Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 14: The Routine of the Dark God

Narinder woke up peacefully, his body sinking into the mattress as if he wanted to merge with it. He slowly lifted his head and then buried it back into the pillow, breathing deeply. The subtle scent of lamb, wool, and memories enveloped him. That faint, familiar smell seeped into his thoughts, evoking a mix of nostalgia and tranquility. Inconsistent, he enjoyed that small pleasure, allowing himself, even if just for a few moments, to relax and simply be. He didn't need to get up right away, but the day called, and Narinder, though powerful, could not ignore the flow of hours.

He slid out of bed and took the brush that always rested on the bedside table. With slow, almost methodical movements, he smoothed his black fur, leaving it perfect and shiny. It was a routine he had adopted, a habit he imposed on himself. Despite everything, he found enjoyment in that act, though he would never admit it. Each stroke of the brush made him feel more prepared, more centered. In a way, this small ritual connected him to a sense of control in a world full of uncertainty.

Stepping out of the house, he was greeted with the usual reverence from his followers. The cultists looked at him with respect and adoration, bowing as he passed, showing their absolute submission to their god. Narinder walked with a steady gait, his majestic and imposing demeanor evident. The touch of the gentle breeze on his skin was a blessing he still found pleasurable after centuries of existence. The sun, warm and bright, caressed his fur like a warm blanket wrapping around him. He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sensation, the life, knowing that these small details were still within his reach.

He arrived at the farms, where the cultists worked diligently, cultivating the land to keep the cult alive. He greeted them elegantly, his voice calm but carrying an authority that no one would dare question. The farmers looked at him with a mix of reverence and gratitude, aware of who stood before them. Although Narinder reaped the fruits of the day, his presence dominated the atmosphere. Every movement reflected the certainty that he was in control of everything. He picked a bright, juicy red tomato, its vibrant color reminding him so much of his Crown. He took a calm bite, savoring the unexpected sweetness. Although meat had always been his preference, this little fruit provided him with a different pleasure. Perhaps, he thought, it was the color that attracted him: that intense red, his favorite color, charged with power and vitality.

With steady steps, he walked towards the kitchen. There he left the ingredients, watching as the cooks prepared for the day's work. In a calm yet precise voice, Narinder gave instructions, dictating exact recipes, aware that any mistake would be intolerable. Perfection was the least he expected. His followers understood him well, and no one dared to contradict him. After ensuring everything was underway, Narinder decided it was time to observe the construction of his statue.

The work was progressing. Several cultists were laboring hard, carefully sculpting every detail. Narinder took a moment to observe the progress, assessing every aspect. It was a tribute to his glory, to his reborn power. Even the pig, whose name he had already forgotten, seemed completely absorbed in the task. Narinder slightly furrowed his brow, not because something was wrong, but because he felt he had little more to do there. That was enough for now, so he decided to head to the prison.

In front of the cell, Narinder stared at the panda. The figure remained trapped in the stocks, her head and hands immobilized in the cold wood. The panda's red eyes, ignited by rage and hatred, looked at him with contempt. Narinder, for his part, regarded her with cold indifference as he took another bite of his tomato. He felt no anger, just a deep fatigue at her persistence.

The panda, defying her captivity, began to shout. Her voice rose with fury: "You are not a true god! The Lamb was unique, the true leader!"

The shout echoed in Narinder's ears like a distant annoyance, barely a breeze attempting to disturb his calm. The name of the Lamb crossed his mind again, along with an echo of past memories. The mention of the Lamb made the taste of the tomato in his mouth turn sour. He lost his appetite instantly.

Without changing his expression or showing the slightest hint of annoyance, Narinder lifted the tomato between his fingers, observing it for a brief second before effortlessly tossing it toward the panda trapped in the stocks. The tomato, red and juicy, flew in a nearly lazy arc through the air before hitting Jalala squarely in the face. The impact made a dull sound, a wet "plop" that resonated in the silence of the prison.

The tomato splattered upon contact, spreading pulp and seeds across the panda's face. The scarlet liquid dripped from her forehead to her chin, mixing with her white fur in a scene that would have been ridiculous were it not for the indifference with which Narinder had done it. Jalala, stunned and blinded by the impact, blinked frantically, trying to shake the tomato juice from her eyes, but her hands trapped in the stocks prevented her from moving.

With her face covered in pulp and seeds, Jalala felt her rage grow within her. As she awkwardly tried to clean herself by rubbing her face against the wooden stocks, she shouted in fury: "How dare you humiliate me like this?! You are not our true god! The Lamb... he...!"

Meanwhile, Narinder did not stop for a second to observe Jalala's reaction. To him, the tomato throw had been a mere automatic response, a gesture of no significance, as if he had tossed a piece of garbage on the ground. His steps resonated calmly as he walked away from the cell, not looking back. In his mind, that small act no longer existed; he had turned the page before the panda could even fully react. For him, Jalala's protest deserved no more attention than he had given it with that gesture: a wordless, emotionless, unimportant response. His attention was already on the temple, and he continued walking toward it, his pace calm and unperturbed. There were more important matters to attend to than the empty cries of a heretic.