Despite his young mind, Akakos understood this world survived through violence. His body grew older fighting and he had wipe his face everyday despite the color draining from the skin of his body, day by day.

  The Orpheus were simply the children of an ideal—Father Claeg’s ideal, and that man had a character Akakos often saw in abandoned cities whose own Magistrate’s have no power anymore.

  Irrational, dubious, and heavy-at-heart.

  An odd mixture, he always thought.

  And though Akakos laid beguiled as the years passed by, Father Claeg’s ambition was no longer it’s old disguise. He desperately wanted the connection of every Apotheosis who’d lived alone for so long.

  He wanted to touch the sun, and let the people of the world see the truth as the World desired. May the Tree of Knowledge bless this future upon us, he regularly muttered. Father Claeg saw softness in hell.

  The Devil of Deist, Akakos, knew secrets that were drenched in dishonor. His plan, this ideal, that future—it’s as if asking an angel if you could burn their wings.

  And when conqueror, whom most of the Commandments admired from afar, so violently, so desperately, so *cruelly* murdered that cold and aching man, Akakos only felt a disgusting, and nauseous relief.

  For how could he ever tell Father Claeg his ideal was truly cruel? His stout ruling was, of course, not to be kind. He held no such beauty.

  Akakos told the conqueror to leave for the eternal storm, the eternal snow, the eternal silence. And there at the ancient battleground, confess your sin.

  [Apologize to yourself. Then apologize to me.]

  Speak no honor, and should your tongue twisted till even the heavens may gasp in bemusement, he will sigh in relief for you cannot speak of evil.

  *Atqui, my hypocrisy has no end.

  Even he could not tell you why it was hypocritical, but he knew that it was.

  ---

  The hypocrisy etched into the soft wrinkles of her old skin was laid bare for the world to see.

  A sarcastic admiration echoed through Angra’s train of thought, and the fallacy spouting through her mouth only made his bleeding ears’ condition worse.

  A cold breath made its way through his throat, and a relieving sigh calmed him down slightly. He didn’t know who she was, but apparently she’s mistaken him for her grandson.

  “…how could you have so cruelly keep a paramour within your heart? She truly loved you, you knave! And how could you hurt yourself so badly?!”

  The old lady raised her hand, ready to slap his arm, before Angra finally had enough and spoke up.

  “Apologies.” He stepped back. He regretted being unable to say more, but he also didn’t take kindly to someone who seemed so light on their ‘grandson’ for committing adultery. “You’ve mistaken me for someone.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  He forced the words out, an itching pain urging him to cough. Although he held it in, his eyes were about to burst.

  The lady’s anger seemed to smolder as the furrow of her brow softened and her eyes, which seemed angered and blurry, were clear. She was embarrassed; He didn’t mean to embarrass her.

  “Oh, my. I, I apologize.”

  It seems that Angra hadn’t noticed the reddened corner of her eyes, which were magnified now that she had a more blank expression.

  Ah, his neck slouched faintly.

  He dug into his pockets and found a brown handkerchief, and quickly handed it over to her before tilting his hat in goodbye and leaving.

  The old woman smiled softly, chiding her own grandson of his faults. Looking down at the silky cloth he’d given her with thanks in her heart, her heart then soon dropped.

  Did he want to curse her forever for her mistake?

  A handkerchief with the Eternus Vivus’ insignia?

  Is he a blessed?

  ---

  Hellain’s gentle eyes were too much for Angra. He couldn’t even mention his power, much less ask him to join him. If only there were already members.

  Today is Friday, February 29th. It’s Year 168 of the Age of Angels; The Golden Age of Crowns being what it was more widely known as.

  It was slightly confusing, but the system made a bit more sense when he did the math. Although it's Year 168 of Angels, it was actually Year 480 on the Cleisthenes Calendar, starting from something called the Grave Age.

  His thoughts moved to the back of his mind as he stared across the street at an individual who seemed to be staring back at him.

  Could he *not* trek home in repose? Angra nodded at the unknown person, hoping for their gaze to be fast and superficial.

  Thank the heavens it turned out so, and soon did their gaze fall after greeting him back from afar and departing their designated position for loitering.

  Angra watched the sky as it indefinitely rained, and the words of that man who seemed to drown in insanity seemed to ring in his ears. Is this beautiful rain truly a curse from the reigning Sovereign? What could this quiet city have done to receive such punishment?

  Still, quiescence does not rule out evil.

  Angra didn’t dare assume anyone would speak truthful words concerning the matter. Somewhat faintly, belief in the people of Borgia made him turn away from that thought; If he ever met Hellain again, he’d inquire as needed.

  Frankly, Angra wondered why he stressed over this. He could just tell him he can see the future or something, and he wanted Hellain’s help with that.

  But ‘Angra’ wanted a cult.

  Angra didn’t understand, but he didn’t need to. It was okay not to. He didn’t want to.

  He stared up at the building with a reprehensible expression, but walked inside anyway. The entrance area of the building was slightly decadent, other than the sparse furnishing and clerk area ways across the place.

  And once again, there was nobody but a sign he couldn’t read from afar. He hesitated, not wanting to linger too long, but went ahead either way.

  [on a trip for iles, i’ll be back on Cleisthenes!! — D.E.D]

  Their handwriting was slightly childish, but adorable in a certain view. It was choppy and written incorrectly in some parts, but it's not like Angra had any place to criticize them.

  D.E.D. must be the clerk. Whoever Iles was, Angra founded a rapid resolution; He should not want to know. And for whatever reason, he went along with that. *Atqui*, he’d want to hurry to his place. The smell was gradually turning unbearable.

  He wondered what the smell was.

  He raised his arm to cover his nose and once again found himself facing the two doors; one broken and the other well-fairing in condition. Instead of his previous choice, he went through the other door and walked through.

  The first thing he noticed was that the smell was much, much less prevalent. It first smelled a mixture of rotten fish and fermenting fruit—and only the scent of necrosed fish remained. Perhaps it’d be perennial.

  Either way, he simply feigned obliviousness. There was no reason for him to get involved.

  Hellain hurriedly rushing him out his house earlier left Angra in a passive mood.