Unrepentant

Silas's gaze locked onto the puddle beneath Umbres, the acrid scent wafting through the cell.

His lips curled into a mild smirk, the twisted amusement playing on his face. "Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it? Now we must endure your mess, my friend." His voice was low and raspy, carrying a playful venom, but each word slithered out with a chilling undertone.

Silas calmly tucked the tin of pills back into his satchel, his movements unhurried.

He knew full well the paralytic still held Umbres captive, leaving him frozen and helpless, unable to react. His eyes were wild with panic, yet unable to even shiver. They fixed on Silas’s form as he transformed—skin seeming to fold inward, revealing the terrifying reality beneath.

The false face of Senior Ji fell away, replaced by a visage more gaunt, more sinister. Eyes like polished onyx stared back at him, empty and soulless.

The Inquisitor's silent horror deepened as Silas crouched, long calloused fingers closing around Umbres's collar.

He dragged the paralyzed man toward the wall with a casual yank, as though the weight were inconsequential.

With a mocking tenderness, he set Umbres upright, propping him against the cold stone. Umbres’s eyes, wide and stricken, saw everything now—the full, unrelenting nightmare that Silas truly was. A cruel smile twisted the creature’s face, hollow and predatory.

"Do you know who I am?" Silas's voice was soft, the mockery barely masked behind the question.

Inside his mind, Umbres was screaming—wordless, panicked screams that echoed in the confines of his head. ''No... no... no! This isn't real! It can't be! No one could survive that—no one!''

Silas cocked his head slightly, as if considering something. His smile widened, eyes narrowing in false sympathy. "Ah, my manners. Of course, you can’t answer. How rude of me to forget."

With a fluid movement, Silas settled down, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor in front of Umbres, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The posture was disturbingly calm, but there was nothing peaceful about his presence. Every fiber of his being radiated something dark, something vile, something wrong.

"It pleases me that you’re a devout of Rovinius," Silas mused, his tone light but dripping with derision. "I can appreciate that, you know. Knowledge over luck—that’s a choice with some depth to it. Though I imagine the little Goddess Jrekisa would disagree. Luck's so fickle, don’t you think? Why do I bring it up? Well…"

Umbres's thoughts churned in panicked, desperate prayer, pleading to Rovinius for deliverance, for mercy. For this to all be a horrible, grotesque dream.

Silas, of course, didn’t need to read minds to know the terror that gripped Umbres. He’d seen it too many times to count. "Simply," he continued, his voice taking on a note of amused contemplation, "in all of the vast reaches of The Elrean Empire, across this giant southern continent of Ameras... how shit does someone's luck have to be for you to stumble into me?"

He chuckled, the sound coarse and unsettling, like bones grinding together. "You must have the absolute worst luck in the world, my friend. And coming from me, that means something."

The smirk faded from Silas’s face, replaced by a blank and indifferent look. His hollow smile disappeared entirely, leaving an emptiness that made the air feel heavier, more oppressive.

"But don’t worry too much," Silas added, his voice eerily calm. "After today, you won’t have to think about anything anymore. I promise."

Umbres’s silent prayers grew more frantic, his mind reaching out for salvation, for an end to this waking nightmare.

Silas tilted his head back slightly, as though stretching, before casually continuing, "You know, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. You’ll have a modest degree of time to consider it in your state. What makes a God? What criteria needs to be met for something to be Divine?"

Umbres’s gut twisted painfully as nausea surged through him, bile rising in his throat. His mouth twitched uncontrollably, and vomit spilled out, dribbling down his chin and onto his lap.

"Ah, there it is," Silas said softly, tilting Umbres to the side with a gentle push. His fingers patted the back of the Inquisitor’s head, as though consoling a child. "Easy now. Don’t choke. We’ve still got some time."

Silas wiped his hand on the Inquisitors hair before sitting back, his eyes locked onto Umbres’s trembling form. "So, what is it? Is Divinity the power to reshape reality? If that’s the case, anyone with the means to bend the world to their will could be considered a God."

