Chapter 38

In a crisis, you have to act fast. If someone has a stroke, for example, the speed at which a victim can be transported to and then treated in hospital has a proven correlation to the damage the stroke can have on their brain. In the case of cardiac arrest, CPR - chest compression and mouth-to-mouth - has to be started almost immediately and then maintained until help arrives to defibrillate the heart back into a normal rhythm. The point of this is to say that a person’s ability to think fast and keep a level head when the world is falling to shit around them is often a genuinely impressive feat of mental fortitude. It is not, however, the end of the story. A call to emergency services, no matter how promptly that decision is made, is impossible if you don’t have a phone, and no amount of speed is going to help the victim of a heart attack if nobody around them knows how to perform CPR. So that mental fortitude has to always be paired with some form of preparedness.

The same can be said for combat.

Being ready to fight and being able to fight were two vastly different things.

Sure, the people gathered in the Conclave Cathedral would all have fallen somewhere on the scale of fortitude, all of them being somewhere between woefully inept and staggeringly disciplined, but what doomed them to failure had nothing to do with how fast they could think on their feet. It was the fact that none of them, not a single one of the thousands of people in attendance for Uri’s funeral had ever even considered the Cathedral as anything other than a haven. The idea that they could be attacked here, the notion that it wasn’t the bastion of safety they had always thought it to be, had never occurred to any of them. So not only were they wildly unprepared for what was about to happen, and not only had they no earthly idea of how to defend themselves in the situation I was about to enforce, but they had never even considered if it was possible to do so at all.

No matter.

I had warned them once, and they had chosen to ignore it. This was not revenge, this was not a war, and this was not a fight for my principles. This was a reckoning. And it was long overdue.

As counter-intuitive as it might seem, the mindscape did operate according to certain rules, or at least guiding principles that provided a semblance of order amidst the chaos. Take my city and its formidable walls, for instance; in this realm, size mattered. The larger something was, the more power it inherently possessed. Imagine, if you will, a balloon: its capacity to hold air increases as it expands. In the mindscape, the concept of air can be replaced with the notion of power. The bigger it is, the more it holds. Thus, a sprawling city with towering walls brims with an immense reservoir of power, much like an enormous balloon filled to its limit. In the mindscape, physical dimensions weren’t merely a matter of visual dominance—they were a direct expression of the power contained within.

The Conclave cathedral, however, functioned on a different set of principles, and as the Mantle bestowed upon me a deeper understanding of its mechanisms, I began to discern the nuanced ways in which it operated. Unlike the sprawling cities of the Evo, where sheer physical size equated to power, the cathedral employed a more intricate and centralized approach to its authority. This colossal edifice we stood within was, in itself, a manifestation of immense power. Granted, in terms of size, it didn’t rival the vast expanse of a typical Evo city, let alone my own, but it was still jaw-droppingly massive when compared to anything that could be constructed in the real world.

Within this cavernous structure, the people within it were not individual powerhouses but rather served as integral cogs in a vast, intricate machine. Their abilities, while still significant, were largely regulated—or perhaps ‘controlled’ is a more fitting term—by the latent power embedded within the cathedral’s walls. When inside this sacred space, the limitations of personal power became apparent. No single Evo - perhaps not even me - was as strong as the entire cathedral. This power wasn’t solely derived from the presence of its current occupants but also from the cumulative essence of countless Evos who had contributed their final energies to fortify the cathedral over the boundless reaches of time.

This revelation cast a more sinister light upon the last rites I had performed for Uri. His power, according to the cathedral’s logic, wasn’t meant to be a personal boon for me, a strength to carry forward into future battles. Instead, it was siphoned off to sustain and bolster the very institution we both theoretically served. His essence, his final remnants of power, didn’t belong to him in death, nor to me as his successor, but to the Conclave itself.

Ha, yeah, right! Insert a snort laugh sound at your leisure.

