Rise of the OtherGod Apostle: Not a Cult Leader, but a Serf?!

#195Reader Mode

#195

“I exist… to help you—”

Casimir’s hands moved before the creature could finish, wrenching its jaw from its skull. Yet even as the mandible hung loose, the voice persisted.

“…That is my purpose. There’s no need for violence. Simply state your desires.”

She scowled and flung the bloodied jaw aside.

No one speaks with their jaw torn away. She’d witnessed enough torture to know the truth of it— even removing just the tongue only left behind the wet, choking sounds of an animal.

And yet, of all people, here I am, trapped in a hallucination. How pathetic.

Had she still possessed Nephiton’s Eye, would it have revealed the truth behind this madness? The treacherous thought slipped into her mind before she crushed it.

“O Lord Roklem,” she prayed, steel in her voice. “An abomination stands before me, daring to defy Order itself. Pardon my failure to condemn it at once. Forgive me for listening to its blasphemies, for letting doubt poison my thoughts. Grant me strength to set things right—”

“Order won’t hear your prayers.”

The gray-haired figure spoke with gentleness.

“Nothing that occurs here will ever reach Order. You’re entirely safe.”

She recognized that face. Knew the body it inhabited like borrowed clothes.

Francesco Horeum.

The firstborn son of a House that valued wombs above all else. In a bloodline where inheritance flowed through daughters, not sons, their firstborn child had come into the world already ill-suited to his place. Still, the family stood among the favored. Generations of offerings to Order’s vaults had earned House Horeum the rare previlege to maintain ten branches of their bloodline, while lesser Houses were permitted only three or four.

But what use was an eldest child who couldn’t carry the next generation? Even the most lowliest daughter from a distant branch held more value than him.

So when the eleventh bearer of divine blood emerged squalling from a Horeum womb, Francesco’s fate was sealed. The Holy Cathedral would have him. Oh, Order was generous in its way—the ordained were allowed to return home and live among family until their final breath. But their corpses? Those belonged to the Cathedral, forever and always.

Yet none of them rests beneath soil.

The Church of Order didn’t bury its dead; it harvested them. The deceased were butchered like cattle, their flesh and bones transformed into sacred relics and holy trinkets. These bodies belonged to Order, had always belonged to Order, so why shouldn’t they use them as they saw fit? No one dared to object.

The ordination ceremony was nothing more than Order’s way of marking future inventory. Here walked tomorrow’s holy relics, still alive, still believing they served something greater. Former wielders of divine authority, reduced to living warehouses of useful parts. They used to command respect as agents of gods! Now look at them. The humiliation cut deep.

So the noble Houses played their games. They complied with Order’s laws, yes, but not without defiance. Corpses arrived at the Cathedral stripped bare—not a strand of hair survived the journey. Some families claimed more elaborate misfortunes. Bodies came missing hands, feet, entire limbs. Hunting accidents. Dueling wounds. Terrible tragedies, all.

The boldest sent only skeletons, insisting their burial customs demanded they strip the flesh themselves.

Order crushed such defiance with a single decree: The dead must arrive exactly as they lived while ordained. Any missing piece would be replaced—cut fresh from the House that failed to deliver, starting with the matriarch.

So when rumors spread that House Horeum would soon ordain another son, Order’s knights began collecting wagers. The Horeums never disappointed when it came to bending rules. How creative would their compliance be this time?

Everyone knew the deeper game. Once ordained hairless, a person stayed that way for life. That final window gave noble Houses one last chance to “harvest” what they could from their kin before Order took the rest.

Horeum hair was liquid gold. Textiles made from those strands could reduce cargo volume by half—merchants would kill for such cloth. And after that corpse arrived shaved everywhere—yes, everywhere—the knights’ mess halls buzzed with speculation. Were those impossibly expensive fabrics woven with hair from… more private areas?

Nobody was going to strip an ordination candidate naked to settle such bets. Such acts were forbidden, of course. Unless someone had bedded them before their arrival, these wagers remained unresolved.

But when “Francesco” removed his hood during ordination, the room’s laughter quickly turned into stunned silence.

The man had removed his own scalp.

