Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (XI)

eleven

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

"Lord, have mercy."

As the monks walked, they repeated these two sentences over and over. Holding up their books, they quoted scriptures and reenacted all the hardships. Every now and then, they would all fall down together, wailing and crying, but after a while they would help each other up and wipe away each other's tears.

Yakov held his breath, nervously following the firelight, neither too far nor too close. The procession moved slowly through the night, stopping and starting, until they passed through Jehoshaphat and headed towards the summit of the Mount of Olives. A short mountain path, made endlessly long and rugged by Jesus's passage, stretched out before them. The massive funeral procession, like a tributary of a great river, merged with the gravediggers, penitents, and ascetics on the mountain. Graves lined both sides of the path, large and small, new and old, layer upon layer, like a gently sloping tower—this was the Holy Land, at the foot of the True Cross, where the closer a grave was to the site of the Passion, the more expensive it was, as if only the noble could first experience the joy of the Resurrection.

Naya, Nuk, Daoud, and many more familiar blood slaves were spotted and recognized by Yakov one by one in the group. This was undoubtedly Yubi's group. Why didn't Yubi return to his lodgings? Why did he come up the mountain at night? Why did he summon so many monks and slaves? Why did he bring his mother's statue? Too many questions piled up in Yakov's mind, gradually coalescing into a dark, ominous premonition that compelled him to take a step.

The blood slaves circled around to the side of the group, hiding in the wind, sand, fragrant mist, and darkness. They finally finished climbing the mountain, squeezing all the way to the edge of the cliff to stop.

A group of ragged beggars and shepherds stood guard on the mountaintop, surrounding another coffin—it was extremely simple, made of rotten wood, as if it had been buried for years and then dug up. The group raised their heads like ghosts, their eyes empty yet resolute. Upon seeing them, the monks stopped singing, and the slaves lowered the black stone coffin.

All the flames stopped at the edge of the cliff. Everyone waited there, not knowing what they were waiting for.

Yubi stepped forward. He removed his helmet, revealing short black hair familiar to Yakov, and an indifferent expression that Yakov found unfamiliar.

Opposite him, a tall, slender figure slowly emerged from behind the wooden coffin. The man wore an extremely worn linen robe, his face completely hidden under the hood, obscuring all the firelight. All the beggars cautiously crowded in his path, touching the hem of his robe and his shoes—who was he? Yakov made a vague guess, suddenly feeling a chill that made him shiver, as if his breath could freeze into frost, his fingers and toes stiff and numb. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, startling him so much he almost drew his sword.

“It’s been a long time.” Yesau slowly pressed down on his hand and said in a very low voice, “I thought you had already left the Holy Land.”

Yakov recognized his voice, his mouth agape, unable to speak. "...What are you doing here?" he asked. "Aren't you free?"

“Of course, I came here freely.” Yesau’s words were tinged with a smile, which was strangely eerie. “I came here freely to follow my Lord.”

Inart. Yakov repeated the name in his mind as he stared intently at the figure opposite Yubi—this madman or dreamer wanted to kill all vampires, including Yubi. The Blood Slave, remembering this fact, was suddenly filled with rage: Yubi knew all this, he thought, didn't Yubi value his own life at all?

"Justice and evil, ideals and reality, divinity and bestiality, are like two ends of a rope." Yesau spoke madly, yet it was as if he had read Yakov's mind. "Your master, living in this world, must choose one of the two; he cannot remain detached. He chose my master, not the other, the debauched and terrifying one. Do you think he should have made the opposite choice to please you more?"

But no matter which side he chose, neither side could accommodate the other master. Yakov's facial muscles twitched as he recalled Anbichia's death. "...He was too young," the blood slave simply said. "He chose too early!"

"Your master wasn't as foolish as you think, nor as pure as you imagine," Yesau shook his head. "To say such things is incredibly disrespectful to him. That's why you've ended up in this state!"

Yakov was rendered speechless, filled with shame and indignation, as if a veil of sanctimonious pretense had been easily ripped away. Yesau, however, ignored his embarrassment and happily proceeded towards the "Lord," attempting to prostrate himself alongside the crowd. Once again, Yakov was alone in the darkness.

Silence fell, broken only by the crackling of the flames and the swirling of sand. The two vampires stood before each other, maintaining a delicate distance, neither daring to touch the other.

“Dear brother.” Yubi bowed politely.

“It’s a miracle you’ve grown up.” A hoarse voice came from under the hood, like a throat that had been parched for years. “You look just like your mother.”

Yakov vaguely recalled that when he first met Ambikia, she had said the exact same thing to Yubi. The Blood Slave also had the same question echoing in his mind: What kind of miracle is it for a child to grow up?

“Thanks to Naya, I heard about you and learned about your philosophy,” Yubi said. “That’s why I trust you and proposed this deal.”

“I understand your obsession,” the hoarse voice said, “but I still need to warn you one last time. Your trust and approval cannot change my beliefs.”

“I understand what you’re saying, and I understand what I’m doing,” Yubi’s voice was extremely firm. “Let’s begin.”

Those few words sent a chill down Yakov's spine. What deal? What obsession? He couldn't understand a word Yubi said, couldn't fathom his thoughts. Ambicya's death must have been some kind of strange deception, Yakov had been convinced of that, but now he wasn't so sure—was it all Yubi's doing? What ideology did Yubi subscribe to? —What had his years of teachings brought Yubi? Had he ultimately failed to obey the Mark's orders?

The moment the thought arose, a terrible, excruciating pain erupted in the Blood Slave's chest, constricting him like chains. Even the iron ring around his neck couldn't contain his swollen, bleeding neck, digging deep into his flesh.