The cathedral itself, physically speaking, was designed in a manner reminiscent of a medieval European institution, firmly rooted in the belief that pretty much everything was God’s fault. Structurally, it mirrored the iconic shape of a Christian cross, akin to many traditional Christian churches, but the similarities ended there. The sheer scale of this colossal edifice dwarfed even the most ambitious architectural feats of humankind. Here, the ‘vertical’ branch of the cross extended an awe-inspiring three miles in length, with a width measuring roughly a quarter of a mile.

Stepping into the cathedral, one would be struck first by the titanic doors that constituted the entrance at the foot of the cross - at least from the inside, they didn’t really lead anywhere and were just the large monolithic oaken slabs before which you materialized when entering the Conclave. These doors were not merely an entryway but a statement—massive, intricately carved, and imbued with an aura of solemnity. Looking inwardly from them, it revealed the vast expanse of the Nave, the central aisle that, in a regular church, would lead worshippers from the entrance to the altar. Stretching out to about one hundred yards in width, this Nave was nothing short of breathtaking. Unlike traditional churches where long, bench-like pews provided seating for the congregation, this space was dominated by ascending platforms. Each platform was meticulously arranged with ornate desks, hundreds upon hundreds of them, each a testament to the grandeur and purpose of the structure.

Above these platforms, the cathedral’s ceiling soared to unfathomable heights, painted with frescoes that wove tales of ancient Evos and their exploits. Enormous stained glass windows lined the walls, each one as tall as a multi-storied office block, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the Nave. These windows depicted not just religious motifs but also scenes of great battles, revered individuals, and significant moments in Evo history, their vivid imagery imbuing the space with a sense of timelessness. I still didn’t know the details of what each of them represented, but they were impressive nonetheless.

Cradled beneath these towering windows were colossal banks of what could only be described as bookshelves. Their sheer size and breadth defied comprehension, each one seemingly stretching endlessly, filled with the wisdom of eras past. When compared to this repository, the famed Library of Alexandria would seem diminutive, and even the British Museum, where the closest low-power entry point was to my home, would appear modest in comparison. Of course, in the ever-shifting realm of the mindscape, these weren’t actual bookshelves; they were symbolic representations of the cathedral’s boundless accumulation of knowledge, the memories and life experiences donated by countless generations of the Evos that came before.

Within this mental construct, Evos of all ages, from the novices to the most seasoned veterans, could sit at these desks and delve into the vast sea of collective learning and experiences from innumerable predecessors. This wasn’t merely a library but an intellectual haven where the recorded wisdom of hundreds of thousands of Evos was readily accessible. It was important to acknowledge that not every Evo in history had contributed to this vast compendium. Many, in the grand tapestry of existence, would never have been part of the Conclave, having never encountered it within their lifetimes. An Evo from Feudal Japan, for example, would have had no knowledge of this order, and even those residing in Europe over the past few centuries might not all have lent their wisdom, especially considering the fractures caused by the Schism, not to mention the Evos that simply weren’t brought into the Conclave.

Nevertheless, the sheer magnitude of collective intelligence and experiential wealth contained within these symbolic shelves was unprecedented. It surpassed any other repository of human wisdom that had ever existed, encompassing libraries, institutions of learning, and centers of knowledge alike. Here, the distilled essence of countless lifetimes converged, offering an unparalleled resource for the Conclave’s members. The cathedral thus stood not merely as a place of safety and communal gathering, but as a monumental testament to the accumulated intellect, power, and mystical heritage of its adherents. Here, the past was not simply remembered; it was actively lived, being constantly accessed and utilized by each new generation to guide their path forward.

I should probably put some effort into ... I dunno, not burning it down, then ... Maybe?

In a typical church, the nave would extend up to the crossing, where the two outward branches of the cross intersected it. Beyond this intersection, in the top segment of the cross, there would usually be the ambulatory, an area often housing the altar and other ecclesiastical furnishings, the sort of “priest stuff” I found myself utterly uninterested in. However, this was no ordinary church. Here, there was no altar to sanctify, and - I fervently hoped - no priests skulking in the shadows either.

