Dear all,


    The moon casts its pale glow—a perfect moment to offer souls to the Great Lord of Corruption.


    Come bear witness to the sacrificial ritual at midnight this Thursday.


    The ceremony will take place in the abandoned church in Beckmore District.


    Don’t forget to wear your mask.


    May chaos be with you.


    The Profaner


    "The Church of Chaos is conducting a midnight ritual to sacrifice souls to the Lord of Corruption." Chris frowned as he reread the invitation. "Profaners... must be a title of their members. But what does it mean?"


    His gaze lingered on the fourth line: "Don’t forget to wear your mask."


    The words sparked a memory—an encounter with a killer he''d once hunted down. That man had been marginally stronger than most, able to break free from hallucinations only to find himself staring down the barrel of Chris''s gun.


    "The Church of Chaos will kill you!" the killer had hissed through clenched teeth. That was the first time Chris had heard of the Church of Chaos. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, silencing the killer in the stark daylight of an otherwise ordinary day.


    Ignoring the scattered human remains in the man''s home, Chris had searched the premises thoroughly. In the corner of a closet, he had found a silver mask etched with fine, web-like cracks.


    "I stashed it under my bed," Chris thought, crouching down to pull a dark red wooden box from beneath his bed. Brushing off the accumulated dust, he opened it with a faint sense of anticipation.


    The mask lay inside, just as he remembered—silent, cracked, and unsettling. Chris picked it up and placed it over his face, standing before the mirror. The silver mask concealed his features entirely, the cracks on its surface seeming to ripple faintly as if alive, exuding an indescribable eeriness.


    "Thursday is almost here," Chris decided, his reflection watching him coldly.


    ---


    Thursday Night


    Beckmore District was in the northern part of Massa, separated from the Landwick District by the Missi River and the Lycra District where the City Hall was.


    Chris had already scouted the area the day before. There was only one abandoned church in Beckmore—formerly the Church of Dawn—now left desolate on the outskirts of town.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    After offering a vague excuse to Imir, Chris drove alone to the church, parking his car at a discreet distance before killing the engine. He approached cautiously, taking cover behind dense shrubbery and letting the shadows mask his presence.


    Through night-vision-enhanced eyes, he observed the scene. The church stood in silent decay, its silhouette draped in the pale light of the moon, which lent it an air of haunted majesty.


    One by one, figures arrived, each wearing attire that varied wildly but unified by the same cracked silver masks. They entered the church without hesitation, disappearing into its shadowed interior.


    "No identity checks, huh?" Chris mused, slipping his own cold mask over his face. "Your rules could use some work."


    He strode toward the church with measured steps. Passing two masked figures at the entrance, he nodded slightly, earning polite nods in return.


    Inside, the church was a husk of its former glory. Moonlight streamed through shattered stained-glass windows, painting jagged patterns on the floor and highlighting the neglect and ruin.


    The gathered faithful stood in the nave, some trembling visibly with anticipation. Chris pushed his way into the crowd, his eyes locking on the altar ahead. There, a long-haired woman lay bound on the cold stone, stripped of clothing and strength. She was pale with terror, her struggles reduced to feeble jerks against the ropes.


    This was tonight''s sacrifice.


    Behind the altar stood three figures clad in black robes, two men and one woman. They wore masks identical to the congregation''s, their presence commanding silent reverence.


    The wall behind them had once borne a mural of the Goddess of Dawn, now desecrated and obscured by chaotic, twisting lines and symbols—madness etched in stone.


    "It is time," the foremost robed figure announced. "Yes, Profaner." The other two robed responded.


    Stepping forward, he raised his arms, his voice swelling with fervor as he prayed:


    "O Great Lord of Corruption, eternal being of chaos and disorder! You are the source of fear and despair, the master of upheaval and turmoil!"


    The congregation joined in, their chanting a rising tide that filled the decrepit church.


    "Accept this soul as an offering and guide us toward your path!"


    The slender woman in black robe picked up a silver dagger from the altar. Her delicate fingers tightened around its hilt as she poised the blade over the sacrifice''s heart.


    "Help!" the bound woman screamed, her cry cutting through the darkness before fading into unconsciousness.


    But the blade didn’t descend.


    The robed woman''s hand wavered, her eyes darting around as if she saw flames consuming the church, her fellow worshipers engulfed in fire.


    "Wake up!" barked the Profaner, snapping her out of the hallucination.


    "S... sorry," she stammered, trembling with shame.


    Before more could be said, the Profaner’s gaze snapped to the church entrance. "Someone’s here."


    Chris’s heart tightened. Hidden among the throng, he turned to see figures silhouetted against a sudden flood of light spilling into the church.


    "Pagans shall face judgment by the light!" a sharp voice declared. A woman stepped into view, her short hair framing a strikingly determined face. She wore a pristine white gown, her stance like that of a blade poised to strike. Two men and another woman flanked her, their every movement radiating readiness.


    The Profaner tensed, his hand snapping down to retrieve the dagger from the floor. Without hesitation, he plunged it toward the altar''s offering—


    A gunshot cracked the air.