Chapter 24

When the passage was left behind, and everything around was enveloped in thick fog through which nothing could be seen, I felt a strange sensation—as if a vice had clamped down on my head. It seemed as though someone was firmly gripping my temples, preventing me from moving. Yet, I could still move. It was a strange, contradictory, almost anomalous feeling that lasted only a second, but I noticed it. Stopping, I asked Jane to do the same and focused.

Energy, like an invisible third hand, rushed to my head through vivid channels in which it flowed. A fraction of a second later, in a frozen world, I felt a sharp blow, as if I'd been struck on the back of the head with a bat, and everything stopped. The pain in my head vanished, as did the fleeting memories of how we had moved away from the hole behind us. Jane was two steps closer than she had been before, her gaze filled with concern. Strange.

"Something wrong, Brandon? You've gone pale," her face, like a wax figure sculpted by the world's finest artists, expressed care. Suddenly, it became just as it was before. An ordinary girl, no claws or anything else. What happened? The question lingered in my mind. Feeling warmth from her words, I replied:

"I think I forgot something… It's fine, Jane," forcing a smile, not understanding where the sweet taste of childhood cotton candy in my mouth came from, I looked around. "We need to keep moving."

"Indeed. You hear it too, don't you?" she turned away, her back relaxed, her head slightly tilted, listening to the surroundings.

We found ourselves in a ruined city, as if frozen in a medieval era—old and forgotten. We were surrounded by high walls of stone rubble, and ahead, based on my senses, the remains of houses loomed. My gaze couldn't pierce the strange fog, but my hearing, though limited, clearly painted a picture of what was happening.

The city was frozen in time, not merely abandoned but cursed. Narrow streets, paved with cracked stone, resembled the broken bones of a long-dead giant. Houses of rotten wood and crumbling stone didn't just seem destroyed—they were mutilated, as if something enormous and insatiable had once torn through here, ripping walls with claws and leaving deep gashes in the stone.

The fog swirled between the ruins—thick, viscous, like ghostly flesh. It didn't dissipate but thickened, reminiscent of dark thoughts that creep into the mind when you're alone with the unknown.

But that wasn't what made me doubt the reality of what was happening.

The city was dead.

Not in the sense of abandonment, but in a literal, bone-chilling way.

The vast, ruined city with narrow streets, houses of stone and wood, surrounded by high walls with the hole we emerged from, was inhabited by strange creatures. Their hearts didn't beat, their blood didn't flow through veins. They were neither alive nor dead in the usual sense. Their skin—pale, grayish, covered in ash, cracked in places—revealed black tendons and exposed bones. They had no eyes, only gaping black holes in their skulls, from which thick darkness oozed slowly, dissolving into the air in droplets. Their movements were jerky, like broken marionettes, but they exuded a menace that made the air heavier with every step. One such creature lay motionless on the ground, and I could examine it, but I couldn't comprehend how it could be alive or even resemble life. For a moment, my eyes saw red. Like blood on hands.

Was it my imagination? Exactly.

They didn't breathe, but a thin, intermittent vapor escaped their mouths, as if they were connected to something beyond death. The creatures wandered the streets chaotically, sometimes freezing, sometimes turning their heads toward us, but not seeing us. Or pretending not to. This sparked strange thoughts about the city's origin and made me question the reality of what was happening. To find myself in a place where the sun doesn't shine, yet light comes from everywhere, with a girl I've known for only a few days, wasn't exactly my usual pastime.

And why was I here?

The growling, coming from all directions, sounded like beacons of horror. Blood on the walls, splattered everywhere, tickled my heightened senses, like the scent of fear. Many people had died here—their bones, through which the wind whistled, sounded like a melody in an orchestra of death. It told me much, including that the threat from these creatures was real. Jane, walking ahead with a confident stride, raised more and more questions in me.

The fog thickened, and the further we went, the stronger the feeling grew that someone or something was guiding us. The houses around us changed: from simple ruins, they turned into mutilated remnants of buildings with gaping holes in the walls and red stains that could have been rust—or something else.

