyphs. No sigils. No light.
Just a door. Open.
Leonis stepped inside.
Kael paused at the threshold.
"…Sure we don't want to knock?"
Leonis was already through.
Kael followed.
Inside, the chapel was worse.
The walls were covered in faces—not painted. Carved. Hundreds. Thousands. Faces frozen in fear, agony, madness. Not ornamental. Not art.
Collected.
At the far end, instead of an altar, there stood a chair of bone.
And in it: a man.
Draped in a blood-colored robe, bald, with skin so pale it nearly shimmered under the low torchlight. His hands were folded over a book chained to his lap. His eyes were closed. And still… he spoke.
"Leonis Virelain. First Revenant of the God-Eater Line. Welcome."
Kael stiffened. "That's never a good sign."
Leonis stopped a dozen paces from the chair.
"You're the Collector."
The man opened his eyes.
They were entirely black. Not empty—full. Too full.
"Among other things."
Kael muttered, "Do we bow? Bleed? Offer our memories?"
The Collector smiled.
"None of those. I already have your names. I want your intentions."
Leonis spoke simply.
"I'm going to kill the gods."
The Collector's smile widened. Not joy. Not amusement.
Recognition.
"Then you'll need more than power," he said.
He reached into his robe and pulled out a vial—filled with silver-black liquid.
"This is knowledge. Knowledge costs memory."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Whose?"
The Collector didn't answer.
He simply offered the vial to Leonis.
And said:
"Drink this… and forget who you were."