Chapter 79: The Pope?
The one who had spoken was a figure of strange, unsettling magnificence. He wore a long, black robe, but unlike the others, his was not made of simple cloth, but of a fabric that seemed woven from the void itself, a blackness so profound it drank the flickering torchlight and gave nothing back. The robe was trimmed with gold embroidery and ornate ribbons, the golden threads forming complex, abstract patterns that spoke of both nobility and a dark, hidden knowledge. And on his head, he wore a crown. It was a strange, asymmetrical thing of some non-Euclidean design, fashioned from a rough, black stone that seemed to hurt the eyes to look at. It sat askew on his head, a deliberate, jarring statement of power.
As all eyes turned to him, he spoke again, his voice echoing with that same unnatural authority. “You all speak in your native tongues, and so no one understands anyone else. As the faithful servants of our Lord, I should think you would all, at the very least, know the Infernal Tongue, would you not?” The Infernal Tongue? I had never heard of such a thing. And yet, I understood him perfectly. His words were a low murmur, yet filled with a strange, resonant anger, each syllable carrying a faint, disturbing echo. It was a language that felt ancient and wrong, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones rather than the ears.
Many of the figures around me nodded in assent, some even replying in the same low, guttural language. But a few of the more monstrous creatures still seemed confused, their angry grunts and hisses clearly showing their lack of understanding. I looked at them, at the ones who did not speak the Infernal Tongue. They were barely humanoid. One was a hulking giant with two heads that seemed to be arguing with each other in low growls. Another had the sleek, powerful form of an upright cheetah, its muscles twitching with a nervous energy. And another… another was a giant fly, its crimson compound eyes glowing in the darkness like two great, red lanterns. A jolt of pure, primal terror, cold and sharp as ice, shot through me. The Great Fly. No, not him, but one of his kind. The trauma of my transmigration returned in a suffocating wave. And though this one was nowhere near the size of the cosmic entity that had cast me into this world, it was still as large as a small child. It was a nightmare given form. What kind of twisted dream was this? A gathering of demons and monsters? I was so tired, so weary, that I could barely even muster the energy to be properly terrified.
“Your inability to speak the common tongue of our faith is a failure in itself,” the robed figure continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “You are unworthy to attend this great conclave. But, as our Lord has finally deigned to answer our prayers, I will, in my great mercy, grant you one more chance.” I felt no change, but the remaining few monsters suddenly seemed to understand. The cheetah-like creature was the first to speak, its voice a low, snarling hiss. “And who are you to grant us chances? What gives you the right?”
“Heh,” the robed figure chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. “I have the right because I am our Lord’s one true Pope. And because this conclave was called at my behest. Is that not so, my brethren?” A portion of the crowd bowed their heads in deference, acknowledging his authority. But others merely watched, their expressions unreadable, some even letting out a soft, contemptuous snort.
“You invited us?” the cheetah-creature snarled, its defiance now open, blatant. “Did you ask for my permission? Why have you summoned us?” The others remained silent, even those who showed respect, content to let the cheetah be their stalking horse, to test the strength of this self-proclaimed Pope.
“I have invited you here to take part in our Lord’s great cause,” the Pope replied, his voice calm, almost bored. “But I see now that you, at least, are not worthy. The great cause has no need for a thoughtless beast.”
“ROAR!” The cheetah-creature let out a furious, primal bellow, its words dissolving into pure, animalistic rage. Its head suddenly convulsed and swelled, stretching and distorting to ten times its normal size, the bones cracking and reforming, its jaw unhinging to reveal a cavernous maw filled with teeth like black daggers. With a roar that was no longer feline, it lunged at the Pope, its monstrous head a blur of motion, ready to tear him apart.
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