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However, even the bravest hearts might falter in the face of impending peril. For, in moments of intense crisis, fleeting bravery is often tested.

In the tense silence, the congregation chanted their silent prayers, seeking protection and strength from their elusive god. Their emissary, a figure of power and authority, observed each face intently from his seat at a central table. The myriad emotions – from staunch resolve to creeping doubt – didn’t escape his perceptive gaze.

Time seemed to warp, becoming an unending expanse. The lamp’s flame wavered and danced, casting shifting shadows upon the walls. In one of these silent, eerie moments, a faint voice whispered an enigmatic offer: “…I offer you one chance.”

Chaos threatened to erupt. Some members looked around frantically, trying to pinpoint the voice’s origin, while others, driven by fear, closed their eyes to shut out any unspeakable horrors. But just as suddenly as it came, the voice disappeared.

The emissary, seizing control, murmured in a voice imbued with a hypnotic quality, “Continue with your prayers. This shadow has no power over us. Death is merely a gateway to our deity’s realm.”

His words, which had always been a source of solace and strength, now seemed to amplify the group’s collective anxiety. A tangible fear loomed, threatening to overrun even the most rational minds present. The commitment to their cause wavered among some, particularly those whose faith was not deeply rooted.

Suddenly, breaking the overwhelming silence, one of the weaker and more vulnerable members erupted into a fit of hysteria, claiming knowledge of the shadow’s mysteries.

The emissary, reacting with immediate concern and fury, commanded, “Hold him down!”

As chaos erupted around the table, members of the assembly acted swiftly. They threw themselves towards the frail cultist, their actions a mix of desperation and anger. They intended to stifle his outburst, fearing he might reveal sacred truths they had guarded closely. Yet, despite his emaciated appearance, this man, when cornered, exhibited unexpected strength. Mysterious, shadowy chains manifested around him, and his arms and legs sprouted eerie bone-like spikes and toughened structures. It seemed he might actually overcome his would-be captors as he continued his frantic exposition.

“The Ender Missionaries— they’re the source of this information! They revealed that the ‘Dream of the Nameless One’ contains knowledge from the dawn of creation. It’s the blueprint of our deity…”

“The dreams of the elven race can guide one to this ‘Nameless One!’ Due to some inherent imperfection present since their birth as a race, the elves act as vessels and channels for these dreams…”

“The Black Sun’s followers are on a quest too, but their goal is different. I can’t decipher their true intentions!”

“All I know is that the Ender Missionaries claim the endgame is near. I’ve told you everything, Mr. Duncan. Only those of higher echelons— prophets, saints, and the Ender Missionaries— have deeper insights. This is the full extent of my knowledge!”

In his trepidation, he found an unexpected bravery— the courage to defy his creed. But just as suddenly as it came, it was replaced by a profound fear. Lifting his face, wet with tears, towards the silent emissary, he begged, “Please, I don’t want to die. I just… want to live.”

With another scream, he cried out, “Mr. Duncan! Help me! Protect me from the emissary! I’ve upheld my end— you assured me a fighting chance! You promised…”

The force restraining him began to relent. As he screamed, the cultist noticed the change in the room’s ambiance, and his voice trailed off.

All through his outburst, his was the only voice filling the cavernous hall. Though his fellow cultists pinned him down, they made no move to stifle his words. The emissary remained passive, studying the scene without intervention.

Meeting the emissary’s gaze, the frail cultist was taken aback to see the man lean casually against the table, his lips curling into a soft, ironic smile, “Revealing your truth wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

The cultists who had pinned the slender man started to release him, backing away slowly. He looked up, finding himself encircled by his former comrades. Their faces, which had been stern moments before, now wore strangely gentle yet forced smiles. A soft clapping began, and the noise soon enveloped the entire hall.

Horror dawned on the cultist’s face as realization hit him. He stammered, trying to make sense of the bizarre turn of events, “Wait… Emissary, Sir Duncan, Duncan… Are all of you…?”

Suddenly, an eerie cacophony of otherworldly cries filled the hall. Spectral apparitions, looking as if they were either disintegrating or frantically attempting to escape from this dimension, began to manifest. As these phantom entities crumbled or disappeared, the very cultists the slender man once trusted, including the supposed ’emissary’, erupted in blazing fires, rapidly consumed by the flames.

