The tether was a vital milestone in a Maskless's journey. Without it, venturing into the Garden of the Gods would be like wandering blind through a storm. Conducted by the priests, the ritual created a mystical link—a pull, a guide that connected each Maskless to their destined source.
This ethereal thread ensured they felt the presence of their source, like a distant heartbeat, calling them through the treacherous expanse of the garden.
Without the tether, they would stumble through its dangers, lost and vulnerable, searching in vain for a power that might never reveal itself.
Thorne arrived back at the temple, his mind a tumultuous sea of conflicting emotions. Fear coursed through his veins, tinged with a sense of reverence for the sacredness of this place.
Anger boiled beneath the surface—anger at himself for his carelessness. He had been reckless in his attempt to unravel the secrets hidden here, and he had paid the price. His tether was lost, his path uncertain.
With a deep breath, he steeled himself, forcing his feet to move forward as he crossed the threshold once more.
The moment he stepped inside, a primal fear gripped his heart, far stronger than before. His senses went on high alert as he gazed toward where the statue had been. His breath hitched. Instead of the statue, there sat a man.
The figure was bald, his skin a deep, weathered brown, covered in intricate tattoos that seemed to shift with the flickering light of the temple's interior. His face was stern, his eyes dark and unfathomable, like pools of ink that threatened to swallow Thorne whole.
Despite the physical differences from the statue—this man was undoubtedly different—an inexplicable chill ran down Thorne's spine. A sense of overwhelming dread crept over him. How had he not noticed this presence before? How could he have missed something so potent, so alive?
No, where did the statue go?
Thorne's hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white with tension. His voice trembled, but he forced it out, steadying himself.
"Who are you?" he demanded, trying to sound braver than he felt.
The man slowly raised his head, and as his gaze settled on Thorne, a shiver ran through Thorne's body, a primal reaction as if his instincts were screaming at him to flee.
For a fleeting moment, he felt his tail curl up between his legs—then remembered he didn't have a tail, only the illusion born of fear. It was ridiculous, and yet it didn't make the feeling any less real.
The man spoke, his voice deep and resonant, carrying a strange weight that seemed to echo throughout the temple. "Chosen one of the chosen one," he began, his tone calm but laced with an eerie certainty. "You have been chosen from the beginning, and your duty is to return to the beginning."
Thorne's eyes widened, a mix of fear and confusion spreading across his face. What was this man saying? His words felt like riddles spoken by a madman.
"I think you have the wrong person," Thorne replied, trying to keep his voice steady despite the tremor he felt inside.
"I'm not who you think I am."
A small, cryptic smile appeared on the man's face.
"No," he agreed softly, "You are not. But the moment you set your eyes upon god…" His voice trailed off, his expression unreadable, before he seemed to change his mind.
Thorne's breath caught in his throat. The man's words were unsettling, cryptic, but they held a strange authority, as if he spoke of things beyond mortal understanding. Thorne's heart pounded in his chest, his instincts screaming for him to get out of this place. But he was frozen, trapped in the man's gaze.
Then, without warning, the man stretched out his hand.
In his palm, a black lump manifested, dark as the deepest night and pulsating with an otherworldly energy that Thorne could feel even from where he stood.
"This is what you seek," the man said, his voice calm and unwavering.
"Take it."
Thorne's breath quickened. The thing in the man's hand, he felt a pull to it, something unlike anything he had felt before.
Was this… his source? The key to his mask?
But how? His mind whirled with a thousand questions, none of them with clear answers.
But… I am blind.
Thorne almost cried out, his voice cracking under the weight of his frustration and fear. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he wanted to use his blindness as an excuse, a shield against whatever fate seemed to be closing in on him.
Yet, the man didn't move, didn't speak, just continued to hold out the object as if waiting, his expression unchanged. Thorne stood there, his mind torn between a primal urge to flee and a desperate need to understand what was happening.
Thorne took a deep breath, steadying his nerves.
"Before I accept the source," he began, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and curiosity,
"That statue… Who is He?"
The figure looked at him, his gaze unblinking, and his smile remained—unfaltering, perhaps even a little sinister, tinged with an unsettling hint of obsession. It was a smile that held no answers, only a maddening silence.
Thorne's question hung in the air like a fragile thread, but the man offered no reply, his hand still extended with the black lump of wood.
Seeing the figure's unyielding stance, Thorne realized he had no choice but to accept the source.
"Not like I have any choice," he muttered to himself, resignation settling over him. There was no way he could find another suitable source in this vast forest, and the clock was ticking. He still couldn't fathom how the gods had the audacity to call this a garden.
Reluctantly, he reached out and took the source from the man's hand. It was a piece of wood, cool to the touch and deceptively ordinary in appearance. As his fingers closed around it, he couldn't sense any spirituality emanating from it—not even a faint trace.
Yet, deep down, Thorne knew this was no ordinary wood. It held a weight, a significance that he couldn't quite put into words.
As he turned the wood over in his hands, inspecting its surface, the figure suddenly raised a finger and pointed directly at him.
Before Thorne could react, a searing beam of energy shot from the man's finger and struck him squarely in the forehead.
Thorne cried out in agony as a torrent of information flooded into his mind, forcefully stuffed into every corner of his consciousness. His skull felt like it was going to split open, his vision blurred with tears.
It was as if his brain was being stretched to its limits, forced to accommodate knowledge and sensations that it wasn't meant to hold. In that blinding moment of pain, all he could think was how unfair it was—he had barely been in the so-called "garden" for two days and had already endured more suffering than he had anticipated in two weeks.
His knees buckled, and the world around him swam in a whirl of colors and sounds. His thoughts became a cacophony of screams and whispers, twisting and intertwining in a chaotic dance.
Then, mercifully, the darkness took him, and for the second time in less than two hours, Thorne's world went black.