[Night – Three Hours Later]
Raven sat alone in his chamber.
The room was small but intentionally comfortable—a narrow bed with clean sheets, a wooden table, a single chair, and a barred window that overlooked the inner courtyard. Stone walls muffled sound, isolating him from the rest of the cathedral.
A prison designed to feel like a sanctuary.
His ribs were fully healed now. The dull ache that had haunted every breath earlier was gone, replaced by a strange lightness—his healing factor finally catching up. His body felt ready again.
Too ready.
He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, staring at his reflection in the small mirror mounted near the table.
The mark.
The contract sigil burned faintly on his back, its shape reflected in the mirror—intricate, jagged lines forming something halfway between a seal and a wound. It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat that wasn't entirely his own.
Permanent.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Raven didn't turn. "Come in."
The door opened, and a young man stepped inside. No robes. No hood. Just simple clothes—jeans, jacket, worn shoes. He looked ordinary. Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Someone Raven could've passed on the street without a second glance.
"Dinner," the cultist said, placing a tray on the table.
Simple Food ~ Bread, Soup,and Water.
As the man turned to leave, Raven spoke.
"Question."
The cultist paused, hand still on the door. "Yes?"
Raven finally looked at him. "You believe in this? The Gate,Evolution. All of it."
The man blinked—clearly not expecting that. For a moment, Raven thought he might deflect.
Instead, he nodded.
"I do," he said simply. "The world as it is now it's broken. Controlled by systems that pretend to protect us while keeping us weak. Ignorant."
There was no fanaticism in his voice. No madness.
Just conviction.
"You're not afraid of dying in the chaos?" Raven asked.
The cultist smiled faintly.
"If I die for something greater than myself," he said, "then it's a good death."
He opened the door and left, closing it quietly behind him.
Raven stared at the tray of food.
He wasn't hungry.
"A believer," Azaelith said softly from within his mind. "Not everyone here is a monster."
"I know," Raven replied.
She hesitated. "You're conflicted."
"Yes."
A pause.
"What are you going to do?"
Raven exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
Honest. Raw.
"But tomorrow—"
BOOM.
The explosion hit like a hammer.
The cathedral shook violently. Dust rained from the ceiling. The bed rattled against the wall.
Then alarms—bells ringing wildly, voices shouting, footsteps pounding through stone corridors.
Raven was on his feet instantly.
He rushed to the barred window and looked out.
The courtyard below was alive with motion. Shadows collided with shimmering barriers. Flashes of red, black, and violet light tore through the darkness.
Raven activated his spiritual sight.
And froze.
Ghosts.
Dozens of them. Maybe more. Pouring toward the cathedral like a tidal wave of malice.
And at their center—
Alpha.
The Alpha Ghost had returned.
Larger than before. More solid. Chains whipping through the air, crushing stone and bodies alike. Its presence distorted reality around it, a pressure that made Raven's skin crawl.
"No…" Azaelith whispered. "He shouldn't be able to mobilize this many. Not this fast—"
Another explosion ripped through the barrier surrounding the cathedral.
Cracks spread across it like spiderwebs.
Cultists poured into the courtyard, chanting as they summoned Corrupted Spirits. Twisted figures clashed with the ghost army, shrieks and roars blending into a single sound of chaos.
The Masked One's voice echoed through the cathedral, magically amplified—calm but commanding.
"ALL HANDS. DEFEND THE GATE. DO NOT LET THEM BREACH."
Raven watched the battlefield unfold.
Then he looked inward.
At Azaelith.
"Decision made sooner than expected."
She turned toward him sharply. "What do you mean?"
Raven smiled.
Not wide. Not manic.
Cold. Calculated.
"I want to survive," he said. "And survival means understanding all the players."
He stepped back and punched the window bars.
Metal screamed. Bent. Snapped.
The bars gave way under a single strike.
"Alpha wants something," Raven continued. "Lucifur wants something. The Spirit Tamers want something."
He vaulted through the window.
Two-story drop.
He landed in the courtyard with a perfect crouch, stone cracking beneath his feet.
"I want to know," he said, straightening, flames igniting around his hands, "who's most likely to keep me alive."
"Raven, this is suicide—" Azaelith shouted.
"Or intelligence gathering."
He sprinted forward, straight toward the heart of the battle.
Flames burned black and red around his fists.
"Either way," he muttered, eyes locked on the Alpha Ghost, "it's finally interesting."
Azaelith's laughter echoed in his mind—half-frustrated, half-amused, fully resigned.
"You're insane."
"Probably."
The courtyard erupted into full-scale war.
Corrupted Spirits clashed with ghost soldiers. Cultists erected barriers, launched spells, screamed orders. Chains smashed through everything in their path.
And at the center of it all—
The Alpha Ghost turned.
Its dead white eyes locked onto Raven.
Recognition.
Interest.
Raven charged.
Finally.
A real fight.