𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

FIFTEEN

Absolutely no one had free will in this world. They all followed the game mechanics blindly, the same way they drank in Anton's words, never once doubting them. The man Y/n had murdered was apparently some outcast in society; some lunatic. All it took for Anton to proclaim that, then it was true. His word was law. His words were true.

Essentially, Anton had saved him from dying. He had protected him...in a cruel manner. The thought had fleeted to Y/n's mind then: that perhaps he had orchestrated it all. Perhaps he had led the man to where Y/n was, gave him the knife, told him what to say.

Perhaps he had wanted Y/n to grovel at his knees and beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps Anton wanted Y/n to depend on him, now that he had stolen and had ruthlessly tore everything away from him: his sanity, his morals, the tiny glimmer of hope that was now distant.

Everything.

And what could Y/n do about it? He was utterly helpless in the situation. There weren't any quests that were currently given to him, he didn't really have anything in his inventory, he didn't know how many levels he needed to level up in order for him to escape.

Was escaping...was escaping even an option?

Even now, the way Anton held him—it was supposed to be comforting, but the cold grip around his waist only seemed to tell him: you are at my mercy. And that was true.

First, Freda who had insulted him.

Sick and left out.

Second, Mills.

Killed, with his blood used to stain the white roses.

Helen, who had disappeared.

Peter, who had died.

The man, who Y/n had killed—murdered.

There were so many victims. So many of them. Anton had ripped their lives away mercilessly, and didn't even bat an eye. He committed atrocious sins and assumed he would be excused because of who he was—because he believed he was God. And the horrible thing was that perhaps he would never be punished by heaven's hands. He would get away with it; purely because the world forgave him.

Anton's eyes were piercing, intense. In the mirror perhaps he didn't see the reflection of a mere mortal—he saw a regal visage of a sovereign. The God of his world. They gazed at Y/n with an unknown emotion; Y/n would have called it tender, but he knew such an emotion couldn't possibly have existed in Anton.

The priest was a monster. A fucking monster. To watch him was to witness a performance on the grand stage of his own creation, where everything followed his ideals.

Anton spoke. He spoke not in sentences but in decrees, for in his divine lexicon, there existed no room for dissent. There existed no one who could ever disagree with him.

"What did killing a man feel like? How did killing a sinner feel like, Y/n?" Anton even had the audacity to ask, even when Y/n was shaking and trembling all over. He was still stained with blood, his hair was wet and pressed against his neck, his eyes were puffy from crying.

To be Anton's presence was to stand on the precipice of reverence. To worship him—that was the only thing the priest allowed.

"...Horrible," Y/n finally whispered, his voice barely audible. The truth—the truth he had killed a man was clawing at his mind, digging into corners and engulfing him in guilt.

He was a murderer now. Y/n had become a sinner. He was forcibly placed into Anton's debt.

"A darkness." Y/n trembled, "...it felt like darkness was swallowing me whole. I killed him, Father Anton. I robbed him of his life. And—"