As much as it pained him to lose the house, he had no intention of saving it. The fire had already gutted the frame and burnt anything of use into ash.

  Hopefully Kirk doesn't forget to send the builders.

  His only assurance y in the thin slip of paper between his fingers, the sole connection between himself and the secretary.

  But either way, he had bigger problems than the house right now.

  None of this would've happened if not for that prayer, which had stuck to his tongue like tar the moment he tried to recite it.

  His jaw had suddenly frozen, then his tongue refused to move, and as he stood there helpless, the crowd's gaze slowly turned toward him.

  A second's hesitation, and they might've tried him as a heretic on the spot.

  The memory alone made his fists clench.

  After that experience, his lingering doubts about the sun were squashed.

  There was definitely something supernatural about it.

  Even if it wasn't technically a god, to him, it made no difference. He'd been rendered completely powerless just by speaking some words.

  Clearly, he'd been too naive.

  Danger would find him even if he didn't go searching for it.

  Waiting for bodies to come to him was no longer ideal. He needed to complete the ritual, and fast, if he wanted a chance at survival.

  In the town outskirts, he recalled seeing an illegal gambling den operated by a small group of crooked vagrants, situated just far enough from the general popution to be overlooked by the constables.

  That pce had the type of people he needed, but getting the bodies wouldn't be easy.

  To maximize his odds, he'd wait for nightfall.

  In the meantime, while the sun still shone, he finished covering up Elizabeth's coffin and began work on four graves in a secluded corner of the graveyard, not giving a second gnce to the pile of rubble atop the hill.

  Digging holes was already a grueling task, and with his meager food supplies destroyed, it became all the more painful.

  But for the sake of his advancement, he pushed through, surrendering himself to the monotonous undertaking.

  The hours ticked by, and soon the moon rose above the horizon.

  Fortunately, there hadn't been any other burials for the day.

  Though his mood soured once he looked back at the rubble sitting atop the hill. The builders also hadn't arrived today.

  Shaking the dirt off his shovel, he started the hour-long walk toward town.

  A rhythmic thumping echoed in the silent night as Karl journeyed along the weathered dirt road, using the faint moonlight to illuminate the way.

  Passing the sprawling wheat fields and agricultural zones fnking the path, the edges of the town slowly came into view.

  Oil mps stood guard at the periphery, casting flickering rays of light onto the neighboring houses.

  Low stone walls, crooked chimneys, and aged wood y scattered before him, with jagged spires and towering bells dominating the skyline. The scent of burning coal drifted faintly through the air, carried on the wind from newly sprung factories.

  Huddersfield was asleep, but it wasn't empty.

  Karl kept his head low as he stepped onto the familiar stone streets, careful not to draw attention.

  "Hey! What are you doing?"

  Just as he turned the corner into an alleyway, a sudden voice caught him by surprise.

  With a jolt, he quickly repositioned himself toward the sound, raising his shovel in defense.

  "Oi, what's with the big stick? If you don't wanna talk, then just bugger off."

  Tucked away in the corner, an old man sat drinking from a bottle of whiskey, his face flushed, visibly intoxicated as he stared at the frightened Karl.

  Realizing he'd just been spooked by a drunk, Karl exhaled a cold breath and moved on, casting the man an annoyed look before disappearing down the alley.

  Weaving past cracked alleyways and run-down architecture, he finally spotted his target.

  A one-story house, roughly 100 square meters, with a weathered but retively intact facade that set it apart from the crumbling infrastructure nearby.

  Impoverished vagrants and working-css men could be seen entering and exiting the facility through its sole wooden door. Their faces were masked by pieces of cloth, but the coins glinting in their hands betrayed the truth inside.

  Despite knowing of this pce beforehand, there was a reason he'd stayed his hand.

  He shot a peek at the six rge, machete-wielding men posted outside, whose mere presence deterred others from causing trouble.

  He'd heard enough from the town's vagrants to know these men were anything but innocent, with widespread tales of them terrorizing women and extorting money from casino-goers.

  Exactly the sort of people the ritual required.

  Taking a deep breath, he picked up a small stone off the ground and chucked it at the nearest guard, holding back most of his strength.

  "Ouch!" a sudden yelp escaped the grizzled man as a rock smacked his bald head.

  The shout drew the attention of the other guards.

  "Some bastard flung a rock at me from that alley!" he barked, pointing to the gap between two nearby houses.

  "Are we under attack?"

  The bald man's words set the others on alert.

  Drawing their machetes, the six men narrowed their eyes toward the dark crevice, trying to make out the perpetrator.

  Then, from the darkness, a high-pitched, trembling voice rang out.

  "You— you monsters made my father lose everything! I'm going to the police! You're all getting arrested!"

  When the words reached the men, there was a momentary pause.

  Then, they erupted into ughter.

  "Haha! It's just some twerp!"

  "Ah, I'm wheezing over here! This is just too funny!"

  Even the man who'd been hit by the rock cracked a smile. "You guys stay here, let me go catch this boy."

  "Go get him, Bruce. I wanna see if that kid's still so brazen after a few kicks," one of the men jeered from the back.

  With a flick of his head, the bald man named Bruce dashed toward the alley.

  The others stayed behind, snickering amongst themselves over the audacity of a kid.

  But as the minutes ticked by and Bruce failed to return, the mood around the den began to shift.

  "Hey... you don't think Bruce swings that way, do you?"

  "Haha! I never thought of him like that before, but now that you mention it, he is taking a long time..."

  With a mischievous grin, one of the guards peeled off from the group and started down the alley. "Ah, this is too good. Lemme go see if I can catch him in the act."

  Wearing a silly smirk, he started looking for Bruce.

  In one of the dark corners, tucked behind a crate, the man managed to spot the back of Bruce's head, looking down at something hidden from view.

  No way, is he on the receiving end?

  Holding in his ughter, the man tiptoed to the crate.

  "Haha, you sly dog—"

  The moment he peeked over, his smirk froze.

  Bruce's head was impaled on a stick, his lifeless eyes fixed downward in disbelief.

  Staring at this scene, a confused mix of fear and anger fshed across his face

  Yet before the shock could fully register, a sharp whistle cut through the air.

  The st thing he saw was a shovel lodged in his neck, held by a young man standing in a pile of inconspicuous straw.