The passage beyond the doors sloped sharply upward.
Virgil dragged himself forward, one hand pressed against his wounded palm.
He glanced back.
The enormous stone doors had already begun closing behind him with an echoing thud.
Unable to support his own weight, he leaned against the freezing rock and slid down until his knees hit the floor.
He cradled his ruined hand against his chest. Black blood seeped from the deep punctures, hissing as it struck the dust.
"Kugh."
He bit down on the hem of his shirt, tearing away a strip of fabric. He wrapped the crude bandage tight around his palm, making the knot with his teeth.
He was already getting dizzy. He couldn’t afford to lose any more blood and faint, not when the curse was getting worse by the second.
He forced himself to stand, his chest heaving. Only then did he take in the place he had just entered.
A staircase stretched into the darkness, its steps carved from black stone. Faint markings ran along the walls, accompanied by unfamiliar ornaments he couldn’t identify.
"Of course."
Virgil let out a heavy breath and began climbing.
Each step sent a dull ache through his legs and his breathing remained uneven.
He was getting tired of this place.
First the forest.
Then the labyrinth.
And now endless stairs.
The markings on the wall became more intricate the higher up he got. Some resembled ancient writings, while others depicted figures kneeling before something that had been deliberately scratched out.
He couldn’t make out what the figures were worshiping, though he doubted he wanted to know.
Eventually, the staircase widened into a broad platform. Countless pillars supported the ceiling, while shattered altars and broken pews lay half-buried beneath a thick blanket of grey ash.
At the center stood a massive black monument, its surface covered in symbols that seemed to shift whenever he tried to focus on them.
The room was so enormous that he struggled to believe it was suspended inside a cave.
He dragged his feet through the dust, his eyes darting around the structure. The labyrinth had taught him that whenever he let down his guard, he would suffer. You are reading on novelping . com, the official source.
He braced himself for whatever monster might emerge.
But nothing moved.
For several minutes, no sound could be heard aside from his heavy breathing.
’Is there really nothing?’
Regardless, he didn’t drop his guard.
This time, instead of searching for a monster, he finally took in his surroundings.
Sitting dead center in the structure, completely untouched despite its surroundings, was a desk. It wasn’t carved from the rock he was used to seeing in this cave. Instead, it was made of polished mahogany, with a high-backed leather chair tucked neatly beneath it. The ash stopped at its edges, as though an invisible barrier prevented it from reaching the desk.
The desk held a single object; a book.
He approached it slowly. The sharp scent of fresh paper grew stronger, cutting through the smell of stale ash.
Archive of Divine Authority.
He stood over the desk for a moment before stretching out his good hand and brushing the cold leather.
Its cover was completely blank. There was no author’s name, no symbol, and no indication of what it contained.
’What’s this supposed to be?’
He flipped through the pages, finding nothing but untouched paper. He examined its spine and its edges, but there was nothing on it.
A blank book.
He was about to put it back when the pages suddenly began turning on their own.
He flinched.
The thick, cream-colored pages fluttered rapidly before coming to a dead stop near the middle.
Then, thick black ink began to bleed from deep within the paper. It moved like a living thing, shaping itself into elegant, razor-sharp words right before his eyes.
What would you like to learn about?
He stared at the words.
"...What?"
The writing remained perfectly still.
He turned the book slightly, inspecting the paper for traces of ink. The letters seemed to have appeared directly on its surface, yet the paper remained dry.
’Does it want me to write onto the paper?’
He looked down at his right hand. The crude fabric bandage he had tied was already stiff with coagulated black blood, the rotting flesh beneath it throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He needed ink.
Gritting his teeth, Virgil grabbed the edge of the blood-soaked fabric with his good hand and violently tore the knot loose. The sudden exposure sent a blinding spike of agony up his arm as fresh, glowing black blood immediately welled from the deep punctures.
Suppressing a hiss, he pressed his rotting index finger directly against the blank parchment, dragging his curse across the page.
What are you?
The moment he finished writing, new writing began to form directly beneath his question.
The book you currently hold is ’The Archive of Divine Authority’.
It preserves records concerning the gods, their authorities, their domains, and the order established between them.
It stopped for a moment before one final paragraph appeared.
Ask, and knowledge shall be provided to the best it was recorded.
"Ah," he muttered.
A book that had information on the gods?
Despite the searing pain in his hand, he pressed his torn finger against the page again.
How do I survive Minervia’s rot?
The paper drank the black, glowing blood. A second later, the dark ink bled upward in perfect, clinical strokes.
Minervia’s rot is a divine curse that corrupts the essence of its victim. Its influence spreads through the soul without rest, gradually weakening the boundary between the vessel and its original inhabitant.
There is only one universal way to break a curse: kill the one who cast it.
No recorded method of reversing this affliction is available within the archive.
He looked at it for a second before sighing.
He had hoped that an archive dedicated to the gods would hold an answer no one else possessed.
Apparently not.
He settled into the chair, pondering his next question.
He pressed his bleeding, trembling finger back against the pages.
What can you tell me about the God of Death?