"Where are we going?" I asked one of the questions swirling in my head.

Her confidence, her ability to avoid creatures I could hear but not see, seemed strange.

"To the center. There's a hill there, with a castle on top. That's where we need to go."

"A castle? How do you know that?" After a minute of no response, I stopped. We were surrounded by the high walls of houses, their rough surfaces, stained with blood, boxing us in from all sides. Bones crunched underfoot like twigs. "Jane?"

She froze for a second, then, after five seconds, said:

"Tch, you're annoying." Turning around, her eyes flashed red, and I froze. With a slow gait, she approached me, not breaking her gaze, and hissed through gritted teeth: "Filthy wretch, if it weren't for your power, I'd kill you on the spot. I didn't want to do this, but it'll be faster…"

Her eyes instantly turned black, darkness filling the entire sclera, and I lost consciousness.

When I came to, I shook my head. Where was I?

"What happened?" Jane was giving me water, her gaze as caring as a mother's.

"I don't know. We were close to the city center, and you passed out. I got scared…"

Looking around, I realized she was right. We were in the city center, in an open square without buildings, from which roads branched out. Above us loomed a hill, with a path leading to its peak, ending at a black castle. In the center of the square stood a fountain, but there was no water in it—only black sludge, thick as oil, with bubbles that burst, emitting faint moans. Something moved in that sludge. But how did we get here? And why did my hands smell of blood?

The questions born in my mind didn't escape my lips. Turning my attention to Jane, I asked:

"What now?"

She smiled, as if waiting for that question, and stood up.

"Now we go up. Only you can open those gates—I don't have the strength."

She pointed to a detail I hadn't noticed before. The hill was surrounded by a wall, and the only way up was blocked by massive stone gates. Strange patterns were carved on them—images of creatures praying to a figure on a throne of bones and skulls.

"Are you sure we should go there?" I felt strangely weak, my body heavy, my vision foggy, and my tongue asking questions whose answers seemed obvious.

"Yes, Brandon, that's exactly where we need to go."

"Alright."

She smiled seductively and stepped aside. If Jane said we needed to go there, then that's where we'd go.

Who was I to question, right?

---

Finding yourself under the mental control of another person is like experiencing a rift between what you think and feel and what's being imposed on you. You lose confidence in your reality, doubt your desires, and feel your thoughts gradually submitting to another's influence. I felt myself slowly losing control. It was like being in a body that didn't belong to you, where your thoughts weren't yours but someone else's.

The gates, unnaturally heavy, collapsed with a booming sound, splitting in the middle. Jane laughed. Or rather, whatever was pretending to be her.

"Ha-ha-ha-ha!" After laughing and watching the dust settle, she said: "Finally, it'll all be over soon. Come, Brandon."

I took a step with my own legs. But it wasn't me.

It starts subtly. You don't realize what's happening. The person beside you seems caring, attentive, almost an ally. They adapt to you, show empathy. But over time, their words begin to reshape your worldview. It's not a crude intrusion but a subtle, almost imperceptible manipulation. At first, you don't even realize you've become part of someone else's game. Every word, every glance carries a hidden meaning you don't immediately recognize. Jane walked ahead, like a queen, each step filled with a grace I hadn't noticed before.

Then comes a moment when you feel something strange. Thoughts slow down, decisions seem questionable, logic slips away. The world around becomes alien, distorted. Your convictions lose strength, a void grows inside, and you can't find what was once obvious. It started back at the hotel. That unnaturally sweet smell… It seemed odd then, but now, walking like a marionette beside my master, I understood: it was the beginning of my submission.

Control I couldn't overcome. Only observe.

It becomes hard to understand what you want for yourself. The external and internal worlds merge, and you cease to be the master of your life. Where does your will end and another's begin? She says something, and you, without resisting, start thinking as she commands, unaware that these aren't your thoughts. You ask yourself why you give in so easily, and it's frightening, but you can't stop. You're in a whirlpool, your reactions weakening, becoming unstable. A strike—and a creature's head shatters into fragments. It wasn't the first creature in our path, but the blood… Red, with a smell like human blood. What was happening?

