CHAPTER 25: THE CULT

The temple breathed dust and bones. Its ancient stone walls, once adorned with stained glass of sun and fertility, were now covered with soot-stained tapestries, hand-painted with the symbol of the new dogma: a flaming eye, bound by fractured chains.

There were no windows.

Only still air, black candles burning bone oil, and the constant presence of what they called "the Truth."

In the central crypt—a runic circle of corroded bronze and dried blood—twelve figures knelt. Paladins in light armor, hooded, their faces obscured by the shadow of torches.

In the center, on a cracked marble pedestal, rested an opaque glass sphere, surrounded by golden chains and ancient inscriptions forcibly erased. The artifact trembled, almost imperceptibly.

One of the paladins stepped forward. His voice was low, but the echoes of the deformed columns multiplied each word as if they were profaned prayers:

"The name was confirmed in three distinct testimonies. A woman, a hunter, and a town scribe. They all spoke of the same face. The same gaze."

Another paladin added:

"They said he defeated Vildren effortlessly. That he brought beasts with him... and did not speak to them. Just... controlled."

Silence.

The sphere vibrated again. Slightly, but enough for the chains to clink softly.

The great double door, once sealed with mortar and forgotten crests, opened with a deep groan.

The sound came not just from the wood, but from something more—as if the temple was finally exhaling the name of its new occupant.

Malrik entered with the ceremonial slowness of one who knows that terror begins with steps, not words. His armor was white, polished, but marked with horizontal cuts that seemed intentional—reminiscent of ritualistic scars.

Chains hung from his shoulders like adornments of faith.

No visible weapon. Only the sacred book strapped to his belt. And over his eyes: a cloth blindfold embroidered with runes of negation. Voluntary blindness, the faithful said. "Not to see the corruption, only to feel it."

He walked to the circle and stopped, standing over the ancient crest of the temple. When he spoke, his voice cut through the darkness like a knife into rotten flesh.

"I have received the word."

The silence lasted long enough to seem liturgical. But the truth, as almost always, was far from the appearance.

Hours earlier, at the same altar where he now raised his hand to the faithful, Malrik had unrolled a scroll sealed with military wax. The crest? Iron Wing, with an extra letter—H.

Hagan did not send blessings. He sent names.

The document was clear: "Individual of interest: Eren Vale. Wanted for acts of subversion, breach of magical contract, and indirect murder."

Faith was not needed. Only spectacle.

Everyone bowed lower, kneeling with their faces to the cold ground.

"I received the word because I fasted. Because I was silent. Because I heard the creaking of chains in my sleep."

The sphere glowed coldly. No aura. No blessing. Just the light vibration that responded to the manipulation of external energy—like a crystal sensitive to magical presence.

Malrik extended his hand over the object.

"And do you know what it said?"

All awaited. Some trembled.

"It said the name of the heretic. The tamer of the profane. The man who walks with beasts as if they were daughters, as if they were his own flesh."

The sphere glowed stronger. Malrik leaned in, voice firm:

"Eren Vale."

The chains rattled. One of the paladins groaned. Another made the ritual gesture of "veil breaking," crossing fingers before the mouth.

Malrik turned slowly, eyes hidden by the blindfold, but face inclined as if seeing more than the others.

"He won in the arena. Humiliated a warrior. Used abominations to corrupt a crowd. His creatures do not roar... they obey silently. This is a pact. This is the Profane Bond."

From the depths of the temple, two brothers emerged carrying a cage. Inside it, a deformed creature—something that was once a wild stag, now with skin marked by broken runes and gray, dead eyes. It swung its head slowly, as if trying to remember it was alive.

"This one was freed from a corrupt tamer. Came from Forngard. It took three emptying rituals to stop repeating commands."

The creature let out a throatless noise.

"We did not kill it."

"We cleansed it."

The entire group murmured:

"The flame liberates."

Malrik walked to the altar and removed the book from his belt. He opened it to a page marked by dried blood.

"From this day, anyone who bears the Bond will be tested by fire. The city belongs to the Pure. Not to the Bond."

He raised a clenched fist.

"Reject the Bond. Liberate the Pure."

Voices echoed in unison:

"Liberate the Pure!"

"Announce the Faith — he ordered. — Let all see. Let all choose."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The next morning, the screams did not come from the square for a duel, but from surprise.

Along the walls of Archenval, on the doors of shops, on the pillars of the market... posters made of leather and dark ink, burned at the edges as if they had come from hell, were affixed.

"Reject the Bond."

"Liberate the Pure."

"Every tamer will be tested by flame."

Guards tried to tear down the leaflets, but others were immediately posted. Some civilians began to whisper. Some looked at their own animals with doubt. Others knelt before the hooded paladins now marching through the streets with symbols on their shoulders and chains at their waists.

And among the posters, another was hung. A new one.