Instead, the layout of this colossal edifice diverged significantly from traditional church architecture. The northern arm of the cross mirrored the same grandiosity as the southern one I had entered, although it was somewhat shorter in length. The same applied to the eastern and western arms, stretching out into equally imposing thoroughfares. These arms, far from being simple corridors, were also flanked by vast library spaces, their towering bookshelves extending endlessly, filled with the same dense, symbolic knowledge that characterized the rest of the cathedral.

While the southern arm culminated in the massive, intricately carved doors leading to the outside world, the northern, eastern, and western arms concluded in a series of grand staircases. These staircases ascended to upper floors that, until this moment, I hadn’t even known existed. The discovery of these additional levels further underscored the sheer immensity of this cathedral.

It was fucking massive!

Ascending these stairways promised yet another journey into the unknown. Each step taken would reveal more layers of this seemingly infinite structure, each level brimming with even more knowledge and power. The notion that the cathedral extended vertically as well as horizontally was both exhilarating and daunting. What other secrets and chambers did this immense structure conceal? How many more volumes of forgotten wisdom were stored here, waiting to be discovered by those deemed worthy? And what treasons and betrayals lurked in shadows yet unseen?

The imposing architecture exuded a sense of power and authority, its very walls seemingly imbued with the countless contributions of past Evos. The upper floors, hidden from view until now, beckoned with the promise of greater understanding and deeper insights. They were part of the labyrinthine complexity of the mindscape, designed not just to house but to protect and preserve the accumulated knowledge of generations.

I couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement, awe, and trepidation as the full scale of the cathedral became apparent. Its vast upstairs corridors and towering bookshelves served as silent witnesses to the countless lives and histories that had contributed to its creation. The cathedral’s monumental presence dwarfed anything that could be built in the real world, a testament to the limitless potential of the mindscape and the enduring legacy of the Conclave.

The cathedral was beyond massive; it was an endless, ever-expanding realm of intellectual and mystical pursuit, a living testament to the combined might and wisdom of those who had walked its halls before me. As I gazed down the long thoroughfares and let my mind trace the construct up the towering staircases, I resolved to explore every nook and cranny of this awe-inspiring structure, eager to unlock the untold potential that lay within its grand, hallowed halls. This was a new feeling, one that I could tell wasn’t wholly mine; it was a need to reclaim the construct as if I had personally had a hand in its foundation, yet at the same time, a feeling of total revulsion at the corruption that now filled its halls.

It was the Mantle that granted me this insight, even though I couldn’t physically see things like the staircases clearly, particularly with the throngs of people assembled for Uri’s funeral obscuring my view, let alone the upper floors. Much like a form of supernatural sonar, the Dragon enabled me to trace the latent power embedded within the cathedral’s walls, providing me with a mental map of the building’s entirety. This newfound awareness didn’t extend to detecting the location of people beyond my line of sight—it wasn’t some fresh addition to my already extensive array of abilities. I couldn’t track the thousands of individuals congregated within the cathedral, nor could my mind pierce directly into theirs, but I could grasp a deeper understanding of the structural and mystical elements I was already capable of sensing.

As I stood among the mourners, a minuscule, almost undetectable fraction of my power was being siphoned off to help support the cathedral simply by virtue of my presence inside it. This subtle interaction allowed me to... feel the structure, for lack of a better term. The Mantle’s influence facilitated this connection, making me acutely aware of the cathedral’s dimensions and the intricate networks of energy coursing through its walls.

