Blossoming Path-Chapter 246: Lamentations of the Faithful

The sanctum was still.

Drip.

Drip.

The condensation ran like sweat down the cracked black walls, pooling faintly where the floor dipped near the altar. The air was cold, as ever. Not winter's cold, but the kind that clung to stone like rot to bone. At the center of it all knelt the Bishop, his hands resting on bloodstained stone, knuckles white.

Two envoys knelt behind him. Prostrate. Silent.

Until one dared to speak.

"Bishop... forgive the intrusion."

The Bishop did not move.

"The rain," the female envoy began, her voice strained, her greasy hair clinging to her cheeks. "The ritual... it did not spread as we had hoped. The unbelievers have composed a 'cure'. Most of the region has resisted. Few have succumbed to the rain we cast down."

Her tone twisted on the word "cure," as though the syllables were ash on her tongue. The contempt in her voice was matched only by disbelief.

The male envoy stepped forward. His face was a map of old pain; sunken cheeks, a twisted lip, and deep scars etched across his skin.

"We traced the ingredients," the woman continued, eyes downcast. "The majority came from a singular location; a farm. We sent a squad to cripple their supply."

She hesitated.

The Bishop’s breath rasped. Wet. Labored. A wheeze that felt like rot.

"There is a beast there. A spirit beast," she said, quieter now. "Black and white. A lion, Bishop. We believe it was hiding in plain sight. Its power was comparable to an Envoy."

There was a beat of silence before the Bishop’s voice cut through it, low and sharp.

"An Envoy."

They flinched.

"Yes, Bishop." the woman whispered.

The stone beneath them seemed to vibrate with tension. A cold weight settled over the room.

The Bishop rose; not like a man, but like an effigy stirred by wind. Not in anger. Not in command.

In grief.

Two thin lines of blood wept from beneath his hood, dripping across the ridges of his face. His hands trembled; not from age, but from fury, coiled and unspent for too long.

"Why?" the Bishop whispered, his voice a tremor. "Why does He not answer?"

Neither envoy replied.

"Centuries," the Bishop said, louder now. "Centuries of prayer. Of blood. Of sacrifice—given without question, without pause. We followed the path carved by our predecessors. The Rain, the ritual... we used what remained of the Bloodsoul Bloom, poured over this cursed province as He once did the world."

He staggered forward. The torches along the wall flickered, the flame retreating from his shadow.

"And yet, they resist."

His voice cracked.

"They—"

His hand lashed out, slamming against the wall.

The chamber shook. Dust rained down from above.

"They cured our miracle," he snarled. "The miracle that was meant to shatter the unbelievers’ resolve. They reached into the rot and found salvation. Even the rabble! The nameless! Farmers! Villagers!"

He turned toward the envoys. His hood tilted.

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"What are we? What am I, if not the hand of His return?"

The male envoy stepped forward, kneeling with care. "You are the vessel. The path. The will of the Heavenly Demon made manifest."

The woman mirrored the bow. "We await your guidance, Bishop. The faithful are still with you. The world may have changed, but our mission has not."

The Bishop stared for a long moment. His breath slowed. The tremor in his hands dulled.

He turned again to the wall.

The one bearing the ancient marks of the first Bishop.

The envoys remained bowed, but one shifted. Crawling closer.

"Bishop," she said gently. "Please. You mustn't let the burden overwhelm you. We still have the faithful. The preparations. The rites. If you are harmed, none of this can come to pass."

Beside her, the other envoy did not speak, but blood leaked from where his nails dug into his palms. Scars webbed his cheeks, like cracks in stone that had never fully healed.

The Bishop did not answer. His hands flexed and clenched, the nails blackening against stone.

He had once believed in the chain of purpose.

That his predecessor had known something truer. That pain meant progress. That each prayer, unanswered, was merely a silence before the thunder of their god's return.

And now?

He felt doubt. Despair, even.

And from despair—

—Hate.

He would see this land scoured. He would watch their crops die and their children scream. He would bleed the land dry until even the dust could cry no more.

He would make them remember.

The Bishop would make them remember.

He would make them kneel.

But before the storm could fully bloom in his mind, a voice called out from the darkness behind the sanctum.

“Bishop.”

The envoys startled, snapping their heads toward the corridor.

Another figure emerged; robes ragged, breath unsteady.

“Forgive me,” the third envoy rasped, collapsing to one knee. The youngest among them. “But we’ve found it.”

The chamber stilled. The torches steadied.

“...Found what?” the Bishop asked, barely above a whisper.

“The final vial,” the envoy gasped. “The Phoenix Tears. Whatever had been shielding it… it's gone. We don’t know if the user faltered or some other magic shifted, but the last one has revealed itself.”

“South of here,” the youngest envoy rasped, “It aligns with the region where one of our... independent Envoys last made contact.”

That term hung in the air.

Independent Envoys; those not stationed within the core sanctum. Scattered across the province, they answered to no one but the Bishop’s decree, their orders older than the current generation of cultists. Tasked with two things: cultivating Bloodsoul Blooms, and creating converts.

