The cold air was steeped in the stale breath of history.

  Horner’s hand brushed lightly across the frozen wall as he moved forward at an unhurried pace, until at last he lowered himself onto a long wooden bench.

  He felt unbearably tired—so tired that he believed he might fall asleep and never wake again. Yet he knew, with a clarity that would not yield, that much still remained undone. Forcing his head up, he let a cascade of prismatic light spill across his face.

  He followed its descent.

  Above him, warmth gathered in panels of stained glass—vast mosaics of myth rendered in shards of color—though a veil of dust dimmed their once-vivid brilliance.

  Few came to Saint Mary’s Cathedral anymore. The influence of the Gospel Church over Ingervig had waned year by year, until even the cathedral’s name had faded from memory. People simply called it by its most obvious trait—the White Cathedral.

  Horner stared into the sunlight for a long while, until the brilliance bleached his vision white and tears slipped, unbidden, from the corners of his eyes. Only then did he turn his head aside and breathe steadily, savoring the fragile hush.

  He came from the Lower District. Childhood, to him, was a distant blur. By the time memory sharpened, he was already wrestling with the streets of Old Dunling. Yet in that harsh world, he had not learned the art of reading faces or bending to circumstance. Instead, he had grown duller—wooden, slow, unyielding.

  Later, he apprenticed under an old mechanic and learned the trade of repair. In time, he became one of the countless maintenance men of Old Dunling—a city that devoured such men daily. Steam pipes and machinery coiled through every artery of the metropolis, and each sunrise birthed new failures demanding immediate repair.

  This taciturn mechanic had never learned to read. In his understanding of the world, he did not even know what faith meant. But he did not mind. He liked this place. Between shifts, he would come here, for only here could he escape the relentless roar of iron and steam.

  The stillness did not last.

  A man entered slowly through the cathedral doors, approaching as though long acquainted with Horner. He wore a gentle smile.

  “Mentor Lawrence.”

  Horner lifted his head stiffly. His gaze was vacant, as though the soul within had already sunk into the black depths of his pupils.

  Lawrence nodded and seated himself beside him, wearing the same benevolent expression as ever—like the sunlight that poured through the nave.

  “You look as though you’re about to lose control of it.”

  Though Horner still held a human shape, Lawrence knew well that the sinful blood within him was raging wildly.

  Horner nodded again, his movement mechanical.

  “So you’ve come for my help?”

  Another nod.

  “I’m almost finished. Just one more remains, my mentor.”

  For the first time, a tremor of emotion crept into the dull voice. It rose and fell, almost like laughter.

  “My justice is nearly fulfilled. Nearly.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “But every gift has its price, child. And you have begged more than once.”

  Lawrence shook his head, troubled.

  “Then take it all,” Horner replied quickly. “Whatever you want, I will give it. I will offer myself to your god.”

  His thick hand seized Lawrence’s coat, his eyes urgent, resolute.

  Lawrence sighed.

  “Yes, child. You are close to success.”

  Gently, he drew out a syringe and pressed it into Horner’s arm. The liquid coursed through his veins. As it spread, Horner’s tense body slowly slackened; the restless beast within him sank back into slumber.

  As though nothing had occurred, Horner stared blankly at the forgotten cathedral. His gaze pierced through memory itself. After a long silence, he spoke.

  “Mentor… I am going to die, aren’t I?”

  Lawrence faltered, startled that such words could emerge from this wooden man.

  “Yes. But your sacrifice will raise you into the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  He painted it in bright promises.

  Yet Horner smiled faintly, as if at a private jest. A flicker of light stirred within his vacant eyes—like a dying soul flaring once more.

  “I never went to school,” he said quietly. “I can’t even read. I don’t understand what your Heaven is.”

  Lawrence found himself speechless again.

  Horner turned toward him. His face remained expressionless, but it stirred an unspeakable sorrow—like the silent despair of a man long resigned.

  Describe Old Dunling’s splendor to one who has never seen beauty, and no matter how lavish your words, they are only noise. So too with Heaven. To Horner, it was an unknown reward beyond comprehension—something too distant to stir joy.

  “I’m… ordinary,” he said. “My master used to say my life meant nothing. Like a beast. Wake. Hunt for food. Eat. Sleep. No hobbies. No desires. Everything I do is only to keep living. Like a factory machine, repeating the same motion.”

  He seemed to speak both to Lawrence and to himself.

  “My master said there are only two kinds of people in this world. Those who stand upon the stage, admired by all… and those who sit in the dark below, existing only to witness another’s brilliance. Like the night sky—only darkness can make the stars shine.”

  Tears streamed down his face.

  “I am one of the meaningless ones. There are many like me—mediocre, unnoticed, living without witness and dying without witness.”

  Lawrence felt a weight press against his chest. Rarely had he felt such emotion. From within Horner’s unremarkable body seeped a despair almost tangible. He despaired of his life, of all he was—but most of all, he despaired because he was powerless.

  “What are you trying to say?” Lawrence asked.

  He had never seen Horner like this. To him, Horner had always been a stone—obedient, easily guided. Yet now, at his most dangerous, this walking corpse seemed suddenly alive.

  “I’m just… happy, Mentor Lawrence.”

  Horner laughed through tears. He stepped forward and embraced him—clumsy, fierce, as if to force his gratitude into Lawrence’s bones.

  “You are a devil, Mentor. You always said I was right. But in truth, to take lives in such brutal fashion is wrong.”

  Lawrence kept his expression calm, though his free hand slipped beneath his coat and closed around the hilt of a dagger.

  But no resistance came.

  Horner released him and sat back down, as if nothing had happened.

  It was strange. This ordinary man—so forgettable in any crowd—now seemed unfathomable.

  “But a good devil,” Horner added with a smile.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’re a bad man. A true devil. With a little temptation, you cast me into eternal ruin.”

  He spoke the accusation with a smile.

  “But you are also a good man. I thank you—truly. Thank you, devil, for giving a spectator the chance to step onto the stage.”

  “I should have lived meaninglessly, and died meaninglessly. But you gave me a chance to have meaning. To carry out my justice.”

  He rose to his feet, towering like a mountain.

  “This will be my final revenge. And likely our last meeting.”

  “I wanted to say farewell. I rarely have the chance to express what I feel.”

  He looked into the colored sunlight as warmth pushed back the cold.

  “God’s Day is approaching, isn’t it? A pity I won’t live to see it.”

  He lowered his head slightly.

  “So let me wish you a happy God’s Day in advance, Mentor Lawrence.”

  In that moment, the mediocre soul seemed truly alive. Beneath tear-streaked cheeks, his smile gleamed with a dark radiance. And Lawrence, unable to meet that plain face, felt his heart tremble—

  as though he were staring into the heart of the sun itself.