Ritual

And the Spirit crawled in the void. Time had not yet been born. God had not yet spoken. There was silence. Within the silence, there was a will. And that will looked upon itself… In looking, it wounded itself. From the wound, a spark burst forth. That spark was the first price of Existence.

When God first tore Himself apart, existence was born.

And each fragment carried a truth.

The first sparks that spilled from the Creator struck seven ancient stones.

Each stone sealed a truth.

Each seal birthed a shell.

The First Shells, born from God's wound… They walked alone. They had no names, mouths but no speech. For the word belonged to God. And God had not yet whispered His first word.

The First Shells wed the earth.

The earth gave them warmth.

The earth became their womb.

And thus, the Second Shells were born.

They were given intellect. But the shadow of intellect was doubt. Doubt cracked their minds. Into that crack, the wind poured… And with the wind came a whisper.

The whisper came not from the heavens but from one cast out from them.

An Angel, forged from fire.

And fire had fury, fire had knowledge.

But it had no light.

When that angel fell to the earth, the stars wept.

And he was told:

"You are no longer the Bearer of Light.

You are now the Father of Darkness."

He took the name Devil.

And his first whisper was to the greatest of the Second Shells:

Adam.

Adam was silent for seven nights.

On the eighth night, he opened his eyes and looked to the heavens.

And he said:

"Why has God fallen silent?"

"Why has God not taken my hand?"

"I will reach Him. I will build my own throne in my own sky."

And so the fall began.

But this fall was also a rise.

For Adam, for the first time, turned his back on God.

After that night, mountains bowed, seas retreated, the sky split.

Adam trained his children with iron.

He did not teach them love.

He did not teach them prayer.

He taught them only obedience.

And he said:

"God is silent. Now I am God."

Adam built a ship seven miles high.

He fed it with souls.

Its wood was carved from the forgotten prayers of the past.

Each nail was forged in the destruction of a tribe.

And the ship rose to the heavens.

As the ship rose, the angels fell silent. For the first time, man approached God's domain. God watched. But He remained silent.

Before ascending, Adam left a box.

Within the box were secrets.

Each distilled from the soul of a First Shell.

They were called "The Ways of the Shell."

"And so it has come to this day," said Pope Pierre.

Wow, I thought to myself, giving thanks to the Holy Mother. Pope Pierre stood and took my hand. "Come," he said, "let's go to your new home."

Years Later, Holy Mother Church's Children's Protection and Religious Values Indoctrination Building, Far from Valeria

The Holy Mother Church's Children's Protection and Religious Values Indoctrination Building rose like a fortress among Valeria Kapitali's gray stones. Its Gothic arches stretched not toward the sky but toward oblivion; its walls were stained with the echoes of centuries-old prayers and screams. The air smelled of incense, mold, and old blood—heavy as a grave, holy as an altar. Candles flickered in iron chandeliers, their flames casting dancing shadows across the stone floor. A blond youth, Michael Hollowedan, stood in his robe. The white silk robe, adorned with golden embroidered patterns, hung heavy on his shoulders like a shroud. Today was the 342nd Shell Ritual of the Holy Mother Church. His eyes trembled with excitement, but beneath, a deep unease stirred. The old scars on his face—marks of his father's slaps—had faded but were still visible; his frail body, smaller than his peers, was like a fragile statue.

Beside him stood a gray-haired man—Pope Pierre Lucci. Years had etched wrinkles into his face, but his posture still carried a judge's authority. His eyes held something ambiguous—sorrow, or perhaps something else. Two nuns from the Main Headquarters had arrived for the occasion. Their long black robes dragged across the floor like serpents; their faces were lost in the shadows of their hoods. Children approached Michael one by one. Some offered, "God be with you, chosen," but their voices carried envy. Others smiled with genuine joy, but Michael noticed the fear in their eyes. Do they know? he wondered. The ritual… what will happen?

They descended slowly to the building's lower level, down stone stairs. Each step was cold and slick; the walls, stained with damp, left a moldy scent on fingertips. No one spoke of the ritual. The secret was guarded like a curse. Father Pierre led the way, his steps measured, but his shoulders slightly slumped. Michael caught his sorrowful glance, but excitement brushed the image aside. Today, I will be chosen. Pierre stopped abruptly. He raised his hand, and shadows—those familiar, liquid, living shadows—seeped from the walls. A door materialized in the stone wall; its iron hinges groaned like a scream. When the door opened, Michael froze. Beyond was pure darkness—no light, no sound, only a consuming void.

