The room was dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Leonard sat in the hard chair, his hands cuffed tightly to the arms of it, his head heavy with thoughts of what had transpired. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, but one thing was clear—he had to keep the truth buried.
He wasn't Jin anymore. He was Leonard Astreus, and that was all anyone needed to know.
The door creaked open, and Leonard's heart skipped a beat. An old man, tall and thin, entered the room. His face was weathered, but his eyes were sharp—piercing, as if he could see straight through him.
"Mr. Leonard," the man said, his voice cold but oddly calm. "I'm here to ask you a few questions. I must clarify that we don't believe you've committed any crimes, but there are… matters that need explaining."
Leonard's breath caught in his chest. His pulse quickened as the man's words began to sink in.
"Corpses… the strange happenings around you," the man continued, pulling up a chair and sitting across from Leonard. "And your connection to the followers of the evil god cult. As well as the manner of your survival… most peculiar."
Leonard clenched his fists. He wanted to scream, to shout out the truth—to tell the man what had truly happened, to scream about the Abyss Walker and the power that had surged through him. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his chest tightened. A cold grip, like a vice, wrapped around his heart.
I can't tell anyone about it. They must never know.
The words echoed through his mind, drowning out all other thoughts. The revelation that came with the Abyss Walker—his path to the Shadow Emperor—was not meant for others. Not even for this interrogator, Rogan, who had come to question him.
The silence stretched on between them. Leonard could feel the weight of the questions pressing down on him, suffocating him with each passing second. His mind raced. He had to lie. He had no choice.
Tell them what they want to hear. Protect yourself.
After a long, agonizing pause, Leonard finally spoke, his voice steady despite the chaos inside him.
"I don't know how I survived," he said, his tone low and resigned. "I remember being part of a ritual, something dark. It felt like… death. But somehow, I woke up in that chamber, with the bodies of the cult members around me."
Rogan leaned forward, his sharp gaze never leaving Leonard's face.
"And the corpses? What of them? The bodies that came back to life?"
Leonard hesitated, recalling the horrors he had seen—twisted, reanimated forms, their bodies jerking unnaturally, their empty eyes staring at him as they whispered his name. He swallowed hard.
"I don't know how it happened," he continued, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. "The ritual… it went wrong. I don't understand the occult powers they were dealing with. I just know that I… I had to escape."
"And you managed to do so?" Rogan's voice was skeptical, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Leonard nodded, though the truth was far different than he let on.
"Yes," he lied. "I broke free. I… ran."
Rogan studied him for a moment, his eyes calculating. "Hmm. You'll have to elaborate on that later. For now, Mr. Leonard, the matter of your involvement with the cult and the events surrounding it must be addressed."
Leonard nodded, his stomach sinking. He could feel the weight of the situation bearing down on him, and he knew there was no way out of this—no way to escape the lies he was weaving.
The questions kept coming, but Leonard held firm. He stuck to his story, his mind scrambling for answers that weren't true.
And through it all, the cold grip around his heart remained, reminding him of what he truly was now—and what he could never reveal.
The room seemed to grow colder, the oil lamp flickering as if in response to the growing tension. Rogan leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together, eyes never leaving Leonard's face.
"Tell me, Mr. Leonard," Rogan said, his voice now smooth and measured, "what do you remember about the others? The cultists? Who led the ritual?"
Leonard's mind flashed back to the altar—the bloodied stone, the cruel faces of the cultists murmuring incantations in a language he couldn't understand. His stomach churned. There was no easy answer to this. If he spoke the truth, it would lead to more questions, and then what? No, he had already come this far with the lie. There was no turning back.
"I… I don't know," he muttered, forcing his gaze down to the cold floor, his hands clenched in his lap. "There was a leader, yes, but I never saw his face. Only his voice—deep and commanding. He spoke of dark gods, of an ancient power… something that was supposed to awaken."