Through this heightened perception, the cathedral transformed from a mere physical space into a living, breathing entity. The power flowing through the structure wasn’t static; it pulsed rhythmically, resonating with the cumulative essence of every Evo who had ever contributed to its creation, including each member of the masses now in attendance. This symbiotic relationship between the cathedral and its occupants amplified my own connection to it, providing me with an almost visceral sense of its vastness and complexity. The only way my mind could properly translate the explanation was to say that it was almost like a single glass of “water” had been permanently removed from the well of every Evo who had ever stepped foot within the Cathedral, with that power being used to maintain the construct. An infinitesimal amount from each person in the grand scheme of things, but cumulatively, it added up to a mind-bogglingly massive reservoir of pure power, and all of it was imbued into every brick, every marble column, and echoing floor slab.

I could sense the power radiating from the enormous stained glass windows, reaching out like silent sentinels to greet the sunlight streaming through, each beam refracted into a spectrum of colors that danced across the Nave. The towering bookshelves, laden with symbolic knowledge, hummed with the collective wisdom they represented; their presence felt more than seen. The grand staircases, spiraling up to hidden levels, beckoned with the promise of further understanding, deeper insights, and the discovery of dark secrets. Every slab of stone in every wall, every piece of ornately carved marble in every monolithic column almost vibrated with the power that kept this construct standing. I could feel all of it. I could almost see it. Just like I had once looked at Faye and been able to see the decision behind every single change she had made to her outward appearance, I could see how every stone had been laid in this building. Not with mortar and strength of labor but with power, concentration, and focus on the final idea. I could even sense the sentiments poured into it, the reasons behind building the cathedral in the first place, the hopes that its creators had for its future, and the values that its construction was meant to embody.

And with a shiver of revulsion that ran through my entire core, I realized that the Mantle, the Dragon etched onto my skin and stitched into my being, had once been part of the group involved in the foundation of the Cathedral. Maria hadn’t built it; she had formed the idea of the Conclave, but the Cathedral was something different, something much older, something meant for another purpose entirely, and the Conclave had just grown to assume dominion over it. But each and every one of those ideals used to build the Cathedral, each value held by those who created it, every sentiment and hope poured into its construction had been betrayed by the people who now called it home. More than that, the stench of Marco’s corruption was like a physical assault on my senses. I could feel it everywhere, and the Dragon was pissed.

I could feel it rumbling unsettlingly under my skin, no longer held back by my fortress-like inner walls but instead proudly emblazoned onto my outer ones. It was no longer testing me, no longer measuring my resolve; it was now a part of me. Its feelings were my feelings, and although I could tell where mine ended and the Dragon’s began, it did nothing to temper the indignant rage that now filled it and, by extension, me.

Alright, settle down, big fella. We’re both gonna be getting our pound of flesh today.

Uri’s funeral, with all its pomp and ceremony, served as a stark reminder of the transient nature of individual power contrasted against the enduring legacy of the Conclave. As mourners moved around me, their collective grief and respect added another layer to the cathedral’s ambiance, further enriching the energy that I could now perceive with such clarity.

In this moment of heightened awareness, I understood that the Mantle did more than simply bolster my understanding of this place. It was, in some respects, a conclave unto itself, carrying the ingrained will of all the Evos who had held it before me. And at least one of those ancient vanguards had been part of the group that had originally founded the Cathedral. That person, or the remnants of their character, was seething at what it had become. Far from being a bastion to gather wayward Evos before their introduction to the Praetorians, it had been founded as a means of escaping them. A way to free our kind from the tyrannical insanity of the order I was now at war with. A small part of me smiled at that; I knew I wasn’t the first to rebel against the Praetorian’s grand plans, but to know I carried within me the mind - or the echo of it - of one of its original detractors, left me with a sense of common purpose and renewed resolve.

But Maria, the “founder” of the Conclave, had been the Cathedral’s very first traitor, violating the principles on which it was built, planting the first seed that would eventually turn it into the festering pit of betrayal and corruption that it had become. The original message had long ago been lost, and although Maria’s intent to feed these people into the Praetorians also seemed to have been lost to the sands of time, hers had opened the doors to its infiltration by the enemy, and with every new realization, the Dragon rumbled a little louder.

