My frail, human body had inherited nothing of my essence.
It was defective and weak. And, most dangerously, it had a pathetic tendency to shiver.
Cold air bit into my naked skin, and muscles twitched involuntarily.
Disaster, my mind calculated. If those twelve mortals see the vessel quaking, the illusion breaks.
If I could not even resist a draft of cold air, I was definitely not a God. I was a thief who had stolen their ritual.
And thieves are killed.
Now, I was left with a body that possessed no ability other than shameful bluffs.
Analyze, logic commanded. Eyes are useless here.
I ceased relying on the watery, gelatinous orbs in my skull. Instead, I let my consciousness expand, brushing against the minds of the twelve figures like a phantom limb.
I tasted the air for the specific flavor of their terror.
To a mortal, they were identical crimson statues.
But to me, the difference in their fear was as distinct as the difference between wine and vinegar.
Eleven of them reeked of simple, animalistic panic—the sour scent of sheep hoping the wolf is not hungry.
But the one directly in front of me was different.
His fear was not just for his life. It was heavy with the weight of expectation. It smelled of iron and rot.
Ambition.
The Shepherd, I realized. Identifying the shepherd is the only way to control the flock.
The risk was calculated. The bluff had to be absolute.
I forced air through a throat that had never spoken.
"O mortal, whose knowledge halts at 'His' 13th Name... what has caused you not to prostrate before your Lord?"
The voice that emerged was not the booming resonance of an ancient entity.
It was scratchy. Unused. Dry as old parchment.
It vibrated with a complete absence of emotional warmth. It sounded like the speaking of a dead creature.
But the effect was not immediate.
The leader did not fall.
Instead, his eyes—rimmed red from the smoke—narrowed.
He looked at the chalk circle. He looked at my face.
And finally, his gaze dropped to my naked, pale torso.
To the muscles vibrating from the cold.
"My... Lord?"
The priest's voice was not filled with reverence. It was heavy with a dangerous skepticism.
"You are... small."
"He is shivering, High Priest!"
The shout tore from the back of the room. A figure whose cowl had slipped back to reveal a scarred chin pointed a shaking finger at me.
"Look at him! His knees are knocking together. The ritual failed. This isn't a Duke. It's a husk. It's just a boy!"
The silence in the room shattered.
The air, which I had carefully primed with dread, suddenly soured into aggression. One of the cultists reached into his robe, hand closing around something heavy—a knife, or perhaps a gun.
Damn this vessel, I cursed internally. The biological reflex to cold is undoing my existential dread.
If I tried to intimidate them with physical presence, they would see a naked, hypothermic human.
I could not be a monster of flesh. I had to be a monster of the mind.
I did not step back.
I forced the shivering muscles of my jaw to lock. I focused my consciousness entirely on the priest, isolating that heavy, metallic scent of ambition.
"You see shivering," I said.
My voice was still that scratchy, dead drone, but I forced a jagged rhythm into it.
"A fool sees a boiler shaking and thinks it is weak. A wise man sees a boiler shaking and runs..."
I took a step forward.
The cold concrete burned the soles of my new feet, but I did not blink. I stared directly into the Priest's pupils, ignoring the armed disciple behind him.
"...because he knows what pressure lies inside."
The Priest flinched. The hand inside his robe froze.
"I smell it on you, Priest," I whispered. "Not fear. Ambition."
"You didn't summon a beast to graze in your pasture," I pressed on, leaning into the scent of his desire, gambling my life on his greed. "You stand amidst mud and rot because you want something the world above refuses to give you."
His eyes widened. The skepticism cracked.
The mention of his secret desire hit him harder than any physical blow could have.
"So ask yourself." I let the scratchy voice drop to a subsonic rumble. "Do you want to judge the vessel by its shell and die for your insolence? Or do you want to kneel..."
I let the silence hang for a second.
"...and perhaps survive long enough to get what you came for?"
The tension held for a heartbeat.
A long, agonizing second where my life hung on the thread of a stranger's greed.
Then, the "High Priest" swallowed hard. The ambitious sweat on his neck turned cold.