Inart raised a hand that looked like that of a dead man—not only with skin as pale as a dead man's, but also with bones as withered as a dead man's, as if it would break at the slightest touch or crumble at the slightest crushing. The blood slaves behind him carried the wooden coffin forward.

Yubi raised his armored hand—cold and exquisite, forged from hard steel, each graceful curve sharp and razor-sharp like claws. The blood slaves behind him carried the stone coffin forward.

Immediately afterwards, everyone except them, monks and ascetics, beggars and slaves, pressed their hands to their hearts and knelt down.

"Do not deceive, do not betray."

"In this covenant, there is no room for falsehood, and deception will not escape the discerning eye."

"The established course must be followed; not a step can be deviated from, not a step can be delayed, and not a step can be overtaken."

"It must be so."

"It must be so."

The oath had been sworn, and the blood slaves opened their respective coffins. Yubi rushed to the luxurious stone coffin, while Inart went to the dilapidated wooden one. The two gazed into the dark chambers—Yubi lifted a jar and took out a shriveled, dead infant; Inart pulled out a bundle and removed brittle bones. They held up their contents for all to see.

What was all this? The eerie scene sent chills down Yakov's spine. He recalled anecdotes about unscrupulous merchants stealing and selling the remains of saints. Whose remains were they? Whose children were they?

Then, Yubi took out the ring: a ruby ​​ring with an obsidian base and a blood-drop-shaped design.

“I will prove its authenticity to you. It is not a fake, not a forgery.” The vampire stepped onto the coffin and slipped the ring onto the dead infant’s finger.

At first, Yakov thought the withered, weak corpse in Yubi's arms was like a mummy, a walking, untamed monster as if the curse had come true, creaking and shaking its arms; but soon, it let out a loud cry from its throat, louder and stronger, as if a new life had just begun and death had never happened; it quickly filled with flesh and blood, as if it had drawn real life from that magical ring, as if the ring was its true mother.

The vampire slave was shocked to discover that he seemed to be witnessing the birth of a vampire baby—or rather, its resurrection.

But then, Inart stepped forward, carrying the skeleton in the package.

“You have proven your integrity.” His other hand held a sword that Yakov noticed was set with a ruby ​​on the hilt, exactly the same as the one he wore at his waist. “Likewise, I will prove to you the authenticity of the remains. I will never lie, never deceive.”

As Inart raised his sword, Yakov immediately understood what he was about to do. The Blood Slave finally saw a crack appear in Yubi's icy gaze, and even vaguely felt that Yubi seemed to be looking for him—of course he knew I was here, he was asking me for help! Yakov immediately became convinced of this with arrogance, the mark on his chest erupting with warm currents like a volcanic eruption, and the iron ring around his neck seemed to grow new chains, being pulled and tugged. But before he could do anything, those moist, blood-dripping red eyes suddenly dimmed, ashamed and helplessly avoiding everything.

Without the slightest hesitation, the sword pierced the infant's body. The infant choked on blood and cried out, then fell silent in an instant. But new, eerie sounds replaced the pitiful cries, coming from all directions, tinkling crisply like beaded wind chimes—Yakov desperately searched for the source of these sounds. Soon, he discovered two sources: one from the bone in Inart's arms, upon which the infant's blood dripped; and the other, from within the head of the silver bust, where a dull thud reverberated.

“…You have also proven your integrity.” Yubi’s voice was filled with suppressed grief and resentment, yet he still stood there resolutely. “The deal is done.”

“The deal is done.” Inart drew his blood-stained sword. “In return for your hard-won integrity, I will wait until after Easter to see if Mother will answer your call.”

When Yubi removed the ring from the baby's body, Yakov finally understood the contents of the deal.

"You idiot, don't give it to him!" he shouted, unable to contain himself any longer, urged on by the mark to rush forward, "You can't give it to him!"

But he shouted too late; someone behind him immediately gripped his shoulders tightly, rendering him immobile. He watched helplessly as Inart took the ring, fiddled with the longsword, and set the ring into the groove; while Yubi took his mother's remains, put on the helmet, as if the armor had become his most solid and impenetrable shell, blocking out Yakov's voice.

The gaunt, tall vampire finally obtained the treasure he had longed for, clutching it tightly and examining it closely. He lifted his tattered cloak, revealing disheveled silver hair and a thin, cold face with red eyes—a stark contrast to the gentle and refined image Yakov remembered from the murals. It was as if he had one foot in the grave, as if he had become a sacrifice on the altar, as if he were a penitent on a pillar, as if he were his own mother who had taken her own life. A magical ring, Yakov thought, capable of turning Yubi into a warm and vulnerable child, capable of turning Ambikia into a loving and devoted mother, yet in the hands of the benevolent and loving "Lord" in Yesau's words, it had transformed the "Lord" into a cruel and terrifying demon.

All the believers behind him rejoiced and wept for the precious ruby ​​ring. "The Lord is all-powerful!" they cried, raising their arms. "The Lord will be the only Lord!"

In an instant, two plumes of black smoke rose and disappeared into the night, carrying the treasures they had acquired in the trade. Yakov wanted to curse Inart's arrogance, Anbichia's recklessness, Yubi's stupidity, and even more so, his own insignificance. His mark activated, and he was vaguely dragged backward by a pair of powerful hands, all the way to the end of the funeral procession. The Blood Slave finally remembered to turn around and see who was blocking his way, possessing such strength and extraordinary skill. He turned his head and saw a familiar dark face in the night.

“This is for your own good,” Seymour smiled at him. “Don’t resist.”

Something heavy and hard slammed into the back of Yakov's head. He immediately felt dizzy and fell into a long, dark abyss of unconsciousness.