They did not return. They did not report unless summoned by the Bishop.

And when they disappeared, the cult knew.

The Bishop did not speak.

Slowly. Like a crumbling statue shifting with the quake of revelation, he turned.

His head tilted down, and his skeletal fingers reached into his robes.

From the folds of fabric, he withdrew a carved bone case; ancient, smooth with use. The clasp clicked open.

Inside, three crystalline vials glimmered faintly in the dark.

Phoenix Tears.

Even sealed, their radiance pulsed like trapped stars.

Three. Just three.

And now, at last, a fourth.

The final piece.

The ritual could be completed.

The descent prepared.

A tremor left the Bishop’s body. His voice cracked open with reverence.

“He hasn’t forsaken us,” he whispered. “He never did.”

He fell to his knees, not out of weakness, but worship. His arms trembled. Tears of blood still trailed from beneath the hood, but now they flowed freely.

“For a moment,” he rasped, “I thought… I doubted. And if I had ended myself here, I would’ve done so with shame. But I was not meant to fall.”

He lifted the case. Clutched it to his chest like a relic.

“I am the last Bishop. The only one left who knows the rite. The hymn. The circle that must be drawn. I carry His will; not in faith, but in design.”

The Bishop rose, the case of Phoenix Tears still cradled against his chest.

His voice, when it came again, was steady. Unshaking.

“Summon the faithful.”

The command struck like a gong through the chamber.

“All of them,” he said, turning now, his full presence eclipsing the torchlight. Towering over the Envoys. “Summon every independent Envoy hidden in the outskirts. Soon, our sacrifices will come to fruition.”

His voice dropped into a rasp; urgent, absolute.

“We cannot wait. The trail is warm, and we will not let it cool. Not again.”

He looked down at the envoys, eyes burning beneath his hood.

“You three—go. Take every cultist. Leave now. Scour the area. Bleed it dry if you must. But bring it back.”

He stepped forward, and the envoys scrambled to rise, already moving to obey.

He looked toward the third envoy, the one still gasping, hunched on one knee.

“Is there confirmation?” he asked. “You are certain it is the Phoenix Tears?”

The envoy nodded, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Our magic has effect once more; I will stake my life on it.”

The Bishop’s breath caught. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“Then it is time.”

He looked down at the vials, and for a moment, something softer touched his posture. Reverence. A lover reunited with that which he'd long mourned.

Then the moment broke.

He straightened; intending to move, to don his cloak and step into the world once more. His presence swelled as if to crush the very walls with divine purpose.

But the motion seized halfway through.

A stabbing pain bloomed in his chest, sharp and absolute.

His fingers clawed at the bone case as his other hand shot to the wall for support. A gasp escaped. Wet, ragged, unwilling.

“Bishop—!” the female envoy moved to support him, panic on her face.

He swatted her away, fury and shame mixing behind the veil of his hood.

“No,” he growled, forcing himself upright, though his shoulders hunched against the pain. “I... am fine.”

But he wasn’t. And they knew it.

He had meant to go. To lead the retrieval himself. To crush the unbelievers with his own hand and carry the Phoenix Tears back in triumph.

That was the path of devotion. The duty of any true servant.

But the agony said otherwise.

'Not yet,' he thought. 'Not now. Not when the stars had aligned. Not when the threshold is in sight.'

His breath rattled. The truth clawed its way into his mind, unbidden.

No successor knew the full rites. No other hand could draw the final circle. He had memorized each syllable, each sequence of flesh and blood, from the previous Bishop’s last breath. He was not just a priest. He was the sole point from which the Heavenly Demon could return to this realm.

“I must not go,” he said aloud, the words weighted with bitter gravity. “I cannot go.”

The pain pulsed again, a cruel reminder. His body had betrayed him. A failing husk wrapped around immortal truth. The irony clawed at his throat.

Bearer of sacred purpose, bound by meat and marrow, just like those unbelievers.

Sacrifice was the holiest of acts. To die in His name was a blessing.

But to die before the ritual?

That was disgrace. That was failure. That was damnation of the highest order. A thousand deaths would not suffice for his failure.

To kneel at the edge of the world and let his bones be the first stones of His throne... That was the Bishop's greatest wish. His only desire.

But wanting meant nothing. The heavens did not care for want. Only what must be.

And so he turned his gaze upon the three before him.

“You will go.”

The three fell to their knees instantly, their foreheads pressed to the stone.

“You will retrieve the final vial,” he said, voice gaining strength again. “Even if your blood is burned from the inside. Even if your eyes are gouged and your bones shattered. You will crawl on hands and knees across salt-stained stone until it is in your grasp.”

None dared breathe.

“You will bring it back,” the Bishop said, stepping forward once more, towering above them. “Because if we fail now… there will be no next generation. No redemption. No descent.”

He looked down at the bone case, the three vials inside, then up again with eyes that gleamed like rusted steel dragged from a grave.

“There will be no world left for second chances.”

He turned from them, once again toward the far wall. His voice, this time, was barely audible.

“This time, the heavens will bleed.” 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

The envoys rose as one.