57. A Teenager

The Astral Box breathed like a living thing.

It pulsed with quiet warmth and abstract shapes, folded realities stitched together by pale gold threads. Here, time wasn't a law, only a suggestion. Sound moved like a ripple through oil. Stars bled softly into one another across a ceiling that didn't exist.

At the center of the shifting plane, Henry sat beside Father Vain on a smooth black platform suspended in the nothingness. Henry's left ankle glowed faintly—a gentle golden hue, layered with green veins pulsing with subtle luck.

"I used a Luck Point," Henry said, rolling his ankle with a satisfied grin. "Fully healed. No pain now."

Father Vain didn't turn. He was watching the far horizon, where the veil of the Box shimmered like fabric dipped in stardust.

"You only have three points left," he said calmly.

"Better than limping for another week," Henry replied. "Besides, I needed full mobility for the Watchtower."

Vain gave a slow nod. "So you retrieved it. The Bell?"

Henry reached into the fold of his cloak and pulled out a small object—dull, rusted, and silent. It didn't ring when he tilted it, but the air around it twitched. Something listened every time it moved.

"Buried under Larrem's foundations," Henry whispered. "Didn't dig it up. It let me find it."

"Then the Second Ritual is complete," Vain said. "And the Route draws near."

Across from them, two kittens rolled across a swirling patch of floating sand that obeyed no gravity. Marsh, a sharp-eared, smoky-gray tomcat with a torn left ear, wrestled with Jeena, a white kitten with mismatched eyes and a terrifying purr.

"Give me the bread, Jeena!" Marsh meowed fiercely, batting at her paws.

"You stole it from my side of the pocket plane!" Jeena hissed. "And it's sourdough! You hate sourdough!"

"I hate it less when you want it!"

Their tiny claws met midair, each attempting to wrestle a floating wedge of slightly burnt bread from the other. It spun like a sacred relic between them. Henry and Father were able to understand their tongue in the astral box.

Henry and Vain didn't interfere. They watched in silence, the corners of their mouths twitching with restrained amusement.

"Should we stop them?" Henry asked.

Vain shook his head solemnly. "Kitten quarrels are sacred trials."

"I hope they never become human." Henry murmured. "They're better this way."

"They always were."

Marsh yowled as Jeena landed on his back, gnawing his ear. "Traitor! You licked the butter first!"

"I earned the butter!"

Vain exhaled through his nose—a sound that might have been a chuckle.

Henry turned serious again. "Once I complete Ritual III, I'll be able to transition to Route —4, right?"

"Yes," Vain said. "You only need three out of the five. The other two Rituals are... indulgent distractions."

Henry glanced at the Bell. "Then it's almost time."

Vain's tone lowered. "Ritual III is buried not in the earth, but in remembrance. You'll need to return to where you were unmade."

Henry's hand rested briefly on Mimi's imaginary self, his Midnight Companion, who lay coiled beside him like a shadow with breath. Her black fur shimmered as if cut from forgotten constellations. She purred with eerie softness.

"She'll guide me?" Henry asked.

Vain nodded. "Where the dead sleep under borrowed names. Yes."

Marsh suddenly rolled off the edge of the platform, yelping, and scrambled back up using his claws. The bread flew into Jeena's mouth triumphantly.

"Victory!" she declared, mouth full. "I am the breadqueen!"

"You cheated!" Marsh shouted. "You used your tail as a decoy!"

"That's called strategy, you toast-minded turnip!"

Henry snorted. "They're adorable."

"They're a curse," Vain said, but his eyes smiled.

Silence fell for a moment as the glowing scriptures around them whispered new lines of fate.

Henry breathed out. "I don't know what the Route will ask of me."

"It already has," Vain murmured. "Survival, loyalty, the willingness to lose parts of yourself to gain meaning."

Jeena licked her paw. Marsh plotted revenge.

....

Six Years Ago....

The sun bathed the village in a soft, golden glow, as if time itself had slowed to savor the quiet beauty of the moment. Birds chirped lazily in the trees, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from nearby houses, weaving through the narrow paths of the village like an invisible lullaby.

Allen Iverson, just nine years old, sprinted barefoot across the grass behind his home, his laughter echoing like a bell. His face was lit with childish joy, flushed from running and swinging his wooden sword against imaginary foes. Dirt smudged his cheeks, and his shirt clung to him with sweat, but his spirit was bright—carefree.

Behind him toddled his four-year-old brother, trying to keep up with short legs and clumsy steps. The little one's chubby hands clutched a broken stick, mimicking Allen's wild swings with cheerful determination. Every time he stumbled, he burst into a giggle, and Allen would stop, turn back, and help him up with a grin.

