Chapter 17: An Exchange with the Unknown

“That is a summoning circle, likely tied to the Lower Planes… I cannot determine if it’s the Nine Hells or the Abyss… but it’s already active! If his ‘experiment’ means what I think, you’re in serious danger!”

“Really?” Constantine’s face paled. Whether from nerves or not, the flames in the central circle made his skin prickle, his temple hairs standing on end. Regret washed over him.

Had he known, he’d never have left home this morning—or at least fled immediately, like the others.

In this world, faith was intensely magnified. To avoid ending up on the Wall of the Faithless, everyone clung to some belief—not always a god. Greater Demons, Devils, powerful beings from the Outer Planes, could all command followers. Though cults of evil often faced divine wrath, within the mage community, the Arcane Arts reigned supreme. Religion was dismissed, even shunned. Magic was the only creed that mattered, and power tempted many mages astray.

If this mage worshipped some bizarre demon demanding sacrifice… Well, he truly was in trouble, just as the Lich warned.

“Ahem… esteemed Mage,” Constantine stammered, “surely you’ve heard of Duke Connalyvis? I’m his firstborn son, Constantine… Perhaps you could…”

He rarely used his status to solve problems. Though born into privilege, self-importance never took root—whether from his sheltered upbringing or innate stubbornness. Deep down, he still thought of himself as ordinary, rarely considering his family’s influence.

But desperate times called for any advantage. Spellcasters enjoyed vast freedoms and exemptions everywhere. Tales abounded of mages defying kings and ancient catastrophes where a High-Rank Mage’s petty grudge doomed entire kingdoms. Even now, Mage Towers remained sovereign entities, unrestrained by national laws.

Hence, powerful mages thought without constraints. If one boasted of “testing a human subject,” he would care only for results—not morality or rank. Capturing a prince? A Teleportation Spell solved the inconvenience.

This troubled Constantine gravely. The mage’s demeanor, equipment, and enormous circle proved he was no novice.

“Connalyvis? The name rings faintly… No need for nerves, though,” The Black Robed Mage uttered lazily. “I promise no harm will come. I merely wish to borrow your faith—”

Constantine’s uncharacteristic plea failed. Before he caught the rest, chaos erupted: he shot forward inhumanly fast, hurtling toward the altar at the circle’s heart, straight into its ghostly blue flames!

“Argh!” he screamed instinctively. Yet within moments, he noticed no searing pain. The undulating flames around him flickered in shades of blue, their intense glow dissolving into faint particles like glowing fog close up.

And the statue—it loomed terrifyingly near, radiating eerie blue-green under the firelight.

Constantine had never seen true denizens of the Abyss or Nine Hells, but books offered cursory depictions. Now, studying the figure intently, he saw it matched none: immense spiraled horns twisted behind its helm; scales instead of plate armor protected it, with razor-sharp spikes jutting from shoulders and elbows. Its helmet, topped by a lifelike tiger head, fused with an unidentifiable black faceplate adorned with jet-black Fangs! Every scale resembled an intricately carved petal, held by painstakingly detailed threads.

The armor, unlike any knightly design, unsettled him with its familiarity… Had he glimpsed such pieces in a museum?

Then, a voice echoed.

“…%＃￥@…”

Clearly human speech, yet none Constantine recognized. Whisper-soft yet booming like a bell, coldly detached—as if from some lifeless thing—it pulsed around him in unnatural cadence. Blue flame danced with its rhythm while its syllables rang alien.

Constantine shook his head dizzily. This droning chant numbed his mind. A tingling warmed his nerves—the voice twisted into childhood lullabies… Muscles laxed; his Spellbook slipped from limp fingers…

Something flowed into his heart—not cold, not hot. A liquid? An energy? It surged with each heartbeat through him, stimulating each nerve; every muscle quivered at once.

Senses dulled. Reality melted; the world retreated. He drifted alone in infinite void.

The sensation lingered. Time stretched—days? Years? Eons? When the tide receded at last, a new voice strengthened in his ears:

“We… are your Deity. We sense the profound despair in your heart…” The air itself vibrated as the voice grew nearer—sharp yet cavernous—reverberating inside Constantine’s skull. “We answer. Become our Believer! And power… endless power… shall be yours!”

“Who are you?” Constantine bit his tongue. Pain proved this no Nightmare. Darkness remained; though wind might have howled distantly, his senses refused command. With each syllable uttered—especially “We”—his heart hammered wildly, blood pounding until he felt ready to burst. Only when the word “power” faded did calm return.