Rogan was silent for a long moment, studying him. Leonard felt the old man's gaze like a weight pressing on his chest, but he couldn't let the truth slip. Not now.
"And the bodies?" Rogan's voice cut through the silence. "The cult members. When they reanimated, how did they behave?"
Leonard fought to keep his composure. He saw it again—the twitching, the lifeless eyes, the whispers. The cold, unnatural stillness of their bodies before the curse activated.
"They… they didn't act like themselves," Leonard said slowly, his voice faltering for the first time. "They moved like puppets, jerking and twitching. It was like they weren't in control anymore. The air was thick with something dark. I… I couldn't stay."
The old man nodded, though his expression remained unreadable.
"And the ritual? The altar?" Rogan pressed. "What can you tell me about the knife wounds? The marks on your body?"
Leonard stiffened at the mention of the wounds. His fingers absently traced the scars on his arms, feeling the remnants of a pain that had faded but never quite disappeared.
"I… I was part of the ritual," Leonard said, swallowing hard. "They used the blood of the chosen to empower the ritual. I was chosen, but... it failed. The power didn't awaken. The cultists… they died."
Rogan seemed to absorb this information without much reaction. He sat back again, his eyes distant for a moment.
"Quite a tale," he muttered. "But it doesn't explain everything, Mr. Leonard. Especially the way you survived. No one comes back from a failed ritual like that. The dead stay dead."
Leonard's heart pounded. He could feel it—Rogan's suspicion growing stronger with every word he said. He couldn't let this unravel. Not now.
"I told you, I don't understand it," Leonard insisted, his voice rising slightly. "I was dead. I should have been dead. But somehow… somehow I woke up. That's all I can remember. I ran. I escaped."
Rogan's eyes narrowed, studying Leonard with quiet intensity. He didn't speak for a moment, letting the silence stretch out between them. Then, he leaned forward again, his voice low and almost conspiratorial.
"You expect me to believe that, Mr. Leonard? You expect me to believe that you just 'woke up' in a room full of dead cultists and somehow escaped without a scratch?"
Leonard's throat tightened. He couldn't answer. He had to hold his ground, but a part of him felt like the room was closing in on him. The lies were starting to feel suffocating.
Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door. Rogan's gaze flicked to it, and without a word, the door creaked open. Another officer stepped inside, a young man, holding a stack of papers in his hand.
"Sir, the examination of the ritual site is complete. We found… something," the officer said, his voice a mix of unease and curiosity.
Rogan's eyes flicked to the officer, then back to Leonard. "Continue."
The officer stepped forward, carefully laying the papers on the table. "It's the same mark, sir. The one from the ritual. We found it carved into the stone altar… but more than that, we found this." He slid a small, dark object across the table to Rogan.
Leonard's eyes locked onto it. It was a pendant, shaped like a twisted, dark sigil. A symbol that seemed almost familiar.
"Where did you find this?" Rogan asked, his voice now steely.
"It was near the altar," the officer replied. "It looks like it belongs to the cult, but… we've never seen anything quite like it before."
Leonard felt a cold sweat break out across his forehead. The pendant. The same sigil from his dreams. The one that had haunted him—no, haunted Leonard—long before he arrived in this world.
His pulse quickened. If Rogan knew about this—if anyone connected it to him…
Rogan's sharp gaze flicked to Leonard again, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
"You know this symbol, don't you, Mr. Leonard?" he asked, his tone now almost predatory.
Leonard's heart raced, and the weight of his situation grew heavier with each passing second. He couldn't lie any longer. But he couldn't tell the truth either.
"I don't," Leonard said, his voice shaking only slightly. "I've never seen it before."
Rogan studied him for a long moment, his eyes unreadable.
"Well, I suppose we'll see soon enough."
Leonard couldn't bring himself to speak. He just sat there, the flickering oil lamp casting shadows on the stone walls, and tried to ignore the fear that gripped him tighter with each breath.
What have I gotten myself into? he thought.