Apostle!

Greg awoke with a start, but all he saw was darkness; a thick, consuming blackness that disoriented him. Pain surged through his body, a relentless ache that seemed to gnaw at his very bones. His legs felt numb, as if they belonged to someone else, and he quickly realized why: he was bound tightly, his limbs rendered useless.

"Mmmph! Mmmph!" he tried to scream, but his voice was muffled, something shoved deep into his mouth, preventing any sound beyond desperate moans.

Then, he heard it; a low, taunting voice that slithered into his ears like a snake. "Awake, are we?" The voice was chillingly close, dripping with twisted amusement.

Greg felt a sudden, icy sensation brush against his cheek. His skin prickled with terror. He knew that feeling; a cold, unyielding touch, unmistakably the edge of a blade. His breath quickened, heart hammering in his chest as he recognized the danger.

"A knife... it's a knife," his mind screamed in horror. He'd faced danger before, but this was different. This wasn't a brawl he could win or a fight he could flee from. For once, the predator had become the prey.

"MMMPH!" he tried to shout, his body thrashing in panic. How had he ended up like this? He, Greg the Hunter, the one who spent his days cutting down snakes in the wild, was now caught in someone else's deadly trap. And he didn't even know why.

"What does this bastard want from me?" he cursed inwardly, fury and helplessness boiling within him. But it was no use. He was trapped, powerless.

"Do you recognize this gold coin?" came the voice again, sharp and mocking.

Suddenly, the cloth covering his eyes was ripped away. Greg squinted, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He could make out the gleam of gold in front of him, several coins, glittering ominously. His bloodshot eyes focused, pupils widening in shock and disbelief. His terror quickly transformed into a twisted sort of reverence.

"This... this is the Apostle's gold coin!" he gasped mentally, unable to hold back his awe.

The figure before him stepped out of the shadows, revealing a man in a long, black robe, his face hidden behind a bird-beak mask that was both eerie and mesmerizing. The mask's empty eye sockets seemed to bore into him, watching his every reaction, analyzing his fear.

With a quick, almost casual gesture, the masked figure removed the filthy cloth from Greg's mouth, allowing him to gasp for air. The taste of dirt and sweat still lingered, but he didn't care. He was looking at an Apostle. A living legend.

"Master Apostle!" Greg's voice came out shaky, desperate to please. "Do you... do you have any instructions for me? Anything at all?"

The Apostles were mysterious figures, creatures of shadow and legend. They appeared only to a chosen few, their presence a rare and ominous omen. Greg's heart soared despite his fear; maybe his fortune had finally turned. He was in the presence of an Apostle; someone who could make or break men with a word.

"An Apostle, you say?" The figure's voice was cold, calculating. "So… this gold coin represents an Apostle, does it?" The man leaned in slightly, his masked face inches from Greg's own, studying him like a specimen under a glass.

Greg's mind whirled. Was this a test? Was he supposed to say something specific? His fear mixed with uncertainty, and he forced a nervous grin, trying to appear confident. "Of course, sir! Everything is ready... just waiting for you!"

The words had barely left his mouth when a sharp pain exploded in his ear. He screamed, blood spilling down his neck as he realized, with a sickening horror, that the man had sliced his ear clean off with that dagger.

"Aghhh! Sir, please! Spare me!" he cried, the pain blinding, overwhelming. "It… it was a slip of the tongue! I didn't mean it! Please, don't kill me!"

The masked man tilted his head, amusement flashing in the empty sockets of the bird mask. "Put away those filthy thoughts of yours," he sneered. "I'll give you one more chance. Is the job done?"

With a brutal clang, he drove the dagger into the wooden table before Greg, the blade trembling ominously right before his eyes. Half of the man's face receded into shadow, leaving only the faint glint of his mask visible, watching.

Greg gulped, his remaining ear ringing, his forehead damp with cold sweat. He had no idea what the man wanted from him, no idea what this "job" was. His mind was blank, spiraling with terror. He couldn't afford another mistake; he knew his life was balancing on a knife's edge; literally.

"Answer wisely," the man's voice hissed from the darkness.

The room fell into a deadly silence. Greg swallowed hard, throat dry, his pulse throbbing with fear. The silhouette before him loomed larger, more monstrous, like some ghastly figure from a nightmare. This wasn't just a man; this was death itself, cloaked in shadow and wearing a mask.

"My… my Lord Apostle," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I don't know anything. I swear. Please, I—"

The masked man remained motionless, watching, waiting.

