C11 Death Cult

Odin watched as the figure clad in black hurried away, then bowed his head in contemplation. He couldn't fathom why the Ebon Hand was after him, but it was clear they were intent on claiming him.

Shaking his head, Odin realized that if he didn't want to be a pawn in someone else's game, he needed to figure out how to survive the Ebon Hand's relentless assaults. He was exposed, while the Ebon Hand operated from the shadows, leaving him vulnerable to a potential ambush at any moment. It was crucial to enhance his empirical value and abilities to ensure he could safely extricate himself from danger when it next arose.

The man in black had mentioned the Death Cult. Odin recalled that the Ebon Hand's power stemmed from the Raven God, the sworn enemy of the Death God. Seeking aid from the Death Cult might yield the answers he sought. The immediate issue, however, was that he was clueless about the Death Cult's location.

It was likely somewhere within Ivywood University, he thought. Perhaps any member of the Fighting Club could point him in the right direction.

Odin made his way back to the Fighting Club and singled out a member who was wearing glasses and practicing his moves. "Hey, buddy, do you know where the Death Cult is? How do I get there?" Odin asked with a smile, patting the young man's shoulder in an attempt to appear friendly.

Unbeknownst to him, his own strength and mental fortitude made the gesture come across as intimidating to someone less powerful.

The young man, visibly alarmed by Odin's touch, feared trouble was brewing. His voice shook as he replied, "It's just north of the campus. Head that way, and you'll see it before long. The Death Cult has a distinctive look; you'll recognize it right away."

"Thanks a lot," Odin said, clapping his hands together before turning to set off toward the Death Cult.

"Wait," the boy hesitated, then stamped his foot as if to muster courage before finally deciding to call out to Odin. "You're not going there to start a fight, are you? The church is guarded by priests, and with our current strength, you wouldn't stand a chance against them, even if you tried ten times over."

It wasn't that he distrusted Odin, but the man's forced smile coupled with an air of intimidation made him somewhat skeptical.

Odin, unaware of how he had managed to leave such a rash impression on the boy, simply smiled, waved, and then set off on his journey.

Heading north, they would pass through numerous academic districts. Since it wasn't class time, the streets were relatively empty. Yet, as they continued northward, the crowd unexpectedly grew, all moving in the same direction.

Odin suspected he knew why: these people were likely on their way to the Death Cult. Their faces ranged from solemn to excited, clearly on a different mission than his own.

Indeed, he felt uniquely unfortunate within the school community, having been chosen as a vessel for someone else so abruptly.

His growing empirical value quickened his pace. Despite the increasing foot traffic, it posed no significant obstacle; his swift strides allowed him to weave through the crowd with ease.

In the distance, he could make out the silhouette of the Death Cult, a grand structure of black and red. Despite its imposing size, he could sense the building's oppressive aura from afar.

He wondered whether the church housed a formidable figure or if the entire edifice was under some enchantment.

The overwhelming pressure nearly prevented Odin from gazing directly at the building. He squinted, trying to lessen the discomfort.

Upon reaching the church's entrance, the earlier sense of oppression vanished, replaced by a gentle, reassuring atmosphere, as if he had entered a sanctuary.

Odin scrutinized the building and realized the comforting power originated from the white flowers adorning the church's front.

These delicate blossoms lined the path leading to the Death Cult's entrance, providing a welcoming trail for visitors. Yet, abruptly, the white flowers ceased half a meter from the door, their boundary as sharp as if sliced by a blade.

The Death Cult itself was dominated by hues of black and red. Dark red window frames were set into the black walls, creating a somber and weighty palette. This stark contrast to the inviting white flowers at the entrance seemed to symbolize death and life, hinting at a theme of resurrection.

The black walls harbored a secret; each corner glimmered with a subtle golden radiance, likely outlined in pure gold. It wasn't ostentatious, yet it exuded sophistication.

At the heart of the church's roof was a hallmark of Western churches—a silver cross. However, this one bore a unique feature: a pair of massive black wings engraved on its back.

The entire church was a study in contrasts, its exterior invoking the duality of life and death.

Odin's lips quirked into a smile, finding the architecture intriguing. Despite its lack of brightness and luxury, the building inspired a deep reverence for life and death within him.

True to the Death God's domain over resurrection, even the church reflected his distinct style. Odin found himself increasingly curious about this Death God.

He followed the person ahead of him, stepping onto a path lined with delicate white flowers.

The flowers quivered in the breeze, their tiny petals fluttering down, only to be whisked away by the wind before touching the ground. A sweet fragrance immediately filled Odin's nostrils.

Standing before the church's entrance, Odin felt an unexpected surge of nervousness. He composed himself before entering the Death Cult.

Inside, the church's layout mirrored that of a typical Western church, with a pulpit for the priest and benches for prayer. However, the murals on the walls did not depict God or Jesus but rather figures with black wings, each faceless.

A magnificent crystal chandelier crowned the church's interior, not with light bulbs, but with premium prismatic crystals.

Suspended in midair, the crystals cast a warm, yellow glow, instilling a sense of tranquility.

So far, Odin's impression of the church was favorable, bolstering his confidence to confront the Ebon Hand with the help of the Death Cult.

That was until a middle-aged man with platinum hair ascended the pulpit, a silver cross with black wings in hand. His expression was stoic, his presence commanding. He was the priest of the Death Cult.

The previously chattering congregation fell silent, respectfully bowing their heads.

Odin, however, was an exception. His eyes suddenly snapped open, fixating intently on the priest.