Chapter 155: Chapter 155: Beneath the Veil

The illusion rippled like water as Noel stepped through, Noir close behind. There were no alarms, no resistance—just a faint static tingle across his skin as he stepped through the barrier, followed by an unnatural silence that seemed to swallow even his thoughts.

The other side was… ancient.

Ruins stretched before him—stone corridors carved with symbols that time had nearly erased, archways half-collapsed, and staircases descending into darkness. The air was dry, untouched by wind, yet carried a weight that pressed against the skin. There was no rot, no foul odor… and yet every instinct in Noel’s body screamed at him to turn back.

He didn’t.

’These ruins… they’re beneath the Holy Capital. But this place wasn’t in the novel.’

He walked forward slowly, boots making almost no sound against the cracked floor. The mana in the air wasn’t corrupted, but something about it felt hollow, as if it had been drained, used, then left behind like discarded breath.

Noir padded ahead, her sleek black form merging with the shadows, eyes glowing faint violet. She stopped at the edge of a broken hall and growled—low, warning.

Noel crouched beside her and looked ahead.

A chamber opened before them.

Pillars of stone rose into the ceiling like the ribs of some buried beast. Between them were rows—rows of iron cages. Some empty. Others… occupied.

Children.

Small bodies, curled or limp, laid atop cold iron floors with no padding, no blankets. Some twitched. Some whispered.

Their faces were gaunt, cheeks sunken. Veins darkened their skin unnaturally, trailing along their arms and necks like ink under glass. One had bone protrusions growing from his spine, covered in barely-healed skin. Another child had a third eye, wide and unblinking, in the middle of his forehead—its iris was cracked, bleeding slowly, other were fusioned with monsters he had fight before.

A girl no older than six sobbed quietly in her cage. Her mouth had been sewn shut with fine black thread.

A boy’s voice echoed from a nearby cell, rough and wet, as if his throat were made of broken glass.

“It hurts… it hurts…”

He wasn’t crying. He was repeating it. Over and over, without emotion. Like a stuck recording.

Noel’s breath hitched for a moment. Even for him, this was—

’What kind of monstrosities are they creating here?’ he thought, jaw clenched.

Another child, skin mottled with scales and patchy hair, banged his head slowly against the bars, whispering, “Wake up… wake up… please let me wake up…”

And none of the guards—robed figures standing at precise intervals—reacted.

They just watched.

Unmoving. Silent.

Noel pulled back into the shadows, placing a hand on Noir’s neck to calm her. Even she was trembling slightly, her fur bristling against his fingers.

This was a slaughterhouse for souls.

The corridor narrowed, then opened again into a second chamber—this one deeper, carved in a more deliberate fashion. The walls were reinforced with dark stone bricks, newer than the ruins above, as if someone had begun restoring the place for a different purpose.

Noel crouched in the shadows of a broken column, Noir silently pressed to the ground beside him, her purple eyes focused and cold.

Below them, spread across a lowered platform surrounded by chains and glyphs etched into the floor, stood a line of children.

Their bodies were limp and bound, barely breathing, suspended between sleep and something far darker.

Their heads drooped, limbs limp, bodies stripped of warmth or resistance. Some wore ragged tunics; others had bloodstained robes too large for their size. Around them, acolytes in black ceremonial robes moved in eerie synchronization, checking pulses, adjusting magical restraints. Their faces were obscured by porcelain masks shaped like blank expressions.

Two of the masked figures approached a central table, speaking in hushed tones.

“…fusion rate was unstable in the last subject. Three survived, barely.”

“The Sixth Pillar is displeased. She wants results tonight. The girl must be prepared.”

Noel’s eyes sharpened.

The Sixth Pillar.

A heavy, wet breath rasped from one of the nearby cages.

Noel turned to see it—a child-shaped creature slumped inside, its body barely fitting the space, limbs too long for its torso, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Its eyes were still human—glass-like and filled with awareness—but the rest of it was wrong.

Twisted flesh. Skin that peeled in strips. Patches of scales growing over what looked like muscle exposed to air.

The creature blinked, slowly, and then its lips moved.

“…it hurts… please… end it…”

Noel’s throat tightened.

Another cage held a figure smaller still, missing both legs below the knee. Its arms were fused into a single limb, like a paw. Yet its face remained untouched—feminine, young. Her eyes were open, tears running silently as she stared up at the ceiling, unmoving.

