Gunmage-Chapter 237: A psalm for the damned

Deep within the vast subterranean chambers of the Embercreed Church, where shadows clung to every crevice and the air hung perpetually stale despite a lack of decay or dust, two youthful figures moved in solemn tandem.

The only light came from a multitude of flickering torches, casting wavering lights along the walls and giving the space a dreamlike gloom.

The strangeness of the place—its unnatural cleanliness, its quiet, its heavy air—was the kind that made the skin crawl.

One of the figures was adorned in resplendent robes of white and red, the traditional garb of the clergy.

The other was clad in robes of black and red—the unmistakable colors of the Inquisition.

What distinguished them further were the intricate designs of red threading, far more abundant than standard vestments.

These two were no ordinary members of the church, they were among its most influential: the High Cardinal and the Pope himself.

They walked with steady, unhurried steps, unaccompanied by guards—not that any were needed.

Just when it seemed the corridor had reached a end—just when the passage narrowed—one of them pressed a specific stone along the wall.

With the subtle pulse of mana, a low rumble echoed as the stone receded, triggering the heavy grating of stone upon stone.

A hidden mechanism stirred, and the wall began to part, revealing a narrow stairway spiraling downward into even deeper darkness.

It was long rumored that the grandeur and complexity of the cathedral’s catacombs mirrored the towering glory of the building above.

But much of this was speculation; few knew the true extent of the Church’s secrets, and fewer still had ever descended this far.

As they went deeper, the air grew colder and damper.

The light dimmed into an uncanny blue hue, sourced from mounted phosphorescent flames that never flickered, never dimmed, and never died.

The corridor gave way to a long hall of iron-barred cells—cubic caverns lining the walls in even rows.

The bars were rusted, yet solid, their surfaces holding runic etchings that shimmered faintly under the unnatural light.

Some of the cells were occupied. Their prisoners sat or lay still within, gaunt figures whose eyes, if they even looked up, followed the two robed men in utter silence.

No words, no cries for help, no anger. Only a deadened stare. They did not speak—many had long since lost the voice or the will to scream.

Eventually, the two men came to a particular cell. This one, unlike the others, was very clean.

Its bed had fresh sheets, and the air carried none of the rot or despair that lingered in the rest of the dungeon.

Within sat a man of middle years, his garments surprisingly unsoiled, his beard rough and unkempt, but his eyes sharp.

He read scripture intently, using the eerie blue light to pick out each word with unwavering focus.

A low voice broke the silence.

"Axel"

It was Draque’sill’s voice.

The man in the cell froze. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the two figures beyond the bars.

His brow furrowed, scanning them—until, recognition struck. His eyes widened.

"High Cardinal? Is that... is that you?"

"Indeed,"

Draque’sill responded, his tone calm and distant.

The man reeled back slightly, shock overtaking his expression. He examined the cardinal again, disbelief creeping in.

"H-how? What happened to you?"

"That is not important at the moment,"

The High Cardinal replied coolly. He gestured to the youth beside him.

In truth, Axel would not have recognized Draque’sill at all if not for a few key features: the uniquely styled hair, the flowing garments, and most distinct of all, the gold-inlaid cane.

Even then, it had been a guess—one confirmed only moments ago. His thoughts churned. Had they used forbidden rituals to restore their youth?

His mind conjured rumors of foreign branches of the Embercreed—tales of baby sacrifices, of ancient rites, and deep corruption. He didn’t doubt them, as those were the reasons why the Inquisition was originally founded

Draque’sill spoke again, his voice steady:

"This is the Pope."

The words were simple. Almost absurd in their simplicity. Yet Axel’s mind stalled. Then, slowly, realization hit—and he fell into a deep, reverent bow.

"Your Holiness."

"Rise, child,"

The Pope said gently.

Axel rose, but his expression twisted in discomfort. Being addressed as child by someone who looked significantly younger felt profoundly wrong.

And yet... the High Cardinal’s rejuvenated form hinted that appearance no longer meant anything in this sacred place.

The Pope’s voice continued, detached and soft, as if he were reading from a well-rehearsed script.

"Explain what you saw the day the survivors from Drakensmar arrived in this city."

At once, Axel’s composure faltered. His face shifted—conflict blooming across it in equal parts rage and terror.

"I saw it!"

He screamed, surging forward. The impact as he slammed into the iron bars rang loud, echoing down the stone hall. Neither figure flinched.

"What did you see?"

The Pope asked, his golden-red eyes unblinking, voice unwavering.

"There were—there were demons! No—demon! Singular! It had many faces—it had countless bodies!"

"Calm yourself,"

Draque’sill murmured.

The Pope persisted.

"And what did you do?"

"I—I..."

Axel stumbled back, falling to the ground. His eyes were wide, feral.

"I doused him in holy water."

"And what happened?"

Silence.

"...And what happened?"

The Pope repeated in exactly the same tone.

Axel trembled.

"...Nothing. Nothing happened."

"Then it cannot have been a demon,"

The Pope said simply.

"But—!"

Axel leapt up, slamming into the bars again. He fell once more. Still, the two men did not move, nor blink.

"Tell me. What did you see?"

There was a subtle change in the Pope’s voice now, a vibration, a tension so slight it could have been imagined. And yet it hung heavy.

Axel’s breath came in ragged.

"It was... it was..."

"It was what?"

Draque’sill prompted.

"It was a—it was—!"

His voice stopped abruptly. His head hung.

And then—slowly—he lifted it. A small, twisted smirk curled on his lips.

"...A beast."

The Pope’s eyes snapped wide, but only for a breath. He shut them tightly.

"Draq!"

Draq mirrored his movements closing his eyes. At once, he clapped his hands together, fingers interlacing as he began to chant:

"For thine is the shadow that guards the gate,

And thine is the hand that seals the curse.

Let fire be choked by holy ash,

Let—"

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