His eyes were gone, so were some fingers. Yet it was his skull—white, glistening, and utterly exposed—that seared itself behind everyone’s eyelids.

Had speech not been needed for the ordination ceremony, he might have gone so far as to remove his tongue as well.

The most surprising part? Francesco appeared quite pleased with himself.

When someone inquired about what happened, he grinned and said: “Grabbed the hedge clippers instead of my hairbrush. Honest mistake. Took the whole scalp in one clean pull.” And when a knight steadied him as he stumbled, Francesco joked that he’d run out of hair to offer as thanks, suggesting a dinner date instead. He even flirted with Casimir, urging her to enjoy his face while it still had its charm, before the blessing of healing made him boringly whole again.

I told him Ledeia’s blessing wouldn’t improve his face much. He joked that going three days without looking into a mirror might lower my standards, and said I should take another look at him then.

After his ordination, scalpless Francesco haunted the Cathedral for half a year.

Elamin took to him immediately. They’d spend hours together, talking about…

God, was it really ten years ago?

Francesco had disappeared into his family’s estate after leaving the Cathedral. Not a word or whisper reached her in all the years since. Finding him here, in this strange dream, felt like encountering a ghost.

But if her ‘memories’ had constructed this illusion, why did Francesco seem wrong? Why didn’t he feel like the man she remembered?

“This is Francesco Horeum’s body, but I am not him.”

The presence wearing his face seemed to read her mind.

“You’re one of the Watched.”

“I was. Not anymore.”

“But you were once.”

She nearly asked why—what drove him to that choice—then caught herself. The Francesco who could have answered was long gone.

Maybe none of this is real. Perhaps this dream was her guilty conscience speaking, a hallucination telling her she never took the time to learn what became of him after the Cathedral doors shut behind him. Reminding her she never cared enough to know his fate.

“Do you want to know what happened? If you’re curious, I could show you his years since.”

“I’m not. Just end this hallucination and let me return to where I belong.”

“I didn’t cause the Isolation. All I can do is guide you further outward.”

Outward?

Beyond the stars themselves?

She quickly crushed that thread of thought. Don’t interact with the creature. Don’t let it lead you astray.

Don’t let your senses deceive you. Figure out what’s happening.

This couldn’t be real. Even after rupturing her own eardrums, Casimir could still hear everything perfectly. This was more than just a hallucination—she was trapped deep inside her own mind. A dream masquerading as reality.

Her real body had to be somewhere else, lying unconscious or maybe just asleep.

Every word that creature spoke was just another stalling tactic.

Is this trap meant for me? Or are they after Fabio?

She couldn’t imagine an attack powerful enough to paralyze the entire Cathedral. No, this trap was designed specifically for her.

Then a new thought ambushed her:

What could Francesco have wanted so desperately that he’d chosen damnation over it?

What desire burned hot enough to make eternal salvation seem like a fair trade?

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Shut up.”

“As you wish. But the offer stands whenever you’re ready.”

Casimir felt completely helpless. She could snap its neck or hack it to pieces, but the creature would just keep wearing that vacant smile, calmly telling her she could do whatever she wanted.

This mental prison operated by the same rules. It didn’t matter if she tore up the floor or set fire to the walls—everything would repair itself within seconds.

Whoever brought me here did so instantly. There was no opportunity to resist. This is an incredibly powerful curse.

A curse this strong should be seething with malice and hatred. But instead…

It’s so quiet here. Almost peaceful.

Without knowing where the curse was anchored, she had no way out. Maybe its core existed outside this dream, somewhere her consciousness couldn’t reach.

Casimir’s scowl deepened. Years ago, when she’d served under Nephiton of Illusions, she’d learned how to escape when a sorcerer invaded her dreams.

Never harm yourself in the dream.

The shock of injury or death in a dream could jolt the body awake. While it worked, it was dangerous. Make it a habit, and you might one day mistake reality for a dream and slit your own throat.

Better to simply fall asleep within the dream itself. Dream invaders were just uninvited guests when you stripped away the mystique. Let them do their worst, your real body would remain safe.