A second group of acolytes emerged from the rear door, pushing a metal cart. On it lay Mira—the little elf girl adopted that morning.

Her body didn’t move.

“She responded better than the others,” one of the acolytes said.

“High compatibility. The ritual will begin once the Sixth arrives.”

From a platform above, Noel watched, fists clenched so tight his knuckles cracked. Noir growled faintly, but he placed a hand on her head and kept her still.

There was no time to break or rage.

He passed holding chambers, slabs stained with remnants of past procedures, and magical restraints carved into the floor like ceremonial brands. The deeper he went, the more it became clear—this wasn’t just an experimental site. It was an active staging ground.

Then he found it.

A wide, circular hall opened below, visible through a narrow slit in the stone. Torches of cold-blue flame lined the walls, illuminating the central platform where two figures stood: a priest in full ceremonial garb, kneeling… and her.

The nun from the orphanage.

But no longer the gentle, pale-skinned elf who sang lullabies to the children.

Her skin was now obsidian black, her long silver hair replaced by a flowing mass of midnight strands, and a towering scythe rested on her back like an extension of her body. Her eyes glowed faintly red beneath her hood, and her aura twisted the very air around her.

Noel didn’t need anyone to name her.

He was looking at the Sixth Pillar.

“The girl has responded well,” the priest said below her.

“She’ll be the first to carry a completed core,” the Pillar replied. Her voice was calm—soothing, almost maternal—and it made Noel’s skin crawl.

“Begin the preparations,” she said. “When the sun sets, we make history.”

Noel’s grip tightened on the edge of the stone, breath shallow but steady.

He had seen enough.

Noel moved quickly but deliberately, retracing his path through the ruined corridors without making a sound. He marked mental checkpoints—cracks in the wall, uneven stone patterns, a crooked torch bracket—relying entirely on memory and instinct.

Noir stayed close, her body low to the ground, eyes flicking to every shadow. They passed one of the acolytes patrolling the outer ring of the complex, but Noel slipped into a blind spot just in time, waiting in complete silence until the figure moved on.

As they approached the barrier where they first entered, Noel reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out a small, rune-etched fragment of stone. With a flick of mana, he pressed it into a crack in the wall near the illusion.

The rune dimmed and vanished.

If the mana in the area shifted suddenly—either from battle, movement, or evacuation—it would activate and signal him. Just in case.

He glanced once more through the illusion, confirming there were no watchers, then stepped back through the veil with Noir beside him.

The noise of the Holy Capital returned like a wave—distant bells, muffled voices, wind brushing through the branches.

Noel stood still for a moment.

His fists were clenched. His mind was racing.

But his face was calm.

They were building an army beneath the capital. And they had already begun.

Noel didn’t waste a second.

The moment he was clear of the barrier, he moved fast, cutting through the quiet streets of the Holy Capital like a shadow. Noir ran at his side, silent and focused.

The orphanage loomed ahead, lights dimmed for the night. He slipped through the front door, climbed the stairs, and reached the dormitory hallway in seconds.

He entered the boys’ room first.

Marcus was already awake, seated on the edge of his bed, gaze sharp.

Noel didn’t waste a second.

The moment he was clear of the barrier, he moved fast, cutting through the quiet streets of the Holy Capital like a shadow. Noir ran at his side, silent and focused.

The orphanage loomed ahead, lights dimmed for the night. He slipped through the front door, climbed the stairs, and reached the dormitory hallway in seconds.

He entered the boys’ room first.

Marcus was already awake, seated on the edge of his bed, gaze sharp.

Noel met his eyes. No words. Just a nod.

Marcus stood immediately.

Behind him, Laziel stirred, groggy. “Huh…? What’s going on?”

Garron rubbed his face and yawned. “Hey, did you bring the stuff for the kids or what?”

Noel didn’t answer. He was already turning, stepping into the hallway.

He crossed to the door just next to theirs and knocked once—sharp, purposeful.

Charlotte opened almost instantly.

Her eyes locked onto Noel’s, and her expression changed in an instant—sleep vanished, replaced by something cold and serious. She stepped out barefoot and grabbed her coat.

Inside, Clara sat up from her bed, frowning. “Noel? What’s happening?”

No answer.

They followed.

Back in the hallway, the group stood in a half-circle. Marcus was tense. Charlotte already had her boots on. The others still looked confused, murmuring questions.

Noel looked at them all, jaw tight, eyes steady.

“Everyone. To the boys’ room. Now,” he said, voice low but urgent.

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