The last figure to burn approached the terrified cultist, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, whispering chillingly, “You are part of us, too.”

The hall fell into a stifling quiet. It felt as though time itself had stopped.

Amidst the remnants of dark ashes, the slender cultist seemed frozen. But after what felt like an eternity, he blinked back to reality, rushed back to the round table, and hurriedly scribbled down everything he’d witnessed.

Note in hand, he quickly approached the basement door, which was still sealed by the thorn-like barrier summoned earlier by the emissary. These thorns seemed alive, pulsing with dark intent.

Suddenly, the menacing thorns ignited with a ghostly green flame, reducing them to mere ashes in seconds. Behind the ash remains, the basement door creaked open.

Emerging from the basement, the man known as Duncan navigated through the abandoned structures above. Flames consumed him as he reached the open street, and he appeared to levitate.

A guard on patrol watched in awe as a column of spectral green fire touched down before him. As he was about to react, a figure emerged from the flames.

Though decaying at an alarming rate, the figure wore a confident smile. “Excuse me,” he said cheerfully, “I have information about a heretical cult.”

The guard, hesitating between sounding the alarm and drawing his blade, stood paralyzed. He had dealt with informants during his service, but none like this.

Shaken, he managed to respond, “Report?”

“Yes, it’s the house at the end of that alley,” Duncan pointed, “the one with the distinctive blue roof. Here’s a detailed account of their gatherings. At the end, you’ll find bank details. Please transfer the informant’s reward there. Thank you.”

Caught off guard by the peculiar man in front of him, who seemed to weave an almost never-ending barrage of words and eeriness, the young guard’s eyes darted towards an even more disconcerting sight. The man’s face was disintegrating, slowly turning to ash. Stammering, he pointed out, “Sir, your skin… It seems to be deteriorating.”

The man, his figure almost ethereal, responded with a voice that was a balance of weariness and acceptance, “I am aware. I pushed myself to hold onto this physical form for a bit longer than usual. However, it appears my method was flawed. I could only prolong my presence by an extra fifteen minutes than I typically do. Do not concern yourself with me, though. Ensure you deliver the agreed-upon payment.”

The guard, a young man not accustomed to such mysterious interactions, carefully accepted the man’s report letter. As the mysterious figure started to fade away, the guard’s voice filled with a mixture of wonder and trepidation, asked, “Sir, may I ask for your name?”

His reply was equally puzzling, “Just a concerned heretic.”

…

Aboard the ship named the Vanished, inside the confines of the captain’s room, Duncan stirred back to full consciousness, taking a moment to ground himself. It was evident that his primary state of awareness had been reconnected with the ship’s interior.

The goat head situated at the navigation table’s edge turned its attention to him, addressing Duncan, “Ah, Captain. Did your excursion yield any valuable information?”

Gathering his thoughts, Duncan responded, “I was able to gather some essential insights from a secretive congregation of cultists. Yet, time was against me. I couldn’t identify their exact affiliations or determine if other assembly points were in proximity. It’s a minor setback. I believe our paths will intersect again soon.”

Agatha’s silhouette emerged from a vintage, ornate oval mirror on the chamber wall, shadows swirling around her as she materialized. With concern evident in her eyes, she inquired, “Captain, are you alright? You appear rather drained.”

Drawing a dismissive hand through the air, Duncan replied, “I tested a new technique of avatar control; it still requires refinement. Splitting one’s consciousness is more intricate than I anticipated. Perhaps I should seek guidance from Heidi. How does she manage to fragment herself into so many parts without becoming disoriented?”

A look of confusion briefly flashed across Agatha’s face.

However, Duncan shifted his focus. His brows knit together in deep thought, reflecting on the revelations from his recent distant venture.

Initially dismissing it as a mere dream invasion, a peculiar nocturnal illusion, he perceived the cultists as irregularities in his vision. But now, understanding dawned upon him. There were hidden machinations at play, webs of deceit and schemes far surpassing any prior assumptions.

Pondering aloud, he questioned, “The Dream of the Nameless One…” His gaze shifted between the reflection of Agatha and the goat head. “Is this a term either of you are familiar with?”