So whatever horrors this creature had in store, she’d face them with contempt and turn her back.

Casimir crossed her arms and clenched her eyes shut. Fat lot of good it did—Francesco’s voice slipped through anyway.

“Would you like something comfortable to rest on?”

“No.”

“Very well. Sleep is unnecessary here. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion—none of the body’s needs can trouble you anymore.”

She’d just decided to ignore the thing completely when the dream world lurched. The air filled with a ripping sound, like fabric being torn in two. Reality gaped open, and through the wound leaked something acrid and alien.

Poison. Every instinct shrieked it. This intruder was venomous.

“What the hell is that?” The question escaped before she could stop it. “Something breaking in from outside?”

“From inside, actually. Rather clever, using a drug that induces temporary amnesia to shatter the Isolation.”

“Enough riddles. Who’s doing this?”

“Your attacker doesn’t exist yet. No birth means no proper name. It calls itself ‘Insanity’ for now.”

What…?

“How can something unborn possibly—”

Reality shattered before she could finish.

True darkness rushed in—not just absence of light, but a void that suffocated thought itself. She plummeted through nothing while a voice called out a name she’d forsaken long ago. Her name, but spoken in older tones, the way her mother had whispered it when she was barely walking, when—

“Casmira.”

Her eyes shot open.

Overhead, painfully familiar embroidered patterns rippled across tent silk. Nephiton’s sacred symbol filtered the sunlight, throwing its shadow over her face.

“Casmira.” The voice was gentle, chiding. “How many times have I warned you about late nights?”

That voice. It had been dead for decades, but here it was, clear as this morning’s dawn.

Casimir’s hands jerked up to tear through the illusion, but her small arms barely made it past the blankets. Small fists beat helplessly at nothing. The ghost mistook her flailing for a sleepy morning stretch and chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Up you get, before your mother’s frown becomes permanent.”

“Dad?”

The word tumbled out in a language she hadn’t spoken in twenty years, natural as breathing.

“Ah, there’s my little quail. Here, open up.”

The ghost popped a piece of dried fruit into her mouth. Her father had always sworn that waking up happy meant a lucky day ahead. She remembered pretending to sleep, waiting to discover what small surprise he’d chosen. How he’d hum ancient melodies in the quiet…

Enough. Don’t get swept away.

A dream. Obviously. Had to be.

These details were too precise without someone ransacking her memories.

Casimir chewed the fig slowly, letting its sweetness linger, then pushed herself up on legs that felt far too short.

Why this? Why force me in a child’s helpless body?

Sorcerers who worked through dreams were, more often than not, despicable bastards. They’d rifle through your past, find your deepest wounds, then twist the knife until nightmares sprouted like weeds.

Looking down at her tiny hands, Casimir figured she was maybe nine. Younger, even.

If that thing wanted to show me my worst memory, it should’ve picked something at least ten years from now.

Was it building up to that? Showing her peace just to wrench it away, highlighting her torment more vividly?

Didn’t matter.

She repeated the old lesson for escaping a dream:

Find what doesn’t belong. Then break it.

Even if she couldn’t find the core, she could destroy everything until the dream fell apart. As long as she remembered none of this was real, it couldn’t truly hurt her.

The ghost combed gentle fingers through her hair.

“Today’s the day, little quail. The hunt you’ve been begging to join for weeks is finally here.”

A hunt.

Good. They’d give her a bow. She’d put an arrow through anything that didn’t belong.

The moment she stepped out of the tent, sunlight struck her like a physical thing, desert-bright and scorching.

…If sensations from the waking world were bleeding into this dream, then it should have felt like winter here.

Yet, the air caressed her skin with the warmth of spring. Not a trace of cold anywhere, which meant she was in deep. Maybe dangerously deep.

A brown-eyed servant approached, bowing low with child-sized hunting leathers draped over her arms.

“Your Mother is waiting.”

Mother? 

Casimir bristled at the casual address. Have some respect. Say “Your liege,” or better yet, use the proper title Amir—

“My child.”

Casimir spun to find her “mother” standing there in riding gear, blood-red hair spilling artfully from beneath her headscarf.

“Come here.”