CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Lightbringer

  Somewhere in Belgium

  The old church stood silent in the dark, its once-grand facade marred by graffiti and neglect. Bright, rude scrawls covered the ancient stone walls, while wooden boards replaced shattered stained glass windows, barely holding back the chill of the night air. Inside, flickering candles cast a dim glow, revealing rows of worn wooden benches where people sat huddled, their faces tense with a mix of hope and doubt.

  A woman stood in front of the altar. Her head was cleanly shaven, and she wore a simple white robe that gracefully draped over her body, accentuating the swell of her belly and the way she was cradling it with affection. A blue circle painted on the fabric stretched across her chest, thin blue lines trickling down like streams of tears. She looked over the gathered crowd, her eyes warm and welcoming as she met each gaze in turn.

  “I know the pain in your hearts, children,” she said softly, her voice carrying through the hollow space. She paused, her gaze lingering on the faces staring back at her. “I also know many of you carry doubts about this journey, about the light we seek, even about me.” A gentle smile curved her lips, a hint of amusement softening her expression as she brushed a hand over her robe. “I know how silly I might look to you and the rest of the world.”

  She stepped forward, barefoot on the cold, cracked tiles, her movements slow and deliberate. “Doubt,” she continued, lifting a hand toward the ceiling, “is the first step toward true belief. It is hope laid bare, ready to grow into faith.” Her voice grew more fervent, each word reverberating in the silence. “We walk this path not because it is easy, or because it will erase the pain of the past, or bring back those we have lost.” Her gaze swept over the room, acknowledging the grief and longing etched into every face. “We walk this path because it is the path of light. The only path that truly brings us closer to the divine, to the blessed.”

  One by one, she passed down the aisle, calling each of them by name. Her familiarity with their stories, their pain, was clear in the way she spoke. It was as if she had memorized each of their lives from their brief time together. Her soft murmurs of encouragement seemed to lift the weight from their shoulders, if only for a moment. When she returned to the front, she turned to face them once more, her smile more delicate now, almost fragile as she gently touched her belly.

  “But why take my word?” she asked, spreading her arms wide. “I have only heard whispers and searched for it, just as you are now beginning to do.” Her eyes sparkled with something close to reverence. “So, I bring you news of one that isn’t a Lightseeker but has walked the path, felt the warmth of light, spoken to its angels as an equal. I present to you, children,” she said as she held out her hands towards the large wooden door at the entrance, “the one who walks with Angels.”

  At that, the heavy church doors creaked open. The sound echoed through the old building. Heads turned, whispers rising among the congregation. Three men stepped into the church, the first one hooded, his face hidden in shadow. The other two, dressed in robes with a red orb painted on the front, followed closely, shutting the doors behind them with a resounding thud, then positioning themselves as silent sentinels on either side.

  The hooded figure moved forward, his steps echoing across the broken tiles as he ignored the murmurs and curious stares. He walked with purpose, his presence a stark contrast to the frailty of the candles and the crumbling stone. All eyes were on him as he made his way down the aisle, the weight of expectation thickening the air with every step.

  The hooded man reached the front, pausing just a step away from the woman with the blue circle. He nodded to her, a silent exchange that sent her retreating a few steps, positioning herself at the far end of the church, right before the crumbling old altar.

  In his hand, he held a small child’s bracelet. Its wooden beads, worn with age, bore faded colors of white, pink, and blue. With a steady, rhythmic motion, he turned the bracelet in his fingers, each bead gliding between his thumb and forefinger. The soft clatter of wood filled the silence, while whispers fluttered through the crowd like anxious birds. The murmurs grew—questions, speculations—until the man lifted his head.

  Curly hair spilled out as he pulled back his hood, revealing its brown color and the shaved sides and back of his head. The hushed voices died in an instant, replaced by stunned silence. Embedded in the back of his skull was a strange, glasslike object that pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow, its light flickering in time with his heartbeat. Below it, another piece protruded just beneath the skin, a jagged, crystalline piece that mirrored the glow of the first. And below that, yet another—each fragment forming a line down the nape of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robe. The glow from the pieces pulsed in sequence, like a string of luminescent beads, suggesting more hidden along his spine.

  He turned to face the gathered crowd, his expression a mask of calm, devoid of any warmth or malice. The quiet stretched, growing heavier with each passing second, until it became unbearable. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it cut through the air like a blade.

  “The old gods are dead,” he said, his fingers pinching another bead, “if they ever existed at all.” The words hung in the air as he paused, turning another bead, the motion anchoring him like a ritual. “Without light, humanity has been left to fester… to corrupt… to destroy itself. It has turned to worshipping false idols—politicians, celebrities, Breachers—while turning a blind eye to how it pollutes and destroys the world.” His gaze dropped back to the bracelet, which he cupped gently in his hand, as if it held the fragile remnants of something sacred. “Humanity needs a cleansing light.”

