As much as Fjor wanted to tell himself that he had thoroughly enjoyed the job he was assigned, he did not find any comfort in beating the already injured — albeit half recovered — Third Prince nearly to death.
Manic and brutal he may be in his ways, it was a special order of the Leader, and although Fjor doesn't know why, nor does he have the dare to question the Leader, he could make a guess. It was something about awakening the Crown of Suffering that was budding inside the third Prince.
The Prince must be so confused, Fjor thought, to see his own mentor, once close to him since birth, beat him to death.
The beating of a Seventh Order expert like him was not easy to endure, although he was still holding back a major part of his power, only displaying strength a Fourth Order could have; it undoubtedly had been hard on the mundane and unawakened prince.
"I pray you can forgive me, my prince." his thoughts were uncharacteristically spoken out loud.
Crouching beside the bloody body of the third prince, he took out a piece of food — ambrosia, the divine panacea — and fed it into the third prince's mouth. Instantly, the piece of buttery and golden substance melted into his tongue, and Fjor witnessed a miracle take place. The blood that was spewing out of the prince's open arteries came to a halt, and the dried blood on his already existing wounds peeled off to reveal pristine and flawless skin.
The misshapened shape of the prince's bones all snapped back into place, and all of his flesh, battered or not, started its recovery fiber by fiber. Fjor watched the third prince's body grow back from the dead to his pristine state in no less than a few seconds, as if watching a wound recover in extreme time-lapse.
The ambrosia could cure any wound or disease and had the potential to restore a person's state from even the brink of death back to their original, prime state. Although it was powerful, it became less effective for Spiritualists as their Order increased in rank. So to Fjor, a Spiritualist on the cusp of becoming High Order, such a portion of ambrosia would only be able to mend a small cut on his arm. But to someone who has yet to assimilate any spirits, they were no short of miracles.
Fjor turned to the other acolytes, still writhing on the floor, but conscious without a doubt. Fjor made sure of it, after all, and made all the acolytes witness him beating the prince to death's door. A few promising ones even had the grit to not succumb completely to his Will, and even managed to kneel defiantly, instead of collapsing.
When they inevitably wake up and find Prince Alistaire in pristine state, they would grow to be all the more apprehensive or fearful towards him. The third prince, Alistaire, that he knew was a charismatic person, and he would seize this opportunity to deepen his authority among the acolytes.
Although insufficient, it was Fjor's way of apologizing.
Crouching down to the eye level of a golden-haired acolyte who was already a Spiritualist of the First Order, he whispered to the boy. "All who survived passed the final assignment. You will now proceed to the next stage. Pass these words to the other acolytes."
Then, with a conceding motion of his hands, all of the acolytes present in the cave slowly dissolved into the darkness with fleeting particles of blue light. Grain-sized particles moved with the incohesion comparable to disorderly fireflies, filling the room with a bright display of Fjor's transportative power. When they settled back into the environment, the acolytes had all fully moved to the next room of assignment. With a smooth motion, Fjor also dissolved with a flurry of blue particles, and all that was remaining was nothing.
◈ — — — ◈
Lysander woke, choking on damp air.
Unexpectedly, it was not choking on the metallic tang of blood, nor the stench of stone and rot, but something green, wet, and alive. His lungs burned as he sucked in a breath, and his body jolted upright on instinct alone.
A cracking noise emanated from the background, and a genuine warmth settled on his heart. No longer shivering from the sight of the divine figure, whatever they were, Lysander started to survey his immediate surroundings.
Around him was a circular opening in a field of grass, surrounded by a dark forest. In the hearth stood a tall and impressive bonfire.
The fire sat a few paces away, a small, carefully maintained campfire encircled by stones. Its glow fought back the dark only weakly, casting long, warped shadows that stretched and bent between tree trunks. Shapes moved in the periphery of his vision — branches, he told himself, just branches.
Around him, trees loomed overhead, tall and crooked, their canopies interlocking like clasped fingers, blotting out most of the sky. Thick vines hung low, some brushing his shoulders, others twitching faintly as if reacting to his movement.
The ground beneath him was soft loam, layered with decaying leaves and charred grass from the fire that stuck to his skin. Insects buzzed somewhere unseen, their rhythm irregular and grating.
A jungle, Lys realised.
He looked down at himself. His body was unbroken, not dead, and on top of that, there was no blood or wounds or broken bones that definitely had to happen during the Cardinals' beating.
His body felt… whole. Eerily so, considering how he had almost died.
The memory hit him a moment later — fragmented but sharp enough to sting.