Pierre gently pushed Michael forward. "Step," he said, his voice calm but commanding. Michael hesitated. His heart pounded in his chest. But there was no turning back. He stepped into the darkness. The cold gnawed at his flesh; the darkness swallowed him like a wave. Seconds stretched into hours. His ears filled with a shrill ringing—vile, unbearable. Where am I? Fear gripped him; his breath caught in his throat. Just as he was about to scream, the darkness parted. He was in a room.

Pope Pierre appeared behind him. "Every time I pass through here, I'm as afraid as the first time," he said, smiling. He placed a hand on Michael's shoulder, rubbing it gently. Michael forced a smile in return, but his heart still raced. They moved forward silently. The room resembled a library, but wrong. Shelves were filled not with dusty books but with bone fragments and strange, glowing stones. The walls were stained with a black liquid—blood or ink, it was unclear. The air was stifling, heavy; each breath filled the lungs like poison. A long corridor led to a fork. Pierre raised his hand, and shadows enveloped Michael's eyes. Darkness erased the world for a moment. Then, they were in another room.

The room was like a temple, but grotesque. A stone altar rose in the center, surrounded by iron chains nailed to the floor. The walls were covered in reliefs—screaming faces, severed hands, wilting flowers. The ceiling was a starless black night; the only light came from a handful of candles on the altar, their flames blue and cold. The two nuns stood before the altar. Their black robes wrapped their bodies like shrouds; their faces were invisible in the shadows of their hoods. Their silence was sharp as a blade, heavy as a threat. Their eyes pierced Michael, but they spoke not a word. That silence made the room's air even more suffocating—as if the world held its breath before a storm.

The first nun, Marie Montclair, finally spoke. Her voice was clear as a bell, but cold as a grave. "Son Michael Hollowedan, you have been presented with the necessary choices. You have reflected upon them. The risks of the Shell Ritual have been explained, and you have consented. I, First Church Nun Marie Montclair, exercise my authority granted by the Church to subject you to the trial. Do you consent?"

Michael paused. His mind drifted to the shattered mirrors of his life. He thought for a moment. But he made his decision. Doubt gnawed at him, but there was no other path. The Church was his everything. He parted his lips. "I consent," he said, his voice trembling but resolute.

In that moment, the room changed. The darkness receded like a wave, and a white-haired girl appeared. She look like 20-25, but her body was a nightmare. Her eyes were bound with a black cloth; tears had soaked it, streaming down her cheeks. Her hands, arms, and feet were tightly bound with thick ropes, the cords digging into her flesh, leaving red marks. Her body was smooth but eerie—like a living statue, freshly carved but defiled. The most horrific detail was the iron in her vagina. Rusty, thick nails pierced her flesh, sealing her organ like a prison gate. The surrounding skin was blackened, rotting; in some places, it sagged grotesquely, unnatural for her age, diseased. The girl trembled—from fear, pain, perhaps both. Her tears fell like silent screams. Her breath was raspy, halting; each inhale was a plea. But her mouth was sealed as if stitched—not a sound escaped. That silence amplified the room's terror.

Michael's stomach churned. What is this? His eyes locked onto the girl's bound body; his heart pounded. The second nun moved suddenly. She grabbed the girl like a puppet and flung her onto the stone table of the altar. The girl's body hit the stone; the chains rattled. Her eye band, wet and crumpled, was still drenched with tears. Michael opened his mouth to ask a question, but the First Nun, Marie, approached from behind. Her hand clamped over his mouth like lightning—hard, bony, cold. His tongue accidentally brushed her palm; a vile taste spread through his mouth—salt, mold, and something else, perhaps blood. Michael felt his stomach lurch. The nun's silence was a curse; her eyes gleamed in the shadow of her hood, but her face was an expressionless mask.

Marie whispered to the shadowed figures nearby: "Permission has been granted to apply the Forbidden Path to the Chosen. Bring a second 'Focus Stone.'"

Michael's body shuddered. Forbidden Path? His hair stood on end; each follicle burned with a vile itch. He wanted to flee. He moved to step back, but Marie's hand dug into his flesh. Her strength was inhuman; Michael's body sagged like a rag doll. With his mouth sealed by her palm, he could only manage a muffled hum. His heart throbbed in his ears; fear consumed him.

The second Focus Stone was brought—black, rough, its surface covered in strange, greenish moss. Beside it, a stone throne appeared; its edges were lined with rusty nails, some stained with red. The throne's surface was scarred with gouges—as if clawed and scratched for years. Marie removed her hand from Michael's mouth. Her voice cut like a blade: "SIT."

Michael froze. The girl's bound body trembled on the altar; the iron gleamed in the candlelight. The nuns' silence grew heavy as a storm. The Focus Stone sat on the table, and Michael didn't know what it meant—but fear froze his bones.