"I know, I know—"
The arms on stage lifted high, as if reaching for the warehouse's dark vault, as if trying to drag down everything hidden up there!
"Devils promise you wealth!"
One hand suddenly grasped forward, fingers closing, forming a fist!
"Devils promise you beauty!"
The other hand grasped too! Both fists clenched simultaneously, as if gripping something invisible yet heavy!
"Devils promise you power!!!"
Those two fists smashed together!
Bam!
No sound.
But he heard it.
Heard the dull thud of bone against bone in that collision, heard the beast-like gasping squeezed out from within.
His breath stopped again.
Wealth? He'd barely seen a few coins.
Beauty? He only dared steal glances from the shadows.
Power? That was the sole of someone else's boot pressed against his face.
What devils promised—none of it ever came to him.
"But I will grant you—"
The arms on stage slowly spread.
Not that tearing-open spread from before—slow, heavy, like opening a rusted iron door that had never been opened.
"Chaos!"
That word smashed down.
Chaos?
He didn't know what that was.
The word was too big, too hollow, like smoke, like everything in this life he could never reach.
But when the voice on stage spoke it, it wasn't drifting—it was solid.
Solid as the dull thud of those fists colliding.
Solid as this cold ground he knelt on.
"In chaos—"
Those arms suddenly pulled back! Crossed over the chest! The vivid red palms faced inward, as if to cover something!
"Power is everything!"
The crossed arms burst outward with a roar!
Like an explosion.
Like breaking free.
Like a beast caged too long finally smashing through its prison!
—
Power?
His pupils contracted.
That word was different.
That word he recognized.
Not recognized in his mind—
recognized in his bones.
Power.
When that fist came down, you could only curl up.
When that foot kicked, you could only endure.
When someone bigger stood before you, you could only lower your head and step aside—
that was not having power.
But the one on stage said—
In chaos, power is everything.
He felt his fists slowly tighten.
Not to hit anyone.
Just tightening.
His palms had braced the ground too long, fingers stiff, palms deeply imprinted by stones.
But he still gathered them, bit by bit, into—
Fists.
Small fists.
Weak fists.
But he held them.
He raised his head.
His eyes were still wet, the stolen red handprint on his face long since blurred into a mess of tears and dust.
But he raised his head, staring at that spread, vivid red figure on stage, as if about to embrace chaos itself.
Power.
He didn't know what that thing looked like.
Didn't know if he could ever touch it in this life.
Didn't know what "chaos" the one on stage meant—
was it hell?
A battlefield?
Some place worse than Darenz?
But he knew one thing.
He wanted it.
He'd never wanted anything.
Didn't dare.
Wasn't worthy.
But he wanted it now.
Wanted that thing.
Wanted that feeling of hitting back.
Wanted those eyes that could only dodge to one day look something in the eye.
Power?
Silently, clumsily, like a child learning to speak for the first time, he repeated that word in his heart.
Power.
Those clenched fists pressed against the cold ground, aching from the pressure.
But he didn't loosen them.
Those vivid red arms on stage were still spread.
As if waiting.
As if granting.
The crowd below chanted in frenzy.
That sound was no longer pleading, no longer crying—
it was roaring.
He knelt at the very edge, pushed by that soundwave, like a withered leaf about to be swept away.
Then—
The one on stage extended his index finger.
Not pointing at anyone.
Just extending.
That finger was vivid red in the torchlight, like a bone freshly pulled from a body, like burning charcoal, like something hotter than blood.
Silence.
Only breathing remained in the warehouse.
That breath a thousand people simultaneously held, pressing against their chests, about to explode.
That finger slowly swept across the crowd below.
Left to right.
From the front of the crowd to the last row of kneeling shadows.
His heart stopped for a beat.
That finger—
Stopped.
Stopped in his direction.
—What?
What did it mean?
Had he been discovered?
He didn't want to believe it was him.
The people in front of him could no longer kneel properly, half-propping themselves forward, as if about to lunge out the next second.
Ecstatic.
As if chosen.
—
The one on stage began to walk forward.
Following the finger's direction.
Step by step.
No one commanded.
No one shouted to move aside.
But when that vivid red finger parted the air pointing somewhere, the people in that direction involuntarily retreated to both sides.
Everyone longed to be chosen.
They knelt, trembling, eyes blazing with that about-to-burn fire.
They wanted that finger to point at them.
Wanted to be seized by that vivid red gaze.
Wanted to be plucked from this dark crowded corner and thrown into that light.
