Chapter 43: Ch43 The Saints Nightmare
Silence
That was all Luther could hear.
But...
"The saint is here! The saint has arrived!"
The voice tore through the silence like a trumpet blast, sharp and desperate.
Luther’s eyes snapped open. His lungs heaved like he had been drowning, and his hands instinctively clawed at his chest. For one long, dizzy moment, he thought he was still trapped in the chaos of the temple—fire, corrupted magic, and screams—but no. This was different. His hands... they weren’t burned or bloody. They were clean.
Too clean.
He stared at his fingers, realizing they were covered in fabric he didn’t recognize. A robe—white, with black inner layers, traced with golden embroidery that shimmered faintly, as though alive. His arms shook as he followed the robe down to the ground, the hem brushing the marble floor of a dais.
And then he noticed the weight.
Something rested lightly on his head. When he raised a trembling hand, his fingers brushed cold metal shaped like delicate flower petals. A crown. A golden crown.
"What... what the hell is this?" he muttered under his breath.
He looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.
The dais beneath his feet was whole again. No cracks. No scorch marks. No rubble. The once-shattered temple hall gleamed in perfection, the marble polished like a mirror. Vines curled green and alive along the columns, and the Asmethan statue towered above him—untouched, majestic, water spilling from its jug into a pristine lake below.
It was as if the battle had never happened.
Then he heard them.
"Saint! Bless us, oh holy one!"
"Praise the chosen of Asmethan!"
"The saint has come at last!"
He turned slowly, his stomach lurching. The entire hall—packed full with people—was on their knees. Men, women, children, nobles in silk and peasants in rags, all pressed together, their hands raised, their faces streaked with tears. They shoved and scrambled closer, trying to get nearer to him, their cries rising in a fevered chorus.
Luther stumbled back a step, his eyes wide.
"No... no, no, no. This—this isn’t real."
Yet the cries only grew louder. Their voices were like waves crashing against him, smothering him, demanding, begging. "Saint! Saint! Bless us! Heal us!"
His throat dried up. His knees felt weak. Why me? he thought in panic. Why would anyone—let alone a god—dress me up like some holy savior?
He turned to run, heart pounding, when—
Something caught the edge of his robe.
Luther froze and looked down. A hand clutched the fabric. Its grip was desperate, shaking. His gaze followed the hand upward—
And his blood went cold.
The face staring back at him was no longer human. Skin peeled in strips, eyes rolled back into white sockets, lips torn away to reveal broken teeth. The woman who held his robe spoke, but her voice was guttural, warped.
"Saint... where are you going?"
Luther’s breath hitched.
The crowd surged forward, and as they drew close, their faces changed. One by one, their features twisted, melted, peeled, until they all wore the same grotesque, rotting expressions. Dozens of hands gripped his robe, yanking, clawing, their words blending into a horrifying chorus.
"Don’t abandon us."
"Stay with us."
"You are ours!"
"No—no, let go!" Luther shouted, tugging, kicking, panic flaring in his chest. But the more he struggled, the more hands latched onto him. He was dragged downward, their nails raking across his arms, their shrieks splitting his ears.
With one violent pull, he was yanked into the mass of decaying bodies.
And then—
He screamed, jolting upright in bed.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat dripping down his temples. His heart thundered like it was trying to break out of his ribcage. For a long moment, he just sat there, gasping, clutching the sheets as if they were his only anchor to reality.
"...What a nightmare," he rasped finally, slumping back against the pillows. "Saint? Me? Yeah, right. That’s rich."
As his breathing steadied, he blinked and finally took in his surroundings.
The bed beneath him was soft, the sheets clean and crisp. The room itself shone—white walls trimmed with gold, polished until they gleamed like sunlight. A crystal chandelier hung above, scattering prismatic light across the ceiling. To his right was a carved dresser with gilded handles. At the far wall, a wide window spilled in daylight, with a desk and chair positioned neatly before it—like an office designed for both comfort and authority.
It was luxurious. Too luxurious.
"Where... am I?" he muttered, scanning the place.
Then memory slammed into him like a hammer.
The dais. The golden voice. The overwhelming magic. And—worst of all—using magic bare-handed. No crystal.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh, no. No, no, no," Luther whispered, dragging his hands through his hair. "Dumb. Dumbest move of my life. Of course they saw. Of course they all saw."
He shoved at the mattress, trying to rise, but pain shot through his body like lightning. His arms buckled, and he collapsed back onto the bed with a groan.
A calm voice spoke from the shadows.
"You shouldn’t push yourself. Your body is still weak."
Luther’s head snapped left. A figure moved forward, slow and steady, until the light revealed him.
The Father.
But not in the shining saint’s robes Luther remembered. This time, he wore only a simple elder’s robe, plain but dignified. His staff rested against his shoulder, the carved wood polished from years of use.
Luther stiffened, instinctively holding his breath.
The Father stopped near the bed, his lined face softening into a smile. "Do not be afraid, child. I mean you no harm."
Luther’s throat bobbed. Slowly, he forced a crooked smile and muttered, "Thanks... for the bed. And, uh, not leaving me to die, I guess. But—I really should get going now."
He shifted, wincing at the pain in his limbs, but pushed himself upright anyway. His eyes darted toward the door. Anywhere but here.
The Father tilted his head. Then, without warning, he lifted his staff.
Luther froze.
The staff wasn’t raised to strike—but it was pointed directly at him. Every hair on Luther’s arms stood on end. His gut twisted with the instinctive certainty that something was about to happen.
And then... the Father did something Luther hadn’t expected.
He lowered himself. Slowly, reverently, the old man sank to his knees before the bed, pressing the staff flat against the marble floor. His voice trembled, but not from fear. From awe.
"I have waited fifty years for this day," he said, eyes glistening as they lifted toward Luther. "I never thought it would come. But God Asmethan... has proven me wrong."
Luther’s stomach plummeted.
What?
The Father bowed his head lower, his voice filled with reverence as he declared:
"At last... our Saint. Our Savior."
Luther stared. His jaw went slack, his mind blank for three agonizing seconds before the thoughts came crashing in all at once.
...Saint? Savior? Me? Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be real. This has to be a joke. A sick, twisted, divine comedy and I’m the punchline.
He wanted to laugh, to scream, to throw the covers over his head and vanish. Instead, only one thought managed to crawl its way out of his stunned brain:
...I’m so screwed.