The Conclave was a fortress of history, wisdom, and power, a structure sustained by the contributions and sacrifices of generations of Evos. For good or for ill, I was part of it, even if only for the small measure of time I was standing within its walls. Even though I had come with the specific intention of bringing it down on the heads of those who had defiled it, I was a part of it, and it was a part of me.

But not for long.

The Conclave, the Cathedral, a place that had stood proudly for the better part of a thousand years longer than the people who now inhabited it, and had been the home for countless men, women, and children of my kind - both innocent and guilty - had seen its last sunrise.

Mine had always been an analytical mind; it was why I had reveled in my degree in game development software during college. It wasn’t the creativity of designing games that captivated me, nor was it about tracking the ever-shifting trends in the popularity of certain genres. My passion lay squarely in the meticulous construction of them, the “blood and guts” of game development, as I used to fondly say.

What truly fascinated me was the intricacies of coding—the way a specific line of code could make a game perform action “X,” which in turn triggered response “Y,” and thus set off a chain of events invisibly customized to every choice or action the player made. It was a practical form of art where abstract ideas were transformed into interactive reality through precise and deliberate programming. The actual content of the game was almost secondary; what intrigued me was taking a concept and meticulously crafting the code that would breathe life into it, making it playable, enjoyable, and functional.

For me, each character and symbol in a line of code had its distinct purpose. Every bit of data, every algorithm, every nested function was like a cog in a finely tuned machine. All these elements worked in harmony to fulfill my deep-seated need for order and precision. It was about building something magnificent in a way that only I—and perhaps a select few who had delved deeply into the same craft—would truly comprehend. While the end-users saw an engaging game filled with dazzling visuals and immersive gameplay, I saw the craftsmanship behind it and the unseen intricacies that made the whole experience possible.

Creating a game was akin to composing a symphony, with each note carefully chosen and placed to form a harmonious whole. The joy I derived wasn’t from the external allure of the finished product but from the internal logic and structure that supported it. Every successful execution of a command, every seamless transition between game states, provided an almost unparalleled sense of fulfillment. It was an exercise in both creativity and discipline, a dance between artistic vision and technical prowess.

Despite the complexity and occasional frustrations that came with debugging and optimizing code, the process was profoundly rewarding. Each challenge overcome was a testament to my analytical abilities and my unwavering dedication to making sure every piece fit perfectly into the grand puzzle. This precision, this attention to detail, wasn’t just a professional trait; it was a fundamental aspect of who I was. It shaped how I approached problems, how I viewed the world, and now how I interacted with the mindscape.

I was more than aware I was probably a little odd in my thinking, but that was who I was, and I had long ago stopped making apologies for that.

It was precisely for this reason that my newfound comprehension of the mindscape, and the Conclave Cathedral in particular, had me so utterly transfixed. As I stood there, a few feet inside the grandiose main doors, my senses were immediately ensnared by the sheer majesty of this mental construct, bolstered immeasurably by the understanding the Mantle was feeding me. The intricacies of its design and the brilliance of its purpose unfolded before me in a mesmerizing display, rendering me momentarily oblivious to my surroundings.

In those first few moments, the bustling crowd became nothing more than indistinct shapes in my peripheral vision. It looked like over a thousand individuals had gathered, all ostensibly present to pay their final respects to Uri, arguably the most renowned and revered Evo of recent memory. Yet, even as the aura of solemnity filled the air, my attention remained anchored to the architectural and metaphysical grandeur surrounding me.

It almost seemed a shame to have to be the one about to fuck it all up.

Almost.

