Bonus Episode Eight: "A New Creed"

He was alone.

Cast from his former glory and effectively tossed out like so much garbage.

They would pay for this. He would make them all pay...

He moved through the shadows, keeping low, his senses sharp. Every corner checked. Every step deliberate.

No one could know he was here. He could not afford to fail again.

The rumors had been tantalizing—stories of a hidden cache, buried deep, guarded by traps only the worthy could bypass. His patience had been tested, but now he was here, on the cusp of seizing power that would reshape everything.

After verifying the information was sealed tight, he’d ensured the informant would never speak again. No loose ends.

The service tunnel stretched on, twisting in narrow paths like a forgotten vein in the walls. The shadows grew thick, but he pressed on.

Then, it stopped.

A door loomed ahead, its simple, yet unmistakable design catching his eye: a sword resembling a cross, scarred by age, its sharp edges fading into the shadowed frame. He paused. That symbol, that cursed emblem, had borne witness to many events of the past generation. Only a select few could ever understand its true significance. But to him, it was a key.

A key to revenge.

He ran his fingers along the frame, searching for any hidden mechanism. His heart raced, the moment of reckoning drawing closer. There. A click. The door opened with a low groan, and he stepped inside, unaware that something had already been set in motion.

The hiss of air was the first clue that something was wrong. Before he could react, a sudden stab of pain shot through his upper arm. His teeth ground together as he staggered, trying to keep his composure. Blood seeped through his fingers, but he barely flinched.

This wouldn’t stop him.

He moved forward, pressing past the sharp sting in his arm. The dark passage ahead seemed to stretch on forever, but his resolve remained firm.

At the end of the hall, the faintest glow flickered—strange and ominous, unlike anything he had seen before.

A chapel? He scoffed inwardly. He had never been one for religion, though his rise had been marked by a cult-like following, fervently loyal to the vision he’d once held. But this? This was something else.

The orange light emanated from lanterns unlike any he had encountered—medieval in design, but clearly updated with some modern twist. The bulbs inside were Everburners, known for their intense, never-flickering light.

The glow felt off. Like an ancient ritual disturbed by something... new.

But none of that mattered. The cache was here, and it was his for the taking. He took a step into the room, his fingers already itching for whatever lay hidden in the dark corners of this cryptic place. The light flickered once, almost as if it welcomed him, but then the room grew still. 

Front and center was a slightly raised platform with a podium made of artistically carved wood. Atop the podium was an old-looking tome embossed with the symbol he had seen. He approached the tome cautiously, wiping the blood from his arm against his coat. The thick, leather-bound volume was coated in dust, but the emblem on its cover remained clear—etched deep, almost burned into the material. He ran a hand over it, feeling the grooves beneath his fingertips before prying it open.

The pages were brittle yet intact, filled with dense, archaic script. But between the aged words were relatively newer markings—notes scrawled in sharp, deliberate ink. Someone had been here before him.

His eyes darted across the annotations, tracing their meaning.

"The faithful must be tested before they may claim the burden. Only the truly worthy shall don the mantle and guide the lost. The misguided seek only power. The unworthy will be judged."

His brow furrowed.

Then, further down, a more recent note:

"The confessional waits. Only in reflection shall the path be made clear."

He lifted his gaze, scanning the dimly lit chapel once more. That was when he noticed it—tucked away in the corner, partially obscured by shadows, a confessional booth.

He stepped toward it, his pulse quickening. There was something… deliberate about this. Something staged. But he had come too far to turn back.

The wooden door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside. The space was cramped, dark, the only illumination filtering through a lattice separating his side from the other half. He hesitated before easing onto the worn seat. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and something else… something sterile.

A moment passed in silence. Then, without warning, the door behind him clicked shut. He shot up, testing the handle. Locked.

A voice, smooth yet distant, emerged from the other side of the lattice.

"You seek to claim a mantle of great importance. But tell me… why should you be worthy?"

The words sent a shiver down his spine. He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. He hadn’t come here to be interrogated. 

And yet, he had no choice but to answer.

His lips curled into a sneer, his fists pressing into his knees as he leaned forward. His voice, low and sharp, cut through the wooden lattice like a blade.

"I am worthy because I take what is mine. Because I have seen what others refuse to see. I have led, I have conquered, and I have survived where the so-called faithful have failed."

His fingers tightened into fists. "They turned their backs on me, but I will rise again. And this time, there will be no doubt, no hesitation. Only obedience."

The confessional remained silent for a moment, the weight of his words settling into the stale air.

Then the voice responded, calm, almost amused.

"Obedience?"

A quiet chuckle.

"You speak like a king fallen from his throne, desperate to reclaim what was never truly his. But this is no throne, and you are no king."

The man clenched his jaw. "Then what am I?" he growled.

The voice hummed in consideration.

"That remains to be seen. Tell me, John Striker, what do you truly seek? Power? Revenge? Or… something greater?"

Striker let the silence linger for a moment, letting the weight of the question settle. Then, with a low, humorless chuckle, he leaned back against the wooden booth.  

"Is it too much to aim for all of the above?" 

His voice dripped with confidence, as if daring the unseen speaker to challenge him. 

"Power, revenge, something ‘greater’—why settle for just one?"  

The voice on the other side hummed in quiet amusement.  

"Greedy."  

Striker smirked. "Ambitious."  

"A thin line."  

He shrugged, though he knew they couldn’t see him. 

"Only to those too afraid to cross it."  

A pause. Then, the voice responded, this time slower, more deliberate.  

"And if I told you that true power requires more than just ambition? That it demands more than the hunger to take?"  

Striker’s expression hardened. 

"Then I’d say you sound like every other fool who preaches restraint. Power is taken. It isn’t given."  

"Ah." The voice exhaled, as if it had expected this answer. 

"And yet here you are, seated in a place built by one who understood power in ways you have yet to grasp."  

Striker frowned, his fingers tapping against his knee. The Minister. Whoever they had been, they had left something behind—something worth hiding.  

And he had found it.  

"So tell me," the voice continued. 

"Are you willing to learn? Or will you cling to your old ways, blind to what lies beyond mere vengeance?"  

A sharp click echoed through the booth, and suddenly, the walls shifted. The dim light in the chapel flickered. The confessional doors refused to budge. The air grew heavier.  

A test.  

Striker grimaced, his mind racing. Was this some trick left behind by the Minister? Some final safeguard against the unworthy? His fingers twitched.  

"...That depends," he muttered, eyes narrowing. 

"What exactly do you have to teach?"