“Kotelo de Hartdiel! Twice is not funny, Lich!” The boy ventured weakly. Silence answered. Wrong guess.

“Who. Are. You?” Taking a steadying breath, he knew this was no creation of the Lich. The speaker’s terrifying presence dwarfed even the powerful undead he’d defeated earlier. After a pause, he repeated his demand.

“We are your God. You shall become Our chosen. Serve Us… and power, eternal life—anything—will lie at your fingertips.” The voice softened now, though echoes clung.

“God? Power? Eternal life?” Constantine’s pulse skipped, but his reply stayed frosty. “I’ve heard nothing of these things. Doubt they’re real.”

“Ignorant mortal!” A tremor rocked the void—sound became seismic force. “You are wrong. They exist—as tangible as this strength within Our grasp…”

Pride filled the claim, and light pierced Constantine’s vision at last.

Shadowy forms collapsed, merging into a sliver of shimmering light—flame that breathed and danced. It swelled; his sight returned washed in gray, save for that black fire. Within flickered countless grotesque faces… twisted beyond recognition among Demons, Devils, or monstrosities.

“Pledge fealty; gain our blessing… Become our servant. Power shall be yours!” The voice smoothed, yet fear seized Constantine nonetheless.

Become a god’s minion? Attach himself to a powerful entity? To mortals, such submission wasn’t shame—many saw it as glory. Why would something this mighty lie? Briefly tempted, logic surged back: Trickery. And what use was power? Rule others? Be ruled? Neither appealed.

Generals cross passes by moonlight, officials shiver at dawn; Monks asleep past high Sun — Fame and fortune? Better be gone! Any who spent nine compulsory years learning under Marx and Confucian influence eventually grasped this truth…

“What do you seek?” Thoughts raced sharply now. After a silent moment, he shot this question into the void.

“Seek? Foolish mortal! We possess everything; We lack nothing…” Clearly unprepared, the voice hesitated before slowly booming again—but Constantine cut it off.

“All requires payment. To gain demands equivalent sacrifice—material or abstract. Everything follows this law!” Constantine snorted coldly, certain now: This was a scam. “No gain without loss. No act selfless. Even fools know this truth! Think I’ll trust your promise without guarantee?”

“Sacrifice?” scoffed the being, momentarily stunned. “Generals shine in victory’s Sun; Kings tally riches high on their thrones; Warriors win their glory protecting loves and homes… Must they dwell on cost? Fool! Do you grasp what you refuse? We grant power to shape fate itself!”

“Yearning for eternity springs from brevity; craving authority, from insignificance; cries about mastering fate, from frailty!” Constantine’s mockery sharpened. He knew this con: Crude bait for children, ineffective against him—he lived by convoluted philosophies! “Fate… Fate is everything. Changeable and unchangeable. Chosen and forced upon you. It’s all fate.”

“Hahahahahaha!” The voice fell silent, then erupted in prolonged mirth, deeply entertained by Constantine’s defiance. The belly-laugh reverberated solely in the boy’s mind yet scraped his eardrums raw.

Only when amusement cooled did it murmur kindly: “Does every soul trudge under fate’s invisible shackles?… Exquisite… Truly, Our time wasn’t wasted… You are clever… Cleverer than most….”

Delighted laughter implied its mood… yet Constantine felt anything but joyful.

The humor brought discomfort: a familiar pain—not burning, not cutting—like the dull pressure of a scalpel slicing anesthetized skin during surgery…

“Our Believers? Utter disappointments. Fools blinded by greed for our might! You? Different. Rational. Self-controlled. Ungreedy. Proven by your earlier answers. Perfect for Us… Yet you refused…” Genuine regret entered the voice. “You will learn your defiance is hollow. Power, you will seek someday…”

“As you said, both choice and constraint are fate,” it affirmed. “That day nears… For your wit, We grant this prize: Our vision. Know this: not everything demands coin…”.

The Entity’s voice dwindled… finally vanishing into faint static.

Light slashed the void. Blinding colors twisted solid—Constantine blinked hard, finding familiar sights restored. The Mage’s laboratory stood unchanged. Back stood facing that bizarre statue. Despite lengthy dialogue, barely seconds passed—his black Spellbook struck the floor thud just now!

But illusion? No. Shakily straightening himself, Constantine noticed strangeness: The lab remained as before, yet overlaid now by drifting threads—pale blue, soft purple, deep crimson—weaving pulsing knots in the air like crisscrossing security lasers. The Mage himself blazed beneath dazzling kaleidoscopic lights, rendering his figure near invisible.