Thrown into that miracle.
Everyone also feared the one on stage.
So when they retreated, they controlled themselves—
neither too close to offend,
nor too far to be unseen,
missing that one-in-ten-thousand chance.
That vivid red finger parted the tightly packed crowd like a knife parting flesh, like fire parting darkness.
Step by step.
Closer and closer.
He could hear his own breathing.
Not hear—feel.
That breathing stuck in his throat, unable to come out, unable to go in, like a ball of fire lodged there.
He could see that mask now.
Pure white.
Flawless.
Those two slits like abysses, like some bottomless holes, sucking his whole being in.
Then—
That index finger stopped before his face.
The fingertip was only a finger's length from his nose. He could feel the heat coming from it. Not torch heat—something else. Something hidden in that vivid red color, burning all night.
He raised his head.
Saw those envious, jealous eyes around him. Like knives, like needles, densely stabbing over. If looks could kill, he'd be dead eight hundred times.
But he was still alive.
That finger was still before him.
"WITNESS!!!"
The one on stage shouted.
That voice exploded! Like thunder, like landslide, like the warehouse roof torn off!
The crowd roared too!
"WITNESS—!!!"
The soundwave like a tsunami, drowning him, lifting him, plucking him from this kneeling mud into mid-air.
He didn't know how he moved.
He only knew—
He swallowed. His throat was dry as sandpaper.
He looked at that mask. Those two slits. That invisible yet blinding thing inside.
Then—
He as if possessed by some unseen force reached out.
Grasped that index finger.
Vivid red. Scalding. Like grasping red-hot iron, like grasping a bone pulled from fire.
But he didn't let go.
He knelt forward.
Forehead to the ground. Lips touching those grasped fingers.
He didn't know what he was doing.
He just did it.
As if something in this body had decided for him—had swallowed all the hesitation and fear of this lifetime.
—
He was lifted up.
Not standing himself—brought up by that finger.
That vivid red hand grasped his wrist, pulling him from the crowd, like pulling a nearly withered weed from mud.
The crowd retreated to both sides. Faster than before, more compliant. They made a path, a torchlit path to the platform.
He was brought onto the stage.
The moment his foot touched the platform, he stumbled.
The stage was higher than the ground. Just a layer of wood, yet like another world.
He stood on it, looking down—
A thousand upturned faces.
A thousand burning eyes.
A thousand hands printed with red palms, raised, waving, like a boiling sea of blood.
His legs trembled.
But he didn't fall.
Everything was arranged for him.
Someone pressed his shoulders, making him stand straight. Someone positioned his arms.
He didn't know who they were.
He only knew they meant no harm.
They were just completing some ritual.
Then—
He saw it.
Not far away, an iron bucket.
Fire burned beneath the bucket. Flames reflected on the bucket's surface, dyeing everything orange-red.
Someone stood by the bucket, slowly pulling out an iron rod.
The end of that rod—
Was a hand, glowing red-hot.
Iron.
Cast in the shape of a palm.
Now glowing bright, as if fresh from the furnace, as if just dredged from hell's depths.
That red-hot palm sizzled in the air, emitting thin smoke.
The heat distorted the air around it, making everything before him shimmer.
His whole body froze.
That mask approached.
The one on stage walked to his side. He could feel that broad, dark-robed body pressing toward him like a mountain.
The masked figure soothed him.
Not with words.
Just a hand—the other one, the one not holding his—lightly pressing on his shoulder.
Very light.
Yet terrifyingly steady.
That hand gestured.
Gestured to the one pulling out the iron rod.
—
That red-hot palm came closer.
He could feel its heat waves now, wave after wave, as if about to bake his face dry.
He looked uneasily at the one holding the iron rod.
Firelight danced on that face.
A face.
Gaunt.
Covered in dust and sweat.
And—
A familiar scar.
That scar slashed diagonally from brow bone to ear, like a dried riverbed, like a centipede's corpse.
Now flickering in the firelight, twisting, leaping, as if come alive.
That scar.
Those eyes without ripple.
That iron palm, closer and closer, glowing red-hot.
He wanted to move.
But the hand on his shoulder held him, steady as a mountain.
He wanted to shout.
But only dry wheezing came from his throat.
He wanted to flee.
But his feet seemed rooted, unable to move an inch.
The iron palm came another inch closer.
The heat scorched him so fiercely he couldn't open his eyes.
That scar in the firelight didn't move—
Like a carving.
Like a corpse freshly climbed from hell's depths—
A devil.