The bile burned in Umbres’s throat, his body betraying him at every turn. The paralysis held his limbs in place, but his eyes—his eyes couldn’t look away from Silas. Couldn’t escape the nightmare unfolding before him.

Silas continued, his voice a low hum in the confined space. "Take Jrekisa’s Saintess—she can alter fate, twist fortune to her whims. Decimate a future or enhance it beyond belief. And I…" His lips twisted into a cruel grin. "I butcher an entire army before the sun sets. Slaughter a city while walking through it. Would that prowess elevate me to Divinity? To Godhood?"

A faint groan escaped Umbres’s throat, the sound weak and pitiful.

Silas didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He reached into his satchel and retrieved a leather holster, placing it into the bile-stained puddle on the floor. Slowly, methodically, he opened it, revealing a series of metal tools. Each one more menacing than the last.

The scalpel he chose first caught the small amount of light in the room, its edge impossibly sharp. Silas inspected it idly, turning it in his hand as though considering its use. "You see, I understand what you must think of me," Silas said, his voice casual, almost conversational. "Insane. Heretical. Perhaps even monstrous. You’re not wrong, but you’re not entirely right either."

The scrape of metal on leather as Silas laid out his tools sent shivers through Umbres, the sound cutting through his already fragile state of mind.

"Not too long ago, I might’ve agreed with you," Silas mused, his hand absently rubbing his chin as he spoke. "I used to think of myself as quite the deranged creature. But now? Now, I’ve come to appreciate my existence a little more over the last decade. I’m not quite a person yet, you see. But we’ll get there."

The scalpel hovered in Silas’s hand as he turned his gaze back to Umbres, his smile returning, hollow and cold. "Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have even bothered with this conversation. Would’ve made short work of you. But now? Now I find this whole process... charming, in a way."

Umbres’s vision swam, nausea tightening its grip on his gut. He wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for release, but the paralysis held him tight in its cruel embrace.

Silas leaned in, his breath brushing against Umbres’s ear. "But enough of that. You look like you’re suffering, my friend. So let me tell you a little story, while I begin to work. Something familiar. A lovely lie you’ve probably heard before."

His voice dropped to a whisper, and as Silas spoke, his smile widened.

Silas yanked Umbres's head forward with force, tipping him just enough to be in the perfect spot for his procedure. The stench of bile and urine mingled in the cell, thick in the stale air. His hands, calm and steady, reached for a sharp barber's razor—its steel glinting faintly in the cold dawn light creeping into the prison.

Without a word, Silas dipped the blade into the puddle of bile seeping across the floor. He let the fluid cling to the metal’s spine before running it through Umbres's hair, the slick substance acting as a crude lubricant.

Silas worked with slow precision, the sharp edge scraping away patches of hair from Umbres’s skull. Clumps of hair fell to the floor, wet and foul. Umbres’s eyes, wide with terror, were the only part of him that could move, darting frantically, pleading for mercy in a prison that gave none.

As Silas shaved the hair from one half of the scalp, his voice broke the silence with an eerie solemnity. "Of the great Nothing came forth the First Will," he began, his tone carrying a dark mockery, "from the Will came the Almighty. The Almighty saw the Nothing and found it lacking."

Each stroke of the razor scraped across Umbres’s scalp, the blade making a soft, snicking sound as it stripped the last of the hair from the right side of his head. Umbres felt the cold air on his exposed skin, the sensation sharp and chilling against his fevered panic.

“With a wave of Its hand,” Silas continued, his voice smooth and almost soothing, “The Almighty sundered the Nothing. The Nothing bled out its all-encompassing dominance, allowing The Almighty to begin Creation.”

He moved to the other side of Umbres’s skull, repeating the process with the same ruthless precision. The scrape of the razor became the backdrop to his retelling, each stroke like a sentence punctuating the tale of the Divine.