  The woman standing by the altar lifted her hand, a silent signal mirrored by the guards at the doors. As if on cue, the congregation’s gaze shifted upward, a mix of confusion and reverence flickering across their faces. Above them, nine robed figures crawled across the ceiling, their movements unnaturally quick and fluid. The crowd gasped and froze in fear as the figures dropped down one by one, the impact of their landing cracking tiles and splintering wooden benches.

  The figures formed a perfect circle around the crowd, towering above them. Their white robes concealed most of their forms, but not enough to hide the grotesque features beneath—fur-covered limbs, scales glistening in the candlelight, claws and talons that scraped the ground. They stood as monstrous sentinels, creatures born of nightmares, yet cloaked in the garb of something holy.

  “What humanity needs is angels to offer guidance,,” the man continued, his voice calm against the chaos he had summoned. The robed giants stood in silence, their presence both a promise and a threat, as if waiting for a command to unleash the divine guidance he had promised.

  Most of the congregation whimpered, clutching each other, frozen in wide-eyed terror. But two among them broke free—whether from courage or sheer desperation was unclear. They bolted from their benches, sprinting toward the heavy wooden doors at the back of the church. They barely made it halfway when two of the robed angels leapt upon them, their monstrous forms descending like a hammer. Screams split the air as claws and fangs tore into flesh, spraying blood in violent arcs. The pristine white robes of the creatures turned a vivid, sickening red, the color spreading in grotesque patches as they fed.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The rest of the crowd cowered, their wide eyes glued to the horror, as if held by an invisible force. At the front, the man stood calm amidst the chaos, slowly stretching his arms out to either side, palms facing upward. He closed his eyes briefly, as though in silent prayer. “What this world needs…” he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost drowned out by the dying screams.

  Behind him, the woman near the altar began to convulse, her body twitching in unnatural spasms. The warmth that once radiated from her eyes vanished, replaced by a sickly pallor as her skin turned ghostly white. She clawed at her robe, tearing it away in frantic motions to expose her naked flesh and swollen belly. The crowd gasped, some turning away in horror. Her abdomen bulged grotesquely, veins pulsing beneath the tight, stretched flesh with a dark, throbbing glow. It shone through her skin, a deep red light that flickered like a heartbeat, growing brighter with each pulse and highlighting old scars.

  “...is light,” the man continued, his voice rising as if calling down the heavens themselves. But instead of light, a scream tore through the air—raw, guttural, filled with unimaginable pain. The woman’s cries rose sharply, blending with the monstrous roars of the angels. Her body twisted violently as if something inside her sought escape.

  Suddenly, her flesh split open, and thick, writhing tendrils erupted from her torso. The grotesque limbs flailed wildly, slamming into the ground with a force that sent tiles flying. They snaked across the floor, burrowing deep into the stone, while others shot upwards, tearing through wooden beams and rafters. The church shuddered as if gripped by an earthquake, dust and debris raining down.

  Then came the shockwave, a blinding burst of force that sent everyone flying. The air itself seemed to scream as it was torn apart. Bodies crashed into benches and walls, limbs flailing like ragdolls. Dust filled the air, so thick it swallowed the flickering candlelight, plunging the church into near darkness.

  For a few agonizing seconds, there was only chaos—dust-choked air, the sounds of gasps and groans, the ringing in their ears. Then, slowly, the world steadied. The survivors blinked, their eyes stinging as they struggled to clear their vision. Crawling on hands and knees, they tried to make sense of the nightmare around them.

  When the dust settled, fresh horrors awaited. The world had turned a deep, ominous red hue, as if the very air bled. The man with the children’s bracelet man stood at the center, arms still outstretched, seemingly untouched by the shockwave that had assaulted them. Behind him, the woman had been transformed into a twisted, tree-like monstrosity. Her body replaced with the writhing tendrils that now sprouted in every direction, reaching up to the vaulted ceiling and out towards the walls. The grotesque growths enveloped parts of the church, consuming stone and wood alike in a terrible blend of flesh and roots. Her once-human form had become an unholy fusion of the divine and the grotesque, resembling a tree of flesh.

  Beyond the shattered windows, a massive dark red sphere enveloped the entire church, sealing it off from the outside world. The sphere’s surface seemed to ripple and undulate, trapping everyone inside a crimson cage.

  The tree-like abomination sprouted strange, bulbous sacs along its twisted branches—horrible fruits that pulsed and throbbed. Each sac grew larger, stretching with the grotesque sound of flesh expanding, filling with a thick, foul liquid. Within the sacs, dark shapes began to form, shifting slowly in the murky fluid. The shapes grew more defined, monstrous forms with claws, teeth, and limbs pressed against the thin membrane, eager to break free. The congregation watched in horror, unable to look away, as the sacs quivered, ready to burst and unleash whatever abominations had been birthed within.