The Cardinal's manic and crazy smile. Then, the weight of his blows felt like the world collapsing inward on Lysander, his desperation and panic. The impossible vision of crimson and darkness. The voice that had spoken his name.
Lysander's stomach twisted at the memory of the glimpse of the figure.
Suddenly, Lysander realized he was not alone.
"You're awake."
The voice came from his left.
Looking around and checking the presence of the people, they sighed in relief to see the remaining acolytes. There was, however, something off in their gaze towards him, resembling an extent that was almost apprehension. Fortunately, no one showed hostility.
He snapped his head towards the familiar voice, and a smile involuntarily formed when he saw Julian sitting across the fire. The golden-haired boy looked worse than usual — his skin was streaked with mud, and his eyes rimmed red from exhaustion — but he was very much alive. A sword rested across his knees, hands loose but ready.
Relief flickered through Lysander before he could stop it.
Around them, three other acolytes sat or crouched in uneasy silence. One stared into the fire, lost in thought, as if hypnotized. Another kept glancing into the jungle, fingers twitching near a short sword. None of them looked any more injured than the state they were in before the last fight, but all of them looked shaken.
So somehow I was the only one that fully healed from the fight, Lys thought, and I'll assume I was the only one that got beaten to such an extent as well.
"How long have I been out?" Lysander asked, his voice carried more energy than he meant to.
Julian tilted his head. "Only a few hours. You didn't move. Actually, you didn't breathe much either, for a bit, for that matter." he answered, "All of us are alive. When you were unconscious, we built a campfire and took turns to scout.
Lysander laughed internally. Oh, the irony, how the deadliest lesson so far had killed not a single person.
"You were dead," the girl muttered. "I saw it."
Actually, I thought that too, he thought to himself, still cheerful from not dying. Lysander ignored her comment, since he did not know how to answer.
Pushing himself fully upright, he half expected pain to crash into him belatedly. Yet to his immense surprise, it didn't. His body responded cleanly and smoothly.
"What happened?" he asked.
Julian exhaled slowly. "After you got— you know, beaten to death. We were transported away with that blue light that the Cardinal used. Apparently, this is the next stage of the test the cult wants us to go through. Then we all saw you, alive, albeit uninjured."
He added after a pause, "Some thought you were a ghost initially," looking meaningfully at the girl who had talked earlier.
A distant sound rolled through the trees, low and resonant. Not a roar. Not quite. More like something massive shifting its weight, the ground complaining under it.
"What noise was that?"
Julian's jaw tightened. He nodded toward the jungle.
The acolyte with the dagger swore under his breath.
Lysander felt a pressure in the air, subtle but constant. Not the suffocating pressure of a Cardinal, but something feral and territorial: a lurking danger. A beastly hostility emanates with high intensity directed at the acolytes.
"So," Lysander said quietly, eyes never leaving the tree line, "we're not in the caves anymore."
"Not in the same cave back then," Lysander agreed. "We're not. But we're still in a cave. There is no daylight or moonlight, or any light for that matter. Also, since you are awake, you might as well help us set up a camp. The bright fire will deter nocturnal beasts, and since we are in a perpetually dark environment, it might help against them. But we are not completely sure if they might have the opposite effects on some beasts, so the quicker we build a stable camp, the better. If things get desperate, we might need to snuff out the fire and find other sources of warmth."
He rubbed his palms together, grounding himself in the sensation. The god's Will inside him was silent now — too silent — but he could feel its residue, like heat beneath cooled ash.
A test. Another one.
"Do we know where this is?" one of the acolytes asked, voice thin.
Julian shook his head. "No. There is no immediate objective that was assigned, so let's just try to survive and map out the surroundings." He said, scanning through the trees.
Lysander followed his gaze, scanning the terrain properly this time. The trees grew in deliberate clusters, spaced just enough to allow movement but not sightlines. The ground sloped gently downward to the east, where he could hear water, a slow, steady and promising trickle.
Resources.
And along with it, threats.
The fire crackled, punctuating the silence. Lysander stood, brushing leaves from his clothes. Hunger stirred faintly in his gut — not the maddening agony from before, but just a simple reminder. A countdown.
"Water first. We need to survey for areas with clean water and secure a clean route towards it," he said. "Then find advantageous grounds, somewhere with as little obstruction to the vision as possible, so we can have the best view of dangers that might be reaching us.. We move before whatever's out there decides we're worth noticing."
The jungle answered with another low, distant rumble.
No one argued.
He stood up to get ready for action. It was like his first day before transmigrating. Move and do the most before his hunger sets in and makes him useless.
Standing still was no longer an option.