Chapter 80: The Benefits
What in God's name? The cheetah-creature's head swelled to ten times its normal size, its monstrous form nearly filling the cavern. I almost screamed as its cavernous, blood-filled maw opened and lunged at the Pope. The Pope, however, stood his ground, calm and unmoving, as if he were merely observing a mildly interesting insect. He didn't seem to do anything, but I saw it. Tiny, almost invisible dark red lines, like a swarm of blood-red mites, swarmed from the air and landed on the cheetah's body.
“Awooo! Awooo!” The cheetah let out a high-pitched, agonized howl and collapsed to the ground, its beautiful, sleek fur suddenly weeping blood from a thousand tiny pores. Its monstrous head shrank back to its normal size. And then, with a sickening, wet sound, its entire body seemed to liquefy and then explode in a shower of blood and offal, spattering the cavern floor and the faces of those standing nearest. It had been killed without a fight, without even a struggle. A collective gasp of awe and terror went through the assembled crowd. They stared at the Pope, their eyes wide with a new, deeper fear. They hadn't seen how he'd done it. But I had.
“Now,” the Pope said, his voice a pleasant, conversational murmur that was more terrifying than any shout, “does anyone else wish to leave?” The crowd was silent. After witnessing the cheetah’s fate, no one was foolish enough to challenge him.
“I have a question,” a new voice, cold and cultured, with an accent that was ancient and sharp as cut glass, cut through the silence. It was the man who had been leaning against a stone pillar, his arms crossed, one leg casually propped up. “Is it truly dead?” His posture, his nonchalant tone in this atmosphere of pure terror, suggested he was not afraid of the Pope. And his question was a strange one. The cheetah was a puddle of gore on the floor. How could it not be dead?
“Lavias Tepes, my old friend,” the Pope actually said with a warm, welcoming smile that did not reach his eyes. “It has been too long.” The people next to them was also whispering, it seemed that this person was quite famous?
“I do not recall us being friends,” Lavias replied, his voice as cold as a tombstone. He was clearly annoyed that the Pope had revealed his name. “Answer my question.”
“But of course,” the Pope said with a chuckle. “‘Death here,’ he said, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper, ‘is absolute. There is no returning. It is a death of the soul itself. Do not be tempted to test it for yourselves, my dear brethren.”
“Tsk, I see. I had thought this was merely the Dreamlands,” Lavias said, his voice thoughtful. “Then how do we return?” This question, at least, was one that concerned everyone. All eyes turned to the Pope.
“Rest assured,” the Pope said, “as I have summoned you here, so too can I send you back. Once our business is concluded, you will all be returned to your own… beds.”
“The benefits,” another voice, a guttural rasp from a shadowy corner, interjected. The meaning was clear: What’s in it for us?
“The benefits?” the Pope cried, his voice suddenly filled with a fanatical, religious zeal. “Is not the coming of our Lord the greatest reward? What benefit could possibly compare to that glorious day?” A few of the robed figures murmured their assent, but most of the assembly remained silent, their expressions cold, waiting. Faith was all well and good, but it wouldn't fill their bellies or grant them power. They were pragmatists, these monsters.
“Of course,” the Pope said, his tone shifting again, becoming smooth and conciliatory. “You have all served the cause faithfully for many years. It is only right that I offer you a small token of my appreciation, a meeting gift, as it were.” He raised his hand, a benevolent smile on his face. From his fingertips, a thousand tiny, dark red threads, like living crimson sutures, shot out into the crowd, seeking purchase.
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