"How did I get here?" he tried to reminisce, amidst the confusion in his mind.
'It hurts' 'It hurts too much'. The pain, came in sharp bursts completely disrupting any attempt at coherent thoughts.
How long had he been here? Hours, Days, Week, he couldn't tell. Time seemed nonexistent when all you can perceive is pain.
Where was he hurt? Legs, hands, back? The accurate question would be where was he not hurt?
'Ah! Yes, I fell' he remembered the jolt of pain as his back crashed against the ravine floor. His unfocused gaze could hazily still see the top of the cliff, It was a cold night a freezing one. The sky was not clear, 'it should be snowing soon'. The thought passed as briefly as the breath in his lungs.
'Why was he holding on?' "Exactly, why are you holding on?" a voice rang into his head.
"He, can't control it," another one said. "I want to feel bad but the bastard kept us locked for so long, I want him to suffer" "If he dies, we die too you know that right" " Pathetic, had he let me take control this would not have happened"
" Ah! They won't let me go. Even in this state, they won't let me be" he thought as the sounds of footsteps grew clearer. It was unclear who he meant the pursuers or the voices.
They both seemed hellbent to watch him perish.
"He is still breathing Lord," A voice said.
That's when he saw it. The prettiest pair of eyes. They were deep red, intense, and piercing, like ruby crystals.
They were surrounded by a pale face, with perfect proportion. "Is this a deity? Is this the end?" he thought before mustering all the leftover energy he had within "Plea..se..Ki..Me"
If have to die by the hand of such a being, maybe dying wasn't so bad after all, he expressed before losing consciousness.
His name was Orion—at least, that was the name given to him by the Church. He was born in the slums of the City of Hope, though hope had never been a part of his life. At the age of two, his mother—ravaged by Ataxia, a drug she valued more than her own child—sold him for a fleeting high. His earliest memory was of her euphoric expression as she walked away, never once looking back, despite his desperate cries.
Pain became his new master. That was the name he went by, the leader of a small gang that controlled the drug trade in the slums. He was feared for his brutality, his cruelty, and above all, his sick pleasures. He was a man who couldn't get it up—so he sought gratification in the suffering of others, especially young boys.
Orion was his property for years. The scars, faint but ever-present, bore witness to the horrors he endured. Eventually, he grew too old for Pain's tastes. He no longer screamed. He no longer winced. He no longer resisted. He was hollow—addicted, broken, and discarded like a ruined toy. Pain sold him off to an illegal underground research facility, where he was stripped of even the little humanity he had left.
That was the darkest chapter of his life. But it was behind him now.
The envoys of the Church of Atonement had rescued him. On that day, he buried his suffering deep within and vowed to become the perfect seed of virtue. Like all major factions, the Church of Atonement raised orphans, training them in the hope that they would one day awaken and spread its doctrine.
The Church believed in the absolute eradication of all that was void of virtue.
"If your left hand causes you to sin, cut it off."
That was the first lesson drilled into him.
He had memorized every rule, every scripture, every method. He had forced a smile every single day for the past six years. He had learned to reject recognition, even when he rightfully deserved it. He had never succumbed to despair or exhaustion. He upheld fairness and truth, even at great personal cost. He endured humiliation and pain without complaint.
For his unwavering devotion, he was hailed as the most virtuous seed—heralded as the future Scion of the Church, the one who would awaken an Absolute Virtue.
And so he endured. Faithfully. Patiently.
The universe owed him that much. After everything he had suffered, surely, it would grant him this one path to salvation—a future where he could finally seize control of his own destiny.
But fate had other plans.
On the Day of Sacrifice—the sacred Awakening Day, before the gathered envoys and priests—he did not awaken a Virtue.
He awakened a Sin
In the lands ruled by the Church of Atonement, this was a death sentence.
For the first time in his wretched existence, Orion felt the will to live.
Surrounded by powerful figures—his mentors, his idols, the very people who had once praised him—he did something unthinkable. He ran.
It was pointless.
He barely made it a few steps before they caught him. Their hands, once gentle in guidance, now tore into him with merciless force. He was mauled, broken, and finally, discarded like refuse—hurled over the edge of a towering cliff.
A fitting end to a tumultuous life.
Finally, some peace.
Or so he thought.
Just as darkness welcomed him, those piercing red eyes appeared once more in his mind—bright, inescapable, searing into his soul. Then came the pain, the agony he thought he had been freed from.
His eyes snapped open. A wooden ceiling loomed above, unfamiliar and distant. His breath came in ragged gasps. Why?
"Why did you drag me back to this hell?" he muttered, his voice hoarse and trembling.
A shadow shifted beside him, its presence suffocating. The red-eyed man stepped into view, his expression unreadable, his fingers tracing Orion's face with unsettling delicacy.
"Oh, little emerald…" the man cooed, his voice smooth as silk, dangerously sweet. "You ran so hard to keep your life, and now you accuse me of dragging you back? If you truly wished to die, you should have stood still. Why did you resist?"
His words cut deeper than any blade. He laid bare Orion's most shameful truth—the one he had spent years burying beneath hollow righteousness.
The man smiled, watching the cracks form. "Be honest with yourself. The only reason you're still breathing is that a sinner like you is still full of desires."
A single tear slipped down Orion's cheek.
Then the voices began.
"He's right."
"I envy the birds, because they are free."
"I envy those with loving parents."
"I envy those with wealth."
"I envy—"
"I envy—"
"I ENVY."
Two voices became five. Five became ten. Ten became hundreds—each one whispering, screaming, clawing at his mind.
A strangled laugh tore from Orion's throat, raw and desperate. It rose into something wild—maniacal, unhinged.
"Fine," he exhaled, his breath shuddering. His eyes burned with something new, something unshackled.
"If the heavens won't be fair… then let the madness take me."
Laughter erupted in his mind—a chorus of fractured selves, rejoicing in their long-awaited release.