Amon took a long drag of his cigarette and exhaled pensively as he stood outside of the three-story inn that only had his small group as its customers, taking in the simple yet somewhat dreary view of the small village they had taken refuge in.

He may have failed on tracking down the members of that accursed cult that worships an ancient blind god, but at least he came across a survivor who unknowingly brought out with him the magnum opus of that organization, mistaking it as a fellow victim: a perfectly crafted vessel to hold the consciousness of their blind god.

He didn’t actually think it was possible to create one, as he had heard tales from yore where religious leaders of the now defunct cults have tried to constrain or channel the consciousness of the deities to control them for their benefits, yet failing since their chosen vessels—a human sacrifice, in this case—breaks down due to incompatibilities. If it wasn’t for the three deities directly intervening and creating the Inquisition to put a stop to them, the world would still be stuck with such barbaric practices.

He doesn’t want to know how they managed to make one, but he could only hope that the sleeping vessel would disintegrate over the days, as he’s not looking forward to killing something that looked like the child of the man who carried it out with him.

He then turned his thoughts towards the survivor: that pretty, dark haired man who spoke ancient language to him on their first meeting has an insane luck when it comes to his survivability.

The wound on his abdomen seemed like they missed hitting on any internal organs, saving him from any kind of complications, and the blood must’ve stained his clothes that much because of the rain.

Even when he ran barefoot in the mountain where a number of plants are dangerous, even with a mere skin contact, the soles of that dark haired man only showed injuries from thorns and sharp stones.

Amon also didn’t mean to pressure him into thinking that he’s under suspicion of hiding something from him, all because he spoke an ancient language.

He couldn’t outright tell him that there’s a possibility that he has awakened to a power from certain bloodlines, which is a prerequisite in joining the real Inquisition. And to awaken such power, he should have been invited by the three Churches’ representatives to participate in a Rite where they bring out a specific relic to trigger the process when he reached the age of sixteen.

Seeing how he was reacting and responding to Amon, that dark haired man wasn’t aware of his own family history, making him think that he’s a bastard child discarded by his father, who wanted him to disappear forever.

Amon looked up to the darkened skies as he continued to smoke, the thin wisps of cloud lazily moved to slightly cover the twinkling stars, deeming that man’s family situation and awakening beyond his authority and would rather dump it on someone higher up. Even the supposed existence of a relic that has the same ability as the one in the Churches’ possession is too much trouble for someone in his position.

Instead, he tried to focus on their present situation.

It has been a day and a half since they arrived in this town, the rendezvous point he had agreed upon with his colleague when they had first set out for their mission. The people who saw him carrying the unconscious duo took pity on them, thinking they were unfortunate travelers that got ambushed by bandits.

While it did save him from making up a cover story for them, and getting a sympathy discount on the things he purchased and a good rate offer for the room they were staying in, it greatly annoyed him that they think he’s actually a mercenary in service of that pretty, dark haired man instead of someone on the same social status.

Amon is confident about his looks and personality despite his background as a bastard child of a noble, yet all that paled in comparison to that barefooted man wearing blood-soaked clothes.

How is that even possible?

Does that man possess some innate noble aura that surrounds him even when he’s unconscious?

“Ah, good sir.” He heard an old man’s drawl, making Amon turn his head to look to his right, and saw an elderly who had a slight hunch in his posture approaching him. “I apologize for the delay in looking for clean clothes that will fit your injured companion. We don’t really have anyone close enough to his physique in these parts.”

Amon cracked a small smile as he puffed the remaining bits of his cigarette before dropping it on the ground, stomping out the embers under the heel of his shoes. “It’s alright, Chief. I didn’t expect I’d lose his luggage on the way here, and the clothes I have are too large for him…”

“Does the boy’s clothes fit him well?” the old man asked as he handed a brown paper bag to Amon.

“Yes, it fits him nicely.” Amon amiable replied as he took it, taking a peek into the bag. “I apologize for imposing too much on you.”

The old man chuckled. “I hope your companion wouldn’t be offended by the shirt. It belonged to the young lady down the street, and it took a while to convince her to part with it…”

Amon ruefully smiled at the layered meaning of his words, making him reach into his pocket to bring out his wallet.

The townspeople may have been kind and understanding, but the village chief is quite something else; the old man had fleeced him for a few coppers for the boy’s clothes a day earlier, telling him that it was supposed to be a gift for his grandson who unfortunately succumbed to an illness and it would mean a lot to him if Amon could help him back, monetarily speaking.

He pulled out a couple of copper coins and handed it to the old man, knowing full well that he wouldn’t hand it over to the person who actually owned the shirt.

“I should head back in and give this to him immediately, before he could complain about the cold.”

The old man chuckled as he motioned for him to go on ahead as he pocketed the copper coins. Amon turned around to re-enter the inn, only to hear a muffled scream somewhere above him and noticed the veiled, dreadful sensation of malicious darkness descending around the area.

Out of instinct, he barged through the wooden door and saw the inn keeper staring up the stairs with confusion, with the old chief frowning as he followed him into the inn curiously.

“Hey! What’s going on up there?” The innkeeper shouted as he craned his neck to see what the commotion was about.

Amon reached out a hand and placed it on the innkeeper’s shoulder and spoke, his voice layered with something melodic that put the two people who heard it into a tranced state. They both moved away from the stairs with a mechanical movement, with the innkeeper taking two glasses of ginger ale and proceeded to sit with the old chief at the farthest table.

Amon then erected a semi transparent barrier around their seat with a flick of his hand before turning his attention towards the top of the stairs.

The room he had rented was on the second floor, where the scream definitely came from but is now unnaturally quiet.

He swiftly made his way upwards, and saw that the door to their room was open.

He tossed aside the paper bag he was holding and took on a defensive stance when he noticed thick, black, tendril-like shadows dancing against the light.