Human skin stretched. Letters made with ashes and blood.

[WANTED: EREN VALE]

[The Herald of Corruption.]

[The Beast Lover.]

[The Bleeding Bond.]

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

The smell of mold and burnt oil was the same as always. Eren Vale knew that type of environment: abandoned warehouses that were never truly empty, just out of the reach of the law.

The underground of Archenval pulsed with its own rhythm, almost tribal. There were rules there—none written, but all known: eyes down, hands visible, no questions out of turn. And, most importantly, payment upfront.

The corridor leading to the black market stretched beneath the city’s eastern wing, camouflaged among cellars, dry wells, and forgotten drainage systems.

Nyssa walked almost invisibly behind him, her footsteps quieter than the wind.

Kaela, on the other hand, lagged behind on purpose—tail coiled, eyes keen on every corner. The forest was her natural territory, not this labyrinth of stone and deceitful people.

"Are you sure this is worth it?"

Kaela growled softly, without breaking her stride.

"If I were sure, I wouldn’t be here."

Eren replied. His voice came out as always: cold, precise, leaving no room for argument.

The final room of the tunnel was a vast hall, supported by cracked columns and lit by magical lanterns hanging like dead fruit from the ceiling.

Counters covered with worn fabrics exuded the scent of pelts, canned meats, illegal scrolls, and outdated magical items.

Hooded and masked men conducted their business among bitten coins and narrowed eyes.

Eren didn’t stop at any counter. He knew exactly whom to look for.

The man awaited him, leaning against a pillar at the back, wrapped in a grimy scarlet cloak, his nails bitten to the quick, and the restless gaze of someone who knew too much to be alive. They called him Grillo. No one knew his real name—and no one wanted to.

"I wanted to see you earlier. You’ve gained fame out there. Almost died, huh?"

"And almost killed enough to make it worth my time."

Eren pulled a leather pouch from his sleeve and tossed it toward the ground. The sound of dry coins filling the silence was more powerful than any threat.

Grillo bent down, picked it up, counted without shame. Then he laughed.

"You didn’t come for a fight, did you? You came for a creature."

Eren crossed his arms.

"I want a place where no one can follow me. Where I can find something... off the radar. Rare. Wild."

Grillo scratched his chin.

"There’s only one place that matches that. But it’s not just any ’place.’ It’s almost... a will. A magical echo that changes shape. Folks call it the Living Labyrinth."

Kaela stepped closer.

Nyssa retracted part of her form in a subtle reflex.

Eren didn’t react. He just tilted his face.

"Go on."

"It’s beyond the northwest wall, past the burn zone. It used to be a ritual prison, long ago. Made to contain aberrations. Then, it became an arena. Today? It’s no man’s land. No one can map it all. Some doors lead to nowhere. Others... throw you inside a creature. Literally."

Grillo paused. Then smiled with gray lips.

"But they say inside there are monsters with unique contracts. Something the system only releases once per cycle. Magic too wild to be loose out there. So it... keeps it."

Eren pondered.

The information matched rumors he had read in the system’s internal windows. A kind of sealed zone that didn’t follow the logic of real geography. An intentional error.

"What’s the catch?" he finally asked.

"The entrance changes. The seal only opens when the energy inside becomes unbalanced. They say the tamers who die in there feed the place. As if the labyrinth likes their souls. Each death, a new creature is born. A new corridor emerges."

Eren showed no emotion.

[Location Identified: Twisted Zone – Living Labyrinth]

[Threat Level: Extreme]

[Benefits: Temporal Instability | Exclusive Contract Generator | Zone Beyond Direct Tracking]

[Occupation Status: Intermittent Access | Probable Entry in 12 to 24 hours]

The system confirmed. That was all he needed.

Nyssa finally broke the silence with a murmur:

"This place... isn’t natural. I can... feel the metal within the walls, alive. As if it’s breathing."

Kaela growled.

"The beasts speak of it. They call it ’stone womb.’ They say the monsters created there have no will. They’re just... flesh seeking an owner."

Eren smiled at the corner of his mouth.

"Even better. Flesh without will... serves more easily."

Nyssa hesitated.

"Are you taking us?"

"Of course. If it’s dangerous for me, it’s dangerous for you too."

Kaela clenched her fists.

"That’s not loyalty. It’s cost."

"And cost we pay. Or die owing."

Grillo coughed.

"Do you want the map?"

Eren turned.

"No. I just need to know where the next entrance will open."

Grillo pointed to one of the pillars in the hall.

"Three tamers tried to enter yesterday. Only one returned. He said he saw the door trembling, as if it was about to open again. On the rock face, near the forgotten runes."

"Then that’s where we’re going."

Before leaving, he tossed another coin to Grillo.

"If you sell me out... you’ll die before hearing the payment."

The man swallowed hard, then nodded.