"The Almighty then chose to sunder itself," Silas continued. "Of its fists were born the Goddess of War and the God of Justice. Of its legs, the God of Labour. And from Its loins, the Goddess of Life." He paused for effect, scraping the last of the hair away with the razor before casting it aside.

The sound of metal meeting stone rang out as Silas reached into his satchel and withdrew a thin brush. He dipped the bristles into a small vial of ink and began marking dotted lines across Umbres’s freshly shaven scalp. The ink was cold against his skin, sending a shock of sensation through the nerves as Silas traced careful, geometric shapes. These were preparatory guidelines—preparation for something far darker than mere torture.

"Of Its heart," Silas continued, voice low and reverent, "was born the God of Honor. Of Its guts, the God of Death. Its liver bore the Goddess of Luck. And of Its brain," Silas’s voice sharpened, “the God of Knowledge.”

The brush hovered, lingering as Silas applied the ink with steady hands. He leaned in, speaking closer to Umbres’s ear. "Of its spine," he whispered, "was born the Goddess of Craft. Its lungs gave birth to the God of Mischief. And from Its eyes, the Goddess of Fate came into existence."

Umbres’s eyes were wild with terror, his mind racing with fear. He could feel the ink drying on his scalp. But there was nothing he could do to stop it. His body was paralyzed, trapped under the effects of Silas's earlier venom. His prayers to Rovinius had become fractured, desperate cries in his mind, but none of them seemed to reach past the dark veil of horror enveloping him.

Silas set the brush aside, his smile widening ever so slightly as he pulled the scalpel from its holster. The blade, thin and glinting, caught the faint light filtering into the cell. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pressed the edge to one of the dotted lines on Umbres's head, right above the temple.

"The soul," Silas said, his voice dropping to an even lower pitch, "gave birth to the God of Time."

Without a moment's hesitation, Silas dragged the scalpel down, cutting along the inked line. Blood welled up from the incision, pooling along the razor-sharp path. Umbres’s mind was a torrent of agony, every nerve on fire with the sensation of flesh being split open, but his body refused to scream. His own silence was a prison within a prison.

Silas moved methodically, cutting deeper, spreading the skin with his fingers as he worked.

"You see," he murmured, "This story teaches us more than we think. Of the Almighty’s body, each god was formed, each aspect of the world given shape. And yet, what do we learn from this?" He sliced another line, the scalpel moving effortlessly through flesh and scalp. "That even the gods are made of something. Even divinity," he paused to wipe away the blood with a cloth, "has structure."

Umbres’s vision blurred as pain overtook his senses, his mind fragmenting into shards of incoherent thoughts.

Silas moved with cold efficiency, carving through the flesh of Umbres’s scalp like an artist shaping clay. His hands were steady, uncaring of the blood that now stained the floor, pooling in dark red puddles around Umbres’s paralyzed form.

"However, I have always wondered,” Silas mused, his voice casual, "weather the Almighty ever regretted Its choices. Have his sundered aspects ended up as boons or as blights?" He pressed deeper, the scalpel gliding with chilling precision as he reached bone. "Perhaps you have wondered similar questions as well, Inquisitor of Rovinius. Does knowledge bring comfort? Or does it only deepen the despair when you realize how small you truly are?"

Umbres’s mind screamed for release, for mercy, but none came. Each slice, each movement of the scalpel, pushed him further into despair. He could feel Silas’s fingers probing beneath the skin, touching the very bone of his skull, preparing for something far worse than pain.

Silas withdrew the scalpel momentarily, examining his work with a clinical eye. The lines were perfect, the incisions precise. He glanced down at Umbres, his smile returning with a venomous twist. "You will not die here, Inquisitor. Not yet. After all, we still have to finish the story.''

With that, he plunged the scalpel deeper, the blade scraping against bone as he began to peel back the layers of flesh.