But eventually, and perhaps inevitably, I was noticed. The murmuring of the crowd began to quiet, replaced by a ripple of recognition that spread like a wave. Eyes turned in my direction, and the collective focus shifted towards me. My moment of quiet contemplation dissolved as the reality of the gathering reasserted itself. I was a part of this convergence, entwined with the legacy of the Conclave, and the weight of both the past and present settled upon me as I stood at the cusp of the new future that awaited not only me but every person present.

“You!” A voice boomed over the crowd after a minute or so of quiet murmurs. To be honest, it wasn’t the voice I expected to hear. I knew it was incredibly unlikely to be the man I was hunting above all others; Marco knew how long ago Uri really died, meaning he also knew that the only people who could have told the Conclave it had happened later than that would have known about Marco’s involvement, so the chances that he turned up to this funeral were practically non-existent. But at the same time, I could feel the stench of his corruption all around me; maybe he had become complacent or too convinced of his own invulnerability. Maybe he wanted to try to control the narrative and turn up to show he had nothing to hide. But no, it wasn’t his voice that boomed over the gathered crowds. It belonged to the Archon.

My eyes rolled so hard I could almost hear them. The masses parted around him like the Red Sea, and he power walked toward me, his face a mask of fury.

“How dare you show your face after...” He froze as my eyes snapped onto his, matching and then dwarfing the fury that was rapidly fading from his expression. He couldn’t comprehend why he was suddenly feeling the way he was about me, but he recognized danger when he saw it.

“After what?” I arched an eyebrow at him, challenging him to continue before laying into him when he stayed nervously silent. “I warned you,” I growled at him. “I told you what would happen if you or your order did anything to attack me again.”

“But, we didn’t, we...”

“Harbor traitors!” I snapped back. By now, we had the attention of the entire congregation and there were more than a few murmurs rippling through the crowds. “How long have you known?” I went on, not really sure - or even caring - if he knew at all. Thomas was the leader of the Conclave; everything that had happened since my awakening had happened on his watch, meaning that - aside from Marco and the genuine traitors in our midst - the responsibility for the crimes of the Conclave rested squarely on his shoulders.

Archon Thomas backed up a few paces, blinking rapidly at me as he spluttered. “Know what?”

Another sadistic smile curled across my face as a series of massive “screens”—for lack of a better term—materialized above the heads of the crowd. Each ethereal screen measured an enormous Ninety feet in height and one hundred sixty in width and hung in the air like spectral projections. Spread strategically above every corner of the Conclave Cathedral, the dozens of these screens blinked to life, capturing the attention of each person within the gathered crowd.

Above the assembled masses, these magic-like displays began to play out the vivid, unfiltered memories of my recent past. Every crucial detail about Marco and every mention of the Conclave were laid bare for all to see. The memories unfurled like a dam bursting, raw and unvarnished: the uneasy, but secret peace that had existed with the Inquisitors for generations, the insidious corruption that Marco seemed to spread to everyone he came into contact with, the proclamations by Tiberius and other Praetorians that revealed the Conclave as nothing more than a puppet to their order.

Scene after scene flashed before the captivated audience, including Marco’s own grim admission of guilt following Uri’s horrific death. These revelations were damning and irrefutable, painting a vivid picture of deceit and manipulation that had long festered beneath the surface. The climax of the visual narrative reached an emotional crescendo, replaying the harrowing moments after the bullet struck my mentor. I watched again as Uri’s city, the mental fortress he had painstakingly built, began to crumble, his thoughts disintegrating around us in his final moments.

The dialogue of that fateful encounter echoed through the cavernous cathedral. Uri’s last rites reverberated solemnly, carrying a weight that seemed to press down on every soul present. The screens captured the essence of his final words, the poignant wisdom of a dying man imparting his last truths to his protégé. His hopes, his fears, his suspicions, his kindness, and his final words of support that spurred me onward were witnessed through this visual chronicle. They saw the agony and the resolve. He, as head of the black knights, the order within the order tasked with the protection of every Evo present, had made Uri into a respected and revered man. Every one of those people got to watch the passing of the torch from mentor to student.