The Cardinal Sin Bishop coughed violently, thick clots of blood squeezing from his throat, landing on the ground with a wet, splattering sound like squashed mud. His one good left eye managed to pry open a slit, his vision filled with a blurry, crimson halo. His right eye had long since been shattered to a pulp, a muddled mess of pus and blood on his cheekbone.
He had been awakened by some sound, seemingly a distant roar, faint and indistinct, but he didn't care anymore. His breathing had a broken, viscous quality, each gasp accompanied by a gurgling sound of moving liquid. Cyrus's cold corpse pressed down on him, its broken ribs piercing the gold-embroidered robe, like hooks embedded in his body.
The Bishop tried to move his fingers. No response. His Tidal Force was long depleted; he couldn't even manage the most basic muscle contraction now. But the gold-embroidered robe was still writhing—its fine golden threads burrowed into his wounds, forcibly piecing together his flesh and skin like mending a cloth doll.
"Ugh..."
He let out a hoarse whimper, arching his shoulders with all his might. Cyrus's corpse tilted slightly with the movement, revealing a blood-soaked corner of its robe. The Bishop twisted his mangled body with great effort, inching out from under the corpse. Every inch he moved tore open new wounds, but the fabric would immediately cover and stitch them, an endless torture.
His face itched terribly. His trembling fingers reached up, but instead of skin, he touched a dense network of stitches. The robe, specially granted to him by the Church, had already sewn up most of his face. Fabric and flesh intertwined, even his nostrils were sealed by golden threads. A tide of suffocation washed over him. The Bishop frantically tore at the fabric on his face until, with a "rip," he tore open a gap.
"Hah—!"
He greedily gulped in air, bloody foam spraying from his throat onto Cyrus's ashen face. His one eye could finally see things more clearly: moonlight streamed down from the top of the cave, illuminating the statue of Jupiter. The statue's bowed head seemed to be looking down at him, its ruby eyes glinting with a benevolent light.
The Bishop began to crawl.
His lower body was almost numb; he could only drag himself forward bit by bit using his elbows and knees. The gold-embroidered robe trailed behind him, heavy with absorbed blood, plowing a winding trail of gore on the stone floor. Several times he almost fainted, but the fabric would immediately tighten, jolting him awake with sharp pain.
"No. 1..." he silently repeated this name in his mind, his teeth grinding.
As he crawled past rows of empty stone cells, he smelled the familiar stench of decay. This smell made his crawling slightly brisker, as if he had arrived in his own personal safe zone. He propped up his bloated body with his hands. A scream, as if from hell, erupted from his mouth; he even felt it wasn't his own voice, but the joyful singing of the 213 test subjects who had died here.
Finally, he relearned how to walk, dragging himself along slowly like a newborn infant, past the stone cells, past the imposing grand hall, through a hidden corridor, until he reached a flight of upward stairs.
When the stone steps appeared before him, he almost cheered out loud. It was the secret passage to his office, the entrance located in his wardrobe. For such an important ceremonial place, he would not tolerate outsiders easily breaking in. When No. 7 had activated the runes below, his wardrobe had trembled, alerting him to the intrusion—a game of cat and mouse was about to begin. What he hadn't ultimately expected was that a few mice could bite him so grievously.
The steps were narrow and steep, a veritable chasm for a heavily injured man. But the Bishop still climbed with all his might, his fingers leaving ten bloody scratch marks on the stone surface. When he finally reached the top, his fingernails had almost all peeled back, hanging from his fingertips like ten withered petals. He tremblingly pushed open the wardrobe door and fell onto the soft red carpet with a dull thud, splattering blood. A hoarse roar squeezed from his throat: "Guards! In here!"
The door was violently pushed open, and two fully armed guards rushed in. When they saw the mangled heap of flesh and blood on the floor, one of them directly collapsed, his gauntlet hitting the floor with a harsh metallic clang.
"M-My Lord..." The guard's voice trembled uncontrollably, his eyes fixed on the Bishop's fabric-stitched face. Where his nose and mouth should have been, there was only a patch of writhing golden threads.
The Bishop grinned, a twisted smile. The tugged threads at the corner of his mouth snapped, oozing dark red blood. "A bunch of cowards... Go... call the doctor..."
The guards scrambled out, forgetting to even pick up their weapons.
The doctor arrived quickly, a middle-aged woman with graying hair tied neatly at the back of her head. When she saw the Bishop's injuries, the medical kit in her hand dropped to the floor with a "thud."
"This..." Her lips trembled. "I need to inform the Most Holy Sanctuary immediately. These kinds of injuries can only be—"
"Useless trash!" The Bishop suddenly grabbed her wrist, his grip so strong it almost crushed her bones. "First... stop the bleeding..."
The doctor, fighting back her fear, tremblingly opened her medical kit. But when her fingers touched the stitched fabric, the golden threads suddenly reared up like vipers, "hissing" as they lunged at her fingertips. The doctor screamed and recoiled, medicine bottles scattering across the floor.
"Sigh... forget it. The robe... is saving me... Go call... Marina... and No. 1..."
Marina was the first to rush in. Her black robe billowed behind her, her gray-blue eyes filled with terror. When she saw the Bishop's gruesome state, she actually rushed forward, her arms tightly embracing his bloated body.
"My Lord!" Her voice was choked with sobs. "Who did this to you..."
"Get off..." The Bishop gasped in pain, pushing her away with all his might. "Fool... do you want... do you want to crush me..."
No. 1 stood at the doorway, moonlight streaming in from behind him, casting a long shadow on the floor. He still had that calm demeanor, his pale gray eyes like a frozen lake, not even an eyelash fluttering. Strangely, though, he was carrying a cloth bag, the bottom of which seemed a bit dirty.
"You've come... No. 1..." The Bishop's voice suddenly became clear, as if seeing No. 1 had given him a final surge of life. "How long... have you... been here..."
"Fifteen years and four months." No. 1's answer was as precise as if reciting doctrine.
The Bishop let out a sneer, which tugged at the threads on his face, causing a few more to snap. "Do you know why... I've kept you around all this time..."
No. 1 bowed his head slightly. "Because I am loyal. Because I am useful. Because I willingly offer myself to you." Each word seemed carefully measured, neither fawning nor cold.
The room suddenly fell silent. Marina looked uneasily between the two, her fingers unconsciously twisting the corner of her robe.
"You..." The Bishop suddenly coughed violently, a clot of blood spraying onto No. 1's snow-white robe. "You led them... to the sanctuary... just so... you could force me to kill them all... so you could go to the capital..."
A crack finally appeared in No. 1's composure. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly before quickly smoothing out again.
"But..." The Bishop stared into his eyes, trying to find a ripple on the lake's surface. "You forgot... No. 4 didn't go..."
No. 1 was silent for a long time. He turned and placed the cloth bag on the table. When the bag was opened, even the Bishop couldn't help but stare, and Marina let out a sharp cry.
Inside was No. 4's severed head, his wide-open round eyes still holding a trace of undissipated confusion and terror. When he spoke again, No. 1's voice was as light as a feather falling onto a lake.
"I know."
"I've already killed him."