  The nine robed monsters moved with a terrible grace, slinking through the broken benches toward the terrified civilians. They stopped just behind the trembling crowd, watching over them like executioners. Each monster reached beneath its robe and pulled out a perfectly round, glowing orb—a soft shade of gold that bathed their grotesque features in an otherworldly light.

  The man approached them, stepping carefully over the shattered tiles. His gaze swept over the faces before him, noting the telltale signs of Mana-sickness: glazed eyes, clammy pale skin, and trembling hands. Others, clinging to the remnants of their strength, held themselves upright, battling the sickness with every shallow breath.

  “Nine of you will bring Light into this world, as she has done here,” he announced, his voice a solemn echo in the hollow space. He reached out, placing a hand on the shoulder of a young woman who looked healthier than the others. Her wide, pleading eyes met his soft smile, as though he were bestowing a blessing. “Moscow,” he said, the word a quiet benediction. He moved to the next one, touching a middle-aged man, the fear etched deep into his wrinkled face. “Tokyo.” He continued this ritual, naming each city in turn—Sydney, Beijing, Berlin, New York, Rome, Bangkok, Mecca—his touch both gentle and resolute.

  The monsters wasted no time. They seized the chosen nine, their claws sinking into flesh as they dragged them away from the rest. The church filled with screams—desperate, choked cries as the selected were hauled out, their resistance nothing more than futile struggles against overwhelming strength. “Good luck, Lightbringers,” the man whispered, his voice barely audible over the echoes of their screams as the last of the chosen vanished through the church doors.

  Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The dozen remaining civilians stared at the man, eyes wide with terror, their bodies wracked with agony as the Mana slowly began to shut down their organs one by one. They gasped for air, their breaths ragged and shallow. Some collapsed one by one, slipping into unconsciousness to escape the pain, while others stayed awake, their faces twisted in silent pleas for mercy they knew would not come.

  The man stood there, fingers clenched around the child’s bracelet, its beads digging into his palm. His gaze swept over the broken, dying congregation, devoid of emotion.

  “Mercy, please,” one of the dying croaked, a woman with sweat-soaked hair clinging to her pale skin. Her trembling hand reached out, desperate.

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, not feeling anything anymore. He moved closer, each step echoing in the hollow, blood-stained church. He knelt beside her, his cold fingers wrapping around her outstretched hand. “This is mercy,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft, almost gentle. He held her gaze, taking in every detail of her fear-stricken face. Then his eyes fell on the pendant around her neck, a tiny silver locket.

  She recoiled, but he was faster, tightening his grip as he pried the locket open with a flick of his thumb. Inside, a faded photograph of two small children smiled up at him—innocent, unaware of the world’s cruelty. He studied it for a heartbeat, then met her tear-filled eyes again.

  “Be one with the light,” he whispered, his tone like a tender caress. “Bask in it and become a Lightspeaker... if you survive.” He rose to his feet, his fingers slowly slipping from hers. “Otherwise, rise as one of the angels.”

  Her eyes widened, terror swallowing any hope she had left. She sobbed, her voice breaking into desperate wails as he turned away. Others begged, their words pouring out in a flood, but he didn’t look back.

  The two robed figures by the doors moved swiftly, dragging limp, half-dead bodies across the broken floor. The congregation watched, paralyzed with fear, as the bodies were offered up to the grotesque tree that had once been a woman. Fleshy tendrils slithered down like serpents, coiling around each captive, lifting them into the air. The tendrils formed translucent sacs around the thrashing forms, sealing them in like grotesque cocoons.

  The man barely spared a glance at the writhing, entombed figures as Glass began to form inside. He pulled his hood up, casting his face back into shadow. The bracelet in his hand rattled softly, a quiet, rhythmic clatter that cut through the screams. Behind him, monsters emerged from the sacs, their wet, fleshy bodies hitting the stone floor with bone-crunching force. The air filled with the sound of flesh ripping, teeth gnashing, but he didn’t flinch.

  He stepped through the heavy church doors, letting them swing shut behind him with a hollow thud. Outside, the city lay in ruin, bathed in the red glow of the massive Sphere that swallowed the sky. The towering barrier cast everything in a sickly crimson hue, its energy crackling like a living thing.

  Around him, the world had turned into a nightmare. Crumbling buildings leaned like dark sentinels, their windows shattered and lifeless. The air crackled, heavy with the stench of Mana. As he walked, monstrous forms darted past him, their eyes glowing in the darkness, their limbs a blur of fur, scales, and claws. They hissed and screeched, rushing into the desolate streets beyond, vanishing into the shadows to carry out whatever dark commands had been whispered into their minds.

  He walked on, unscathed and indifferent, the screams and chaos fading behind him. With each step, he clutched the bracelet tighter, the beads a silent reminder of the light he now granted—and the darkness he still carried in his heart.

  Was the woman-to-tree bit too weird or unpleasant to read?