The cathedral was a broken monument to a forgotten faith.
Peeling paint dripped like faded memories from its crumbling walls, and jagged shards of stained glass—once holy depictions of saints—now jutted out like broken teeth from empty windows.
The wind, a constant and sorrowful vagabond in this desolate place, whistled through the exposed arches, carrying with it the bitter tang of recycled air and the distant clang of a failing industry.
Lucian sat against a moss-covered pillar, knees drawn to his chest. The scarf the old woman had given him very barely kept out the cold. The world of polished marble floors and incense he had once known now felt like a distant dream.
He closed his eyes, the memory of Michael's smug smile stinging fresh in his mind.
His wings, prior symbols of pride, were now ghosts, their absence a fitting reminder of his fall. He was no longer an angel—he was a castaway, exiled from the celestial realm and trapped in a world as broken as he felt.
"Is this what I've become?"
Lucian whispered, staring at his small hands. They were those of a child, yet scarred and calloused like a man who had suffered.
His memories were fragmented—flashes of his former self as a powerful angel intertwined with his new life in this strange, ruined world.
He gazed around the cathedral's remains, taking in the decay. The mortal realm had fallen into disrepair, perhaps a reflection of the desolation in his soul.
Even getting to this place with the old woman had shown him just how far things had deteriorated. They were in a wasteland, a slum, and yet the old woman had shown him kindness.
"Come here, child," the woman called.
Lucian looked up at her. Time had bleached her hair white and carved her face with wrinkles, but her smile radiated warmth, rare in a place like this.
She had taken him, and protected him from the cold.
However in Namek, it did not mean a thing nor change whatever personal ambitions she might possess, but Lucian wanted to trust her.
He stood, his legs trembling more from the chill than his fear of uncertainty, and walked over to her. For all his age and power, in that moment, Lucian was simply a child—naive and vulnerable.
"This is Lucian," the woman said, introducing him to a priest who had been standing nearby. The priest scrutinized Lucian, eyes narrowing as he examined the boy. His gaze lingered on the back of Lucian's neck before he shook his head.
"Miss, I'm sorry, but he doesn't have the mark. He isn't one of them," the priest said.
The old woman clicked her teeth in frustration. "How many times must I explain? I know he doesn't have the mark, but I saw it with my own eyes. He is definitely one. Please, just check which of the thirteen sponsors him."
The priest sighed, clearly unconvinced, but relented to her insistence. He knelt in front of Lucian, his eyes meeting the boy's complex grey eyes.
As the priest stared into Lucian's eyes, a tremor ran through him. His hands began to shake, and his face twisted in horror. A strangled gasp escaped his lips, his holy composure shattered as crimson tears welled in his eyes.
The priest stumbled back, unable to hide the terror that now gripped him. He turned to the woman, his voice trembling. "Please leave, woman. I must... I must pray..."
"What did you see, priest? Who sponsors him?" the woman demanded, her curiosity growing.
The priest glanced at Lucian again, now silent and still, something unreadable shifting in his gaze. He hesitated, then whispered, "There are two."
The woman's eyes widened in surprise. A Chosen with two sponsors was rare, especially in a place like Nameth.
"Who are they?" she asked, pressing for answers.
The priest's voice quivered as he replied, "The first of the fourteen... The Almighty."
The woman froze, unsure how to process what she had just heard. A child sponsored by the First God was an absurd statement, too wild to be believed. She dismissed it as nonsense.
"And the other?" she asked, eager for more clarity.
The priest stared at her with haunted eyes. "It's not a god."
"What do you mean?" she asked, confusion creeping into her voice.
"The second sponsor... I saw him," the priest whispered. "Deep in the 21st layer... Lucifer Morningst—"
The priest's words were cut off as blood gurgled in his throat. He hadn't noticed when Lucian moved, nor had he felt the glass shard slice his throat until it was too late.
"Those words cannot reach another soul," Lucian murmured, his voice cold.
The old woman stared at Lucian in horror. The frail child she had taken in was gone. In his place was something darker, something far more dangerous.