As they ascended the tunnels back to the city, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed behind them. People began to comment—whisper names. Among them, Eren Vale.

But he had already decided:

The city could be in flames.

He was going to the only place where there were no laws.

Only monsters.

And silence.

The next day dawned covered by a thick, clammy fog, as if the entire city were breathing through a damp cloth.

Archenval was no longer whispering—it was watching. The streets were too silent, the glances too lingering, the footsteps muted with intent. There was something in the breeze. Something like the prelude to a hunt.

Eren Vale showed no hurry.

With the gray cloak draped over his shoulders and the hood slightly raised, he moved through alleys and markets like a shadow refusing to disappear.

Nyssa walked beside him, still wearing the assassin’s cloak, her liquid form compressed to appear as a slender human beneath black fabric. Kaela followed a few steps behind, feline, motionless, her eyes scanning rooftops and balconies as if expecting an ambush at every corner.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

The first stop was at a simple-fronted antiquary, where an old man sold "relics from the stone age," but in truth supplied half of the city’s illegal rituals. Eren slid three golden coins over the counter, without saying a word.

The old man understood. He retrieved from a hidden box a thin scroll, with faded rune inscriptions. A fragmented map—not of the labyrinth itself, but of the possible locations of the next entrance.

"It moves. — whispered the old man. — Do not seek it as a place. Seek it as a calling."

Eren simply nodded and left.

The second stop was at a ruined temple where, at night, a spell market operated. There, he acquired three items:

A spectral vision stone — which would allow him to see through some of the labyrinth’s illusions.

A basic containment seal, ancient and short-lived, but enough to temporarily paralyze mid-level monsters.

A flickering light necklace, useful to avoid relying on the structure’s mutable lighting.

He paid with part of the arena prize. Without bargaining.

Kaela followed him to the temple’s exit and murmured:

"You’re preparing as if you’re not coming back."

"I’m preparing not to die. What comes after that... is profit."

Nyssa hesitated before asking:

"And... what if they already know where you’re going?"

Eren stopped. Looked around.

"They don’t know where to look. They still think I want gold."

They crossed the street to a wider alley, where cloaks, backpacks, and counterfeit scrolls were sold. Eren grabbed a new dark cloak — his was too stained with dried blood — and a reinforced bandolier. He did everything in silence, but he could feel it. The city was closing in around him like a hungry serpent.

When they turned the last corner of the commercial sector, they saw the first clear sign.

Three residents standing in front of a wall, where someone had pasted a new poster. On brown paper, burnt at the edges. With dried blood on the margins.

"REJECT THE BOND."

"FREE THE PURE."

"EVERY TAMER WILL BE TESTED BY THE FLAME."

Kaela stopped abruptly. Nyssa stepped back half a step.

"This isn’t just a warning. — murmured Kaela. — It’s a threat."

Eren approached. Pulled the poster from the wall and folded it without reading.

"It’s faith."

"Faith?"

Nyssa asked, confused.

"The worst weapon of all. Because it burns down to the last happy fool."

They advanced through the streets leading to the central square. It was there they heard it.

The sound.

First the bells. Not of military alert — but of worship. A sound of ancient bronze, repetitive, coming from the top of the tower where an old temple had been hastily refurbished. Then, the noise of leather striking stone. Marches. Chains. Synchronized feet.

Then they appeared.

The paladins.

Seven figures in pale armor, eyes covered by runic bands, marching side by side to the center of the square. The crowd parted, not out of physical fear... but due to a deeper discomfort. As if those figures dragged with them the notion that something inevitable had begun.

In the center, one of them — taller, with armor marked by claw designs in dried rust — raised a wide scroll, snapped it open, and began to read in a loud, immaculate voice.

"In the name of the Order of the Flaming Eye... we announce the commencement of the Judgment of the Bond."

The residents fell silent. Some knelt instinctively. Others moved the children away.

"We seek the tamer named EREN VALE."

The name echoed.

Nyssa froze.

Kaela growled, eyes wide.

"The one who binds flesh to instinct."

"The one who devours the soul with a contract."

"The one who desecrated arenas, deceived crowds, and walks among us with chained monsters."

Eren simply listened.

Without changing his pace.

Without turning his face.

"Anyone who sees him, and does not report, will be an accomplice."

"Anyone who makes a pact with monsters will be considered a servant of the Bond."

"Anyone who keeps silent... will burn with him."

Posters began to be distributed.

Drawings of Eren — artistically exaggerated, with demon eyes and claw-shaped hands. The words written in fake blood.

Kaela approached, murmuring:

"This will turn into a real hunt. With torches."

Nyssa trembled:

"What do we do?"

Eren raised his eyes. The sun had finally broken through the mist.

"We leave."

"Now?"

"Now."

And while the words of the pursuit still vibrated in the air of the square, Eren was already turning the last street toward the side gate — not the main one. An old trail, covered by stones and mud.