It was as if the temperature of the room dropped a degree with every word that exited my mouth.
The Priest's legs, motionless as stone until now, began to tremble.
And then, he fell.
"M-M-My Lord..."
He hit the wet concrete. Following him, like dominoes, the other eleven collapsed into prostration.
"F-F-Forgive my insolence! Spare the life of this humble servant! We expected a Duke of Heat... we did not even dare to nurture the fantasy of meeting the Prince of the Abyss..."
Excellent.
My bluff had solidified into their reality.
In the dimension of the Abyss, the hierarchy of power was circular; low-level demons were monsters with terrible limbs, but the highest-tier entities regained an appearance completely resembling a human.
In their eyes, I was a monster so strong that I did not need claws to kill.
I rotated my neck.
The vertebrae popped like a gunshot in the silent room.
The physical sensation was distinct and sharp. I bent and straightened my fingers, watching the movement of tendons under the skin.
I felt the movement of air on my body. The sound of blood moving in my veins was still audible, a warm and rhythmic tide.
I stepped over the chalk lines.
The "barrier" sizzled on my ankle—a static shock similar to touching a doorknob in winter.
Pathetic.
I ignored it and exited the circle as if I were passing through fog.
I stopped in front of the prostrated leader. I looked at the back of the man's balding head and saw drops of sweat gathering on his neck.
"The air is stale," I announced.
The leader pulled himself together as though he had been hit.
"Pardon us, Great One... Ventilation... To stay out of the Church's sight, we are underground. There are Inquisitors everywhere. To serve you, we live in the shadows."
"Clothes," I stated.
"Yes! Immediately!" The leader jumped up in a panic, chin glued to his chest, frantically pointing to a terrified disciple in the corner. "Ceremonial clothes! Hurry up, fool! Do not keep the Great One waiting!"
The disciple stumbled over his robes, clawing into a canvas bag in the shadows. He produced a folded pile of fabric.
An ironed, modern black suit.
Most likely intended for the cult leader's post-ceremony dinner. Or his funeral.
I took the clothes.
The fabric was rough under my sensitive fingertips. Wool. Cheap wool. Its fibers annoyed my fresh skin.
I dressed slowly.
I put on the trousers. Buttoned the shirt. Tied the shoelaces.
Every movement was monitored by twelve pairs of eyes that were terrified to look but too captivated to look away. They watched me dress as if they were witnessing a holy ritual.
I pulled the black coat over my shoulders.
As I buttoned it, the shadows in the corners of the basement seemed to stretch toward me, attaching themselves to my heels like a royal train.
I did not need a mirror to know what they saw.
I saw it in the apprentice's eyes.
He wasn't looking at a man in a suit. He was looking at the darkness standing behind the man, wearing the human skin like a mask.
The boy gasped and took a step back, unable to meet my gaze.
When I buttoned my coat, I felt the whisper of the cosmos around me.
I had the essence of a God and the durability of a barista.
It was as if I were walking on a tightrope over a pit of vipers, while my only weapon was a bluff and a suit whose shoulders did not fit perfectly.
Smoothing my coat collar, I asked, "Who is the current keeper of this... flock?"
The leader bowed again, voice thin. "It is I, Great One. I am High Priest Malakor. We are the Order of the Severed Tongue. We have waited three generations for this night."
"Malakor."
I tasted the name. It tasted of ash.
"You... have done well."
Malakor let out a sob of relief, tears running into his beard. "Thank you, My Lord. Thank you. Your praise is worth a thousand deaths."
"My descent..." My tone dropped, becoming colder, threatening eternal darkness if cooperation ceased. "...has taxed the local causality. To anchor myself, I need information."
"Anything, My Lord. The library is yours. The treasury is yours. Our lives are yours. Command us."
"good."
I surveyed the dreary basement. The water stains. The flickering bulb.
This was my starting point. Standing in a damp hell, requesting sustenance.
Turning toward the stairs, I issued my first decree.
"Start by saying the date."
I paused, feeling the hollow ache in my midsection.
"And then... bring me something to eat. This vessel has a metabolism, and I find it... demanding."