Their home sat at the edge of the village, humble but welcoming. The walls were made of stone and sun-baked clay, the roof thatched with care. It was clean, warm, and alive with the gentle noise of family. Inside, the scent of soup simmering in a clay pot wafted through the windows, stirred by the breeze.

On the porch sat their mother, quietly shelling peas. Her beauty was whispered about in the village—graceful, poised, with eyes that held the softness of dusk. She watched her boys with a loving, patient gaze, lips curved in a small, proud smile. Her hands worked, but her attention was theirs.

Inside the home, their father sorted through papers at a wooden table, worn from years of work. He was an ordinary man in an ordinary business—nothing glamorous. But his love for his family was evident in everything he did. Though lines of worry creased his brow—mostly from recent trouble with old rivals in the business world he never let the tension spill over to his children. At night, he read them stories. In the morning, he kissed his wife before leaving for the day.

This was a good man, a devoted husband, and a firm but gentle father.

Allen paused in the yard, raising his sword high.

"I'll protect everyone!" he shouted to the sky.

His little brother clapped, and their mother laughed softly.

For now, the world was perfect. And Allen was simply a happy, cheerful boy in the heart of a peaceful, loving family.

The rooster had already crowed once, but Allen lay curled under a thin, patchy blanket, arms wrapped protectively around his little brother, who breathed softly beside him. Their room was small—just two straw-filled mattresses on the floor and a few carved toys—but it was theirs.

"Allen," whispered the little voice beside him, tugging at his sleeve, "are we having bread today or porridge?"

Allen opened his eyes slowly, yawned, then smiled. "Both," he said confidently. "Half a bread and a spoon of porridge each. That's a champion's breakfast."

The little boy's eyes widened. "Really? Like the one in the bedtime story?"

Allen nodded with mock seriousness. "Exactly. Heroes need fuel."

They scurried to the kitchen where their mother was already kneeling near the clay stove, her sleeves rolled up, stirring a thin pot of porridge. Her hair was tied back, and her face looked a little tired, but she smiled when she saw them.

"Good morning, sleepyheads," she said warmly. "I saved the crusty end of the bread for you, Allen. I know you like it best."

He beamed. "Thanks, Mama."

She handed them each a tiny wooden bowl and the promised half-slice of dry bread. The porridge was watery, the bread a little stale, but to them, it tasted like magic.

Their father entered, rolling down his sleeves, face dusted with soot and sweat from early chores. "Boys," he said, ruffling both their hair, "guess what?"

"What?" Allen asked, mouth full.

"I fixed the old wagon wheel. Tomorrow, I'll take you both to the riverbank. But only if you help your mother today."

Allen stood tall. "We will! I'll carry water, and I'll help with the firewood too!"

The little one puffed out his chest. "I'll… I'll catch bugs!"

They all laughed, the kind of laughter that carried through the thin walls and warmed the house.

Later, Allen struggled with a heavy bucket, splashing more water on himself than in the pot. His little brother trotted behind with a twig broom, sweeping dirt that just blew back in again. Their mother watched them from the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, heart full despite the lean cupboards.

They didn't have much, barely enough but they had each other.

Snow had not yet come, but the wind had gone cold. Trees stood naked, their blackened limbs scraping the grey sky like fingers pleading for mercy. Allen sat at the threshold of his crumbling home, watching smoke rise from the chimneys across the village. His own hearth hadn't seen fire in days. Inside, the silence was thick—too thick. Only broken by the rattling breath of the dying.

It started four months ago.

A strange fever. At first, just in his father. Then his mother. Then the coughing. Blood on handkerchiefs. The smell of copper and mildew in every room.

No one else in the village got sick. Not a single other adult.

That's when the whispers started.

"They've been marked," someone said.

"His father made a deal with the Sealed Hollow," said another.

"I saw black roots crawling over their barn door. It's a curse."

Allen had tried to explain.

His father had no dealings with dark things.

His mother was pure, kind.

His brother was only a child.

But no one listened.

By the seventh week, the priest declared the plague was divine punishment. He said it was bound to the bloodline. That if even one of them survived, it would rot the land itself.

The villagers started leaving bread at Allen's doorstep. Not out of kindness. It was a ritual. A superstition. Sacrifices left for the cursed boy so he wouldn't come begging at their door.

Then came the letter. Pinned to the door with a rusted nail.

"You must do it. Cleanse them. Before the village is lost. Before your brother turns."

Allen stared at the paper for a long time. It wasn't signed.

Later that night, torches were lit outside his house. Not for burning yet. Just a warning.

"You're the only one not sick," the priest told him coldly. "Your hands are clean. Perhaps you were spared for this."

Allen sat in the dark, listening to the firewood crack outside. The voices whispered. Faces passed by his window, pale and tight with fear.