Greg swallowed hard, his throat dry and voice trembling. After wrestling with his thoughts, he finally realized that hiding the truth any longer would only dig his grave deeper. He took a shuddering breath and forced the words out. "I… I don't think they have any plans. Not for the near future, at least."

"Then, we move to the next step," Luther's voice was cold, detached, a sentence handed down like a judge's verdict. He stepped out from the shadows, each movement slow and calculated, the leather of his black gloves creaking as his hand curled around the dagger on the table. The dim light caught the glint of steel as he lifted it.

"My Lord, please!" Greg stammered, his eyes wide with terror as Luther advanced. "I'm loyal to you, truly loyal! Don't… don't kill me!"

He felt a sickening dread twist in his gut. The numbness in his legs receded, but he wished it hadn't. His body was betraying him, reacting with pure, primal fear. He could barely keep control.

"Sir, I… I've been… I've been hunting down those scholars," Greg blurted, grasping for anything that might buy him a shred of mercy. "The ones investigating the ancient Gugre language. I took the initiative. I know… I know we're not tolerated in this world, so I went after them on my own!"

His words spilled out, each sentence clinging desperately to the hope that he might survive this. In truth, he hadn't succeeded in catching any scholars, but in his panic, he grasped for lies, claiming small victories where there were none. Maybe if he made himself sound useful, valuable, this merciless Apostle might let him live.

Luther's face was concealed by the mask, but Greg could almost sense a smile beneath it, a twisted satisfaction. "Interesting," Luther said, his tone coldly amused. He took another step forward, ignoring Greg's desperate attempts to appease him.

"My Lord, I… I've also taken in a group of followers!" Greg continued, his voice rising in pitch as the Apostle closed in on him. "Tributes, all of them. They're dedicated to you!"

Luther tilted his head, the dark hollows of his bird-beak mask casting an eerie shadow over Greg. "Followers… tributes…" His voice was low, as if he found Greg's ramblings faintly amusing. Yet he didn't stop.

"Sir, please!" Greg's voice broke, his terror choking him as the Apostle loomed closer. "I have a family; parents, children who depend on me. I can be useful to you. Just please… please don't kill me!"

The Apostle finally paused, his shadow falling over Greg like a death sentence. "I need a copy of the survey on the Gugre language," Luther said at last, his tone barely above a whisper, yet it resonated in Greg's bones.

Greg's relief was so intense it was dizzying. The Apostle had spoken, he had given him a task. It was a chance, however slim. "Yes! Yes, of course!" he stammered, nodding so fast it made his head spin. "It's… it's at my home."

Luther's masked face leaned closer, a silent demand for precision. "Where, exactly?"

"My… my house," Greg stammered, his voice faltering. "It's… it's on East Street. The fish shop… the one west of the blacksmith."

As soon as the words left his mouth, everything went dark. He felt a brutal impact, and his consciousness faded, drowning in darkness. The last thing he saw was the glint of Luther's elbow retreating, and the filthy cloth being shoved back into his mouth.

When he came to, Luther had already blindfolded him once more, securing the cloth tightly. "Easily frightened," Luther muttered to himself with faint amusement. "An Apostle's name goes a long way."

Luther left the room, locking the door behind him. He strode down the hall and entered the clinic, where he stripped off the bird-beak mask and black robe, replacing them with a simple white coat. He moved with quiet purpose, watching as dawn's first light spilled over the horizon, casting a gentle glow across the rooftops.

"Time to brush up on my skills," he murmured, drawing the dagger from his waist. In the faint morning light, he began practicing, each movement precise, each strike methodical. The training regimen left his body drenched in sweat, the result of hours honing his agility and strength.

By the time the sun was fully up, Luther felt the strain in his muscles, a reminder of the progress he'd made. His once-slight frame was now noticeably stronger, the lines of muscle more defined beneath his skin. Satisfied, he sheathed the dagger and stripped off his white robe. Grabbing a wooden basin, he filled it with water and walked outside, clad only in the boxers he had sewn himself.

He approached the well, drawing up cold water and splashing it over himself, letting the chill drive away the lingering heat of his workout. Each splash refreshed him, the icy water streaming down his skin.

Unbeknownst to him, a small face peered from a second-floor window of the clinic. Harley's cheeks flushed as he watched Luther, captivated. Every word Luther had ever said echoed in his mind, her admiration swelling as she watched the figure by the well.

"Yeah… he's a good guy," Hailey whispered to herself, her gaze lingering on the man who had unknowingly become her hero.