When you try to resist or feel safe, guilt or anxiety arises. You start thinking you might be wrong, that your feelings are distorted. You doubt them, as if they came from outside. You try to shake it off, but the feeling returns. And suddenly, you realize: she's always there, in your mind. Her words echo in your head, even when she's not around. You can't rid yourself of that voice guiding your thoughts, making you doubt yourself.

The world flickered, and before me appeared a human corpse with a cross on its chest. He tried to escape but couldn't. His head was smeared across the castle corridor's floor. Jane stopped, looked at me with eyes full of boredom, and said:

"There are still plenty of these churchmen, Brandon. Forward."

She pointed a clawed finger at a crowd ahead, sheltered behind shields in the corridor. I nodded, like an obedient boy, and advanced on them.

No-no-no. No…

A snap of consciousness—and I found myself in a vast hall, saturated with the smell of iron and death. The floor was slick with blood, flowing like a river, soaking the chipped stones. Around me towered piles of mutilated bodies—men and women, their faces frozen in grimaces of horror and pain. Their armor, darkened with dirt and rust, resembled medieval plate: dented breastplates, torn chainmail, helmets split in half. Crosses dangled from their necks—some of crude iron, others carved from bone, now stained with crimson. Blood dripped from them, pooling in puddles that squelched underfoot.

My hands were sticky, heavy with scarlet sludge coating them up to my elbows. The skin on my palms was soaked with foreign flesh—scraps lodged under my nails, mixed with dirt and blood. My face burned, as if scorched; warm trickles ran down my cheeks, seeping into my mouth, leaving a salty taste. Bones crunched underfoot—someone's ribs, shattered by a blow, someone's skull, split open to reveal brains glistening in the dim light, oozing grayish slime. Severed limbs lay scattered: a hand still gripping a sword, a leg in an armored boot, severed at the knee, with white bone protruding amid torn muscles.

I turned and saw Jane. She was slowly walking toward a throne in the center of the hall. The throne was built from bones and skulls—human, animal, yellowed with age, and fresh, still clinging to scraps of flesh. Blood trickled down its edges, pooling in a viscous puddle at its base. Her steps left red footprints, her dress's hem soaked crimson, dragging bits of someone's innards. A heavy hum hung in the air—an echo of recent screams.

My eyes fell to the sword in my hand: its blade notched, blood dripping from it, the hilt slippery with sweat and foreign death. A sword? Did I do this? Yes… The bodies around me were my doing. Their guts, spilling from slashed bellies, eyes oozing from crushed sockets—all screamed of the slaughter I had wrought.

What have I done…

"Stop, creature," a voice rang out behind, in the domed chamber. The doors, barred with a massive beam, shattered into splinters, and from the debris and dust stepped a man. His white hair suggested an elder, but his youthful face and warrior's powerful build created a strange, memorable image. He wore chainmail with an uncovered head, long white pants, and a huge blood-red cross on his chest.

"Exorcist," Jane hissed with an unnaturally long tongue. A ringing in my ears appeared suddenly, but I caught her transformation. With a wave of her arms, like a swimmer, she shed the two halves of her shell—the body that seemed like the real Jane collapsed in a fountain of blood, like empty rags without organs. The creature pretending to be her revealed its true form: a withered being wrapped in bandages. Raising a hand, it summoned a whip from the air and lashed out. The whip sliced through bodies on the ground, leaving a gash in the floor.

"Time to end your blasphemous life, Apophia."

"That's not for you to decide, Exorcist of the Fallen God…"

They exchanged words, their dialogue strange and incomprehensible, but it all passed me by. The ringing in my ears grew louder. I was drowning in darkness, trying to break free, but I couldn't. My vision narrowed, the tunnel to clarity receding. I don't want…

The last thing I remembered was the man with the cross reciting something in Latin, a loud hiss, then a bright white light, and my consciousness faded.