They called it the Sanctum of Light.
But it was a lie.
There was no light here.
Only agony disguised in white.
The room was beautiful—cathedral white, like a temple sculpted from clouds. The floors were polished pearl. The walls were seamless, curved like a womb. Gold-framed crosses lined every inch, some etched into the walls, others suspended from the ceiling by invisible threads. And in the center of it all...
Daemon knelt.
Stripped of his aura. His arms locked behind him in a tight straitjacket, slick with sweat. A blindfold covered his eyes—thin, translucent—but bright enough to sear.
Holy glyphs hummed in the corners of the room, vibrating like they were alive. And with every breath he took, they burned inside him.
His lungs rejected the air. His skin prickled with light.
His Astral Core, deep in his gut, squirmed like it was being boiled alive.
The silence was unbearable.
Until it wasn't.
Until the crosses began to whisper.
Faint, indecipherable voices. Echoes. Chants. Not loud—but maddening.
He chuckled. Once. Bitter.
Then groaned.
"Day one," he muttered.
His throat was dry.
"Good gods... day one."
He leaned forward as far as the straitjacket allowed and whispered to the floor, like confessing to an old friend.
"You know last time... I begged. I begged to die."
His breathing hitched.
"I cried so hard my eyes bled. I puked on myself. Screamed until my voice shredded. I clawed at the walls until my nails ripped off."
The whispering intensified.
"You think this is gonna break me again?"
His head twitched back with a shuddering breath.
"...You might."
Silence answered him.
He laughed again. This time it cracked.
The burning under his skin pulsed harder—his Astral Core writhing like a caged animal, snarling against the holy pressure.
It hurt. It hurt worse than anything he remembered.
"Ah—!"
The pain lanced through his stomach. He curled forward instinctively, but the straitjacket held him in place.
"Fuck..."
He gasped.
"Okay. Okay. Okay—"
His shoulders shook.
But no tears came.
"Come on, Daemon. You made it once. You were weaker then. Stupider. Softer."
He swallowed, dry and bitter.
"You're not gonna scream this time. Not yet."
His voice dropped into a whisper.
"You're gonna eat this pain. Chew it. Swallow it. Make it yours."
A loud chime echoed above, signaling the end of the first day.
He slumped forward, sweat dripping onto the marble floor.
And through clenched teeth, he whispered:
"One down. Six to go."
****
(Day two)
Daemon's body felt like it was sinking—bones vibrating with pressure, muscles locked, breath coming in shallow gasps. The holy glyphs along the walls pulsed steadily, each flicker another nail hammered into his skull.
Then the door opened.
Soft footsteps.
He didn't raise his head. He didn't need to.
He knew that scent—jasmine and sanctimony.
Saintess Lilac.
She knelt beside him, silent for a moment. The silk of her robe whispered against the polished floor. Then, she leaned in, lips near his ear.
"Good morning, Daemon," she cooed in a low whisper that brushed against his ear. "Tell me... do you feel it?"
Daemon's face remained impassive, his blindfold hiding the storm within.
She leaned close, her voice almost tender, "Do you feel the pain... and the evil within you burn? The darkness that no one else dares acknowledge?"
He didn't answer. Didn't even twitch.
Her smile widened—he could feel it.
To her, his silence was weakness.
She pressed her fingers against his chest.
And then—
Light.
Holy pressure surged into him like a hammer to the lungs.
"AAAAH!"
His Astral Core spasmed. Every nerve lit up. He convulsed forward with a choking sound—then collapsed back, vomiting onto the marble floor, the acid thick with flecks of blood.
The taste stung. The smell made him gag again.
Lilac's voice stayed soft.
"That's it. Let it out. Let the demon die inside you."
His fingers twitched in the straitjacket.
She leaned closer again, her tone honeyed.
"You know, you're pitiful."
"You're not even reborn evil. You're just a cracked vessel leaking poison. You shouldn't exist."
Still no reply.
But he smiled.
Just a little. Just enough.
She froze.
He knew she was watching him closely now.
And for a brief second, her voice broke—just enough to let the venom bleed through.
"You should die soon. Before you become what we all know you are. A walking plague."
She rose, her steps sharp now.
As she left, he heard her murmur to the guards outside:
"Don't feed him today. He doesn't need it."
The door shut.
Daemon exhaled—slow and shallow.
His head lolled back, his body trembling from the holy surge still eating at his insides.
But in his mind?
There was no pain.
Only memory.
She did this last time, too.
She thought she was winning.
She thought she was cleansing him.
But all she was doing...
Was giving him seven long, beautiful days to remember exactly how she dies.