It was rare—almost unheard of—for these two religious leaders to stand together, much less work together. Their creeds—followers were different, they often clashing on matters of faith. However, in the presence of Case Number 0-87, those disparities became insignificant.
The terror it embodied surpassed any dogma, any boundary. It was a power that necessitated collaboration, regardless of the sacrifice. Nevertheless, Case Number 87 was concealed from the public—investigated in secrecy.
"This… this is the handiwork of Case No. 0-87," the bishop murmured under his breath, his voice laden with dread. The imam nodded solemnly. "The cursed knowledge… the forbidden truth that lies within it warps the mind, body, and soul alike."
"It's not confirmed what case No. 87 entails" The bishop countered.
"Son, please calm yourself," the bishop called out softly, taking cautious steps toward Riley. His voice was gentle, as though he were trying to coax a frightened animal back from the edge.
"I know this must be hard, but the Lord has blessed you with strength. There is no need for further bloodshed. You've done enough."
The devil smiled again.
"Put down your sword, son, and let's discuss this. We can find a solution together. Please, son, for all our sakes." The bishop's hand extended toward Riley, trembling but resolute. He was willing to face whatever came next if it meant avoiding further violence.
Riley's lips curled into a cruel smirk, twisting his young face into something grotesque. "
Since you said 'please,' it wouldn't be proper for me to refuse, would it?" His tone dripped with sarcasm, mocking the very idea of civility.
Without hesitation, he tossed the bloodied sword aside, letting it clatter across the cold stone floor. The sound echoed ominously in the silence.
He then turned and walked leisurely back into the manor, his steps unhurried, as if he were merely strolling through a garden rather than leaving behind a scene of slaughter.
It was time to play the conceit young master— well he couldn't communicate with the spell anyways and the foolish young master did not fit his personality.
Riley strolled further inside, his mind already drifting toward chaos. His first loop was doomed anyway, so he had decided to end it in Jim Jones style. He sighed, his voice tinged with mock disappointment. "Sadly, there are no explosives. A loud big bang would've made for a grand finale."
Hector exchanged uneasy glances with the religious leaders. The bishop's face was a mix of pity and sorrow, while the imam's expression was rigid, his jaw clenched as if biting back words of condemnation.
Both men turned their eyes to Hector, silently seeking guidance on what to do next. Hector nodded, though the gesture was more a reflex than a decision. Together, they followed Riley into the manor, each step feeling like they were drawing closer to an unseen precipice.
Inside the dim corridors of the manor, shadows twisted and stretched, almost alive, as flickering torchlight cast an eerie glow. The silence was unnerving, punctuated only by the soft creaks of the old structure settling.
They needed to talk.
---
Old Hector.
Inside Old Hector's study, the heavy scent of old parchment and ink filled the air. Dusty tomes and weathered scrolls were piled high on shelves and tables, casting long shadows in the dim candlelight.
The atmosphere was suffocating, the kind that weighed on the chest and made it difficult to breathe.
The bishop and imam sat opposite Hector, their faces lined with concern. Stacks of ancient books surrounded them like a fortress of forgotten knowledge, further isolating them from the outside world.
"I was against this from the beginning," the imam muttered, his voice low as if afraid the very walls might eavesdrop. His fingers absently toyed with the prayer beads draped around his wrist, a habit born from years of contemplation and stress. "Involving him… was it ever truly wise?"
"In matters like these, there is no wisdom—only necessity," Hector replied, his tone laced with bitterness. "We're all culpable here. Case No. 0-87 is a curse we chose to awaken and study."
The bishop's expression darkened as he leaned forward, his eyes hollowed maybe because of age or sleepless nights no one really knows
"When we reopened the case— after centuries of word, we thought we were seeking answers. But now, it's clear that this is a path only leading to ruin."
"You both assured me this was the best course of action," Hector continued, his voice strained with the weight of their collective guilt. "But what has it gained us? More bloodshed, more madness."
"The previous translators and those who subsequently read and got involved with Case No. 0-87… they all met grim fates, didn't they?" Hector asked, already knowing the answer but needing the confirmation to make sense of the horror unfolding before him.
The bishop nodded, his face solemn. "Yes. Every priest, every scholar who delved into that case is dead. The archbishop himself succumbed, just like the rest."
"Did they take their own lives?" Hector pressed, his voice tight with anxiety.
"In most cases, yes," the imam answered grimly. "Some died in ways more… unnatural. But death was their final destination, no matter how they got there."
"But none survived. They all perished," Hector whispered, more to himself than to his companions.
"Yes," the bishop and the imam confirmed in tandem, their voices heavy with finality.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The silence grew thick, interrupted only by the crackling of the candles, which cast wavering shadows across their faces.
The oppressive stillness seemed to press in on them, amplifying the weight of the situation.
"It's a miracle he's still alive," the bishop finally said, breaking the silence. His words hung in the air like a question left unanswered. Was it really a miracle, or something far darker?
The imam rubbed his temple, deep in thought. "We need to know what he discovered. What he's learned could be the key, but we can't ignore the possibility that his mind has already been consumed by the knowledge. His sanity is… fragile."
Hector's eyes narrowed as he studied the men before him. "There must be a way to extract the information," he said, though there was a tremor in his voice. "His Majesty is growing impatient. The royal family will not tolerate delays."
The mention of the royal family sent a shiver through the room. The Steel Wings, the very soldiers now lying dead outside, were King George II's personal guard. The king was known for his ruthless efficiency and intolerance for failure. If they didn't deliver answers soon, the consequences would be severe—for all of them.
"It's promising that he listened to you earlier," Hector pointed out, addressing the bishop. "You seem to have a rapport with him. Maybe you can reach him, get him to talk."
The bishop's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "You want me to approach him again? To try to… persuade him?"
Hector nodded gravely. "It might be our only option."
The imam frowned, concern etched deeply into his face. "You're asking the bishop to reason with a mind teetering on the edge of madness? This is no ordinary heretic or sinner we're dealing with. Ryan's grip on reality is hanging by a thread, and we're dangling that thread over an abyss."
The bishop sighed deeply. "We have little choice. If we don't try, the king's wrath will fall upon us all. We need to tread carefully but decisively."
"Not only that we all want to know what's in the document— to satisfy our curiosity and complete the work our Primogenitor started"
They all had a silent agreement.
Reluctantly, the trio rose from their seats and made their way out of the study, their footsteps echoing in the narrow, dimly lit hallway. They moved cautiously, as if each step might awaken some lurking menace. The manor was silent, save for the occasional creak of wood settling or the distant whisper of the wind through the cracks in the old walls.
They found Riley lounging in the main hall, seated in a plush chair with one leg lazily draped over the armrest. He looked almost bored, as if the massacre from earlier was already a distant memory. His gaze flicked up as they approached, a slow smirk forming on his lips.
"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Riley drawled, his tone laced with mockery. "I was beginning to think you'd left me to my own devices. That wouldn't have been very wise."
They approached him cautiously, making sure their presence was known from a distance. None of them wanted to risk startling the unstable young man—provoking him would be akin to stepping on a landmine.
"Son, can we discuss a matter with you? More like ask a question," the bishop said, keeping his voice as calm and soothing as possible.
"Sure, but you'll have to make it worth my while," Riley responded casually, leaning back in his chair, making a gesture of counting money.
"How much are we talking?" The bishop tried to keep his voice neutral, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.
"Three million gold coins," Riley said, not even blinking.
The imam's eyes widened in outrage, his voice rising in disbelief. "Three million? That's an Exorbitant sum! Judas betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver!"