Chapter 22 – Beneath the Altar

Location: Subterranean Crypt, Lisieux Cathedral – Northwestern France

Time: 12:07 AM

The altar cracked apart like crumbling stone teeth.

A hidden passage yawned open beneath it, revealing a winding staircase spiraling downward into dark. Air seeped out like breath from a grave — old, damp, and full of rot.

Elian stood back as Leon descended first, his steps careful but unafraid. Enoch followed next, silent as ever, the faint gleam of his sigil barely visible beneath his sleeve. Elian brought up the rear, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

Each step echoed louder than the last.

Torches lined the stone walls below — but none burned. Their iron cages were twisted, melted by something unholy. And yet there was light — dim and sickly, like a pulse radiating from below. The deeper they went, the louder the whispers became.

"He doesn't belong."

"He'll slow you down."

"You're already too late."

Leon paused. "They're not just taunting us," he muttered. "They're trying to drive Elian into panic."

Enoch glanced back briefly. "Let them try."

At the base of the stairs, the crypt opened into a vast underground chamber — once a sacred catacomb, now defiled. Cracked statues of saints wept tar. Prayer scrolls had been stitched into the stone by black vines. The air stank of mildew and despair.

And then they saw them.

Dozens — no, hundreds — of Grinshades, clinging to walls, hanging from ceilings, curled in broken pews and coffins. They twitched as the Apostles arrived, their masks turning as one.

Elian staggered back instinctively.

But Leon stepped forward, his voice steady.

"Enough."

He reached toward the sigil on the back of his hand — and in a burst of pure white flame, it ignited.

A quiet hum resonated through the chamber as light poured from his palm.

From it emerged a relic — simple, humble: an iron circlet that glowed faintly with runes. He placed it upon his brow.

[Corona Simpla – Crown of Humility]

Leon's relic shimmered as waves of spiritual clarity pulsed outward — dimming the Grinshades' whispers. Their laughter faltered.

Then Enoch stepped forward.

His golden boots gleamed as his own sigil lit up with divine light. He raised his leg, as if stepping off solid ground — and walked upward into the air, each step leaving glowing prints behind.

From the radiance formed his relic — a pair of golden-threaded boots, etched with scripture.

[Step of the Ascended – Boots of Boundless Faith]

Enoch landed softly beside Leon, his body glowing with firm, unshakable light. Even the corruption on the floor seemed to recoil from him.

Elian's breath caught.

Two Apostles — fully awakened, fully armed — standing like towers of virtue amid a sea of nightmare.

The Grinshades hissed in unison, their masks beginning to split open into toothy voids. Rows of jagged grins gleamed in the dark.

And then the swarm came.

Hundreds of them screeched and lunged from every direction — crawling, flying, twisting through air in a storm of darkness and laughter.

Elian's legs locked in place.

But Leon didn't hesitate. With a calm breath, he pressed two fingers to his circlet — and spoke with authority.

"Echo of the Meek."

A wave burst outward, disorienting the Grinshades, and empowering Elian — his fear dulled, his strength bolstered.

Enoch charged forward like a comet, kicking through three at once. The Grinshades shattered into black mist. He spun midair, landing hard on a wave of demons — sending a ripple of holy pressure with every strike.

"Elian!" Leon called. "Stay behind us — watch how we fight. This is your first field."

The boy could only nod — watching two warriors of divine power cleave through the darkness without fear.

But in the far end of the crypt… something stirred.

A deeper laugh. A taller shadow. Something different from the rest.

A mask larger than the others.

A Grinshade Lord.

And it had been waiting.