Inside, his little brother stirred.

"Al?" the boy murmured from the mattress. "Why can't I walk anymore?"

Allen rushed to him, brushing sweat from his forehead. His brother's skin was hot, burning like coal. His eyes were cloudy now, lips cracked.

"Because you're going to get better," Allen lied softly.

"No, I'm not," the boy whispered. "I hear her."

Allen froze.

"Hear who?"

"The lady… behind the walls. She says you're the key, Al. She says you have to open the gate."

Allen's breath caught.

There was no lady behind the walls. There shouldn't be.

The next day, the villagers returned with ropes and blades, but they did not enter.

They just waited.

Allen sat in the hallway, back to the wall, clutching a chipped knife in his trembling hands. His father was silent now. His mother no longer opened her eyes. His brother slept fitfully, whispering to the walls.

The sky was black—not from clouds, but smoke. The village, once full of warm lights and careless laughter, now writhed like a nest of rats tearing each other apart. Screams rang out in the distance. Fires licked the roofs. Dogs barked at nothing, children wailed for vanished mothers, and the air stank of burnt hair and madness.

Allen stood at the center of it, face streaked with ash and blood—not his. His voice cracked through the chaos.

"I won't kill them," he shouted to no one and everyone. "I don't care what you say. I'm not going to be your savior!"

A rock flew past his cheek. Someone spat from the crowd.

"They'll curse the soil!"

"Your brother still breathes, doesn't he? You liar!"

"Kill them or die with them!"

Allen turned and ran back to the house, slamming the wooden door shut. His breath came shallow. Inside, his father was groaning again—black blood dribbling from his mouth. His mother whimpered in her sleep. His brother, still untouched by the plague, clutched a bundle of old fabric like a doll, pale and dreaming.

"They're sick," Allen whispered, pacing. "But we can leave. We'll go north. Or west. Anywhere but here."

But where?

There was no road not cursed by their name now. No town that wouldn't burn them before they reached the gates.

His father stirred. His voice was hollow and strained.

"Allen… listen. You have to finish this."

"No," Allen whispered. "We'll escape. We'll survive."

"You won't," his mother coughed. "The curse follows blood. You'll never outrun it."

Allen fell to his knees, fingers in his hair, shaking. He stayed like that until night fell. Until even the fires outside began to dim and the silence returned—raw and deep.

That's when he heard the voice.

"You're wasting time."

Allen snapped up, heart hammering.

....

It was midnight, everyone sleeping except Allen. The villagers are planning to crucify his parents tomorrow. Suddenly he heard a sound.

A figure leaned in the doorway—tall, still, with a smooth black cloak that seemed to drink the moonlight. The man wore a porcelain-white mask. It had Allen's face carved into it.

"What—what are you?" Allen gasped.

"I am what's left when truth rots. You know what you must do," the figure said, voice like something spoken underwater.

Allen shook his head.

"No, no, they're still—my brother's not even sick—"

"He will be. His dreams already belong to me."

The figure stepped closer. The shadows around it curled like tendrils.

"You think you're defying fate. But all you're doing is dragging them down slower. Look."

The figure pointed.

Allen turned.

His little brother lay there. Eyes wide open.

But they weren't his eyes anymore. They were black pits—wet, endless, and leaking dark tears. Leaking crimson from ears and a horn slowly rising from head.

" See? You were thinking he is human all this time? He's just a vessel of a Devil! "

Allen's hands shook. He was breathing hard. He felt like someone was piercing arrows in his heart. Breaking the window, a mysterious, monstrous aura entered the home. Rushing in Allen's chest, burning his flesh. His eyes started glowing under the moonlight like a predator.

"No…" Allen choked. "No, no—"

The figure didn't touch him. Didn't need to.

Allen moved like a puppet, breath caught in his throat. He picked up the kitchen blade. His fingers curled tightly around the wooden hilt, knuckles white.

He walked to his brother, trembling.

The boy blinked, once.

"Al?"

Then the blade plunged.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Wet cracks echoed in the room. Bone split. Flesh tore like paper soaked in rain.

He screamed as he did it.

Not in anger.

In guilt. In love. In agony.

The blood sprayed across his chest, hot and steaming. His brother's breath caught once—twice—then stopped.

Allen turned, sobbing, and stumbled toward the bedroom.

He couldn't hear anymore.

He could only feel.

The blade met his father's throat. Then his mother's heart. Their arms didn't fight. Their eyes almost looked… relieved.

When it was done, Allen collapsed in the doorway, the knife still in his hand, coated in gore. His body shook. His soul cracked.

He turned toward the masked figure, wide-eyed.

"You made me do this."

But there was nothing there.

Only blood.