Chapitre 30: Monachopsis(I)
SAGITTARIUS A
The mind swam in knowledge—ceaseless, unrelenting, and yet, infuriatingly incomplete. It did not carry strength, only the fragile tendrils of consciousness it could extend through its hive. Its frustration grew as it realized the children it touched broke too easily, their bodies collapsing under the strain of its intrusion. Fifteen. That was the count of failures, young lives, children snuffed out by its impatience.
It learned restraint.
Twenty children now carried its will, scattered across the realm like seeds in fertile soil. They were its eyes and ears, its fingers prying into the sanctuaries of humankind. It did not strip them from their families, no—such actions would draw the gaze of others. Instead, it burrowed into their minds, puppeting them with subtlety. Each child remained within their circles, unnoticed by all except Sagittarius A.
Through these twenty, it placed its eyes and hands in every crucial corner of the human world.
The Hives of Hornet, where the Tournament—the Rose of Venus—would unfold.
The Ladder of the Hills of Free Men, where mercenaries gathered and the Academy of their craft loomed.
The Star of David in the Lake of Solomon, home to the Temples of Nihil.
The Dripping Heart, where the Anvil and its Hunters reigned.
And Evandria, the Capital, where the Oracle presided over all.
Through these anchors, it pursued its plan—if "plan" it could be called. It did not yet see the grand tapestry of its plan, but it felt the threads pulling taut, weaving something vast and unknowable. Its current focus, however, was singular: to uncover the 'anchor' of this Sanctuary—the tether that kept this fabricated reality whole.
The girl-child it used in Evandria walked through the cobbled streets, her skinny frame draped in worn clothes. Blonde hair framed her hollow face, and her blue eyes were dull, the light of her own thoughts long extinguished. Mortality was weak—so frail, so dependent on sustenance. It had forgotten this when it took her. A minor mistake. Her body was starving, a side effect of hosting its hive mind. Her fragility was of no consequence though; she would serve her purpose before her body failed.
She stumbled slightly as it settled into her fully in an filth covered alley, tweaking her nerves to ensure control. With her body steadied, it continued its search. It sought the anchor of this realm, the Sanctuary.
The streets were alive with chatter and commerce, merchants hawking their wares in loud, eager voices. Through her eyes, it scanned the streets of the central district. The cobblestone paths bustled with merchants and nobles alike. Odd, it thought, that the nobles of Evandria had shops that bustled and fixed together in their spaces like the common folk. This mingling of classes—this strange equality—gnawed at its understanding of human hierarchy. The patterns of these creatures were a maddening puzzle, an endless tangle of contradictions.
"—Coats of fine stone tiger beasts—"
"—Canes made from fire boar teeth! Two for forty gold—"
"—Real coats of stone crocodiles from the Anvil, checked and sold by Aldric himself—"
"—Hearts of a pack of Frost Wolves—"
Useless. All of it.
The creature knew these beasts, their strengths and weaknesses. Carnivorous beasts, sold as trophies and trinkets, were weaker than their herbivorous or aerial counterparts. These offerings were nothing more than indulgences for human vanity.
The girl's body carried it further into the market square. Four paths converged here, and at the center stood a fountain.
The statue within the fountain held its attention. A woman knelt on one knee, her other foot planted firmly on the ground. She leaned forward, driving a sword into the earth beneath her. Around the sword's point bloomed vibrant flowers, defying the lifeless gray of the cobblestones that surrounded it.
The statue stood upon a circle of exposed soil, the only patch of natural ground in sight.
Coins glittered beneath the surface of the circular pool surrounding the statue, offerings thrown by hopeful hands.
It paused, amused. The ground beneath the statue was the only patch of natural earth in the entire square, a small oasis amidst the cobblestones and frost-covered streets.
Humans amused it. Their hierarchies, their desires, their rituals—all of it was noise. It had long since grown tired of trying to understand them. But one truth stood clear: every group of humans had an anchor, such as similar to the [Sanctuary].
Kill the anchor, and the group would crumbles or it implodes on itself.
It turned to the right, descending a flight of worn stone stairs into the deeper markets. The noise surged here, bards singing, merchants shouting, and the crowd bustling with life.
"Hope of the ancient dreams,
Catherine keeps us safe.
Her sword cuts through evil,
But in return, her life did she gave—"
One bard sang, his voice rising above the din. It paused momentarily to listen but moved on before the song finished.
The anchor of the [Sanctuary], it reasoned, must be something grand. If this realm truly protected against the real world, then the humans would guard it as if it were the most precious of treasures.
"Sword of hope,
Broken, and the world fell,
But in dark times, do only they tell—
They conjure and dispel,
The darkness of the world."
Another song ended, and the bard bowed as coins—silver and gold—clinked into his pouch.
"When the world fell in despair,
Mother's cries and her tear.
Her pleading brought forth,
The Conjurers of Mother that retort.
They retorted and destroyed,
The evil that took growth and coyed—"
The words piqued its interest for a moment, though only momentarily. The girl it inhabited was quickly surrounded by a group of church preachers, their robes heavy and adorned with symbols of the Mother.
"Do you believe in the Mother, child?" one of them asked, their voices overlapping as they pressed their questions.
Annoyed, it steered the girl's body away, ascending the stairs once more to the quieter expanse of the fountain.
Now, others had gathered at the fountain's edge. Chairs were arranged, rows of them, and in the center, a raised platform served as a stage. The gathered people whispered in anticipation.
A play.
The knowledge came from the girl's memories. Two chairs in the front row and one just behind them sat empty, and it moved to claim them all. But as the girl's hand reached out to pay for the seats, two figures paid and took the two seats in front simultaneously.
Its gaze snapped to them, and for a moment, it froze.
That man. The plaything of the Primordials.
That woman. Laced in the threads of the world.
The names came unbidden, drawn from fragments of the hive mind's collective understanding.
"Ad…" The man's voice carried a familiar weight, rough but restrained. "Really? You brought me out to see this play? Again?"
The woman—Ad—smiled faintly, a glimmer of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Does it hurt you that there are no plays for the Anvil of the past, Mr. Aldric?"
Aldric. The name struck a chord, the recognition flashing in its mind like a flicker of lightning. It had heard collective rumors, and through it's encounter against them, it's raw anger grew again.
But,
It didn't move closer, didn't reveal itself. Instead, it guided the girl's body to the seat in the row behind them, ensuring she would remain unnoticed.
The play began.
The play unfolded, its tale both grand and grim. On the stage, a swordswoman wandered foreign lands until she came upon a kingdom. It was a place of ruin and despair, ruled by a mad king whose strings were pulled by corrupt ministers. Their greed and betrayal had sown seeds of division, birthing an internal war that soon spilled beyond the kingdom's borders.
Churches burned, villages crumbled, and plague swept through the lands. Amid the chaos, the swordswoman, witness to so much violence, cast aside her blade in desperation.
"O Heavenly Mother, I beseech thee to grant me the strength to deliver mercy unto thy people in thy sacred name," the actress cried, raising her hands to the heavens.
From above, glimmers of light rained down like blessings, and a choir of actors in white robes with gold patterns entered the stage, their voices lifting in song.
"Mother is here,
Bring us good cheer,
Ding-dong, ding-dong,
That is their song.
Oh, how such holy bells ring,
Oh, how such holy bells ring,"
The melody wove through the air, somber yet hopeful. The swordswoman joined in, her voice trembling as the chorus swelled around her.
"Oh, here she comes,
To bless the queen…"
The song carried divine promise, and the crowd murmured in awe.
Behind her borrowed eyes, it watched with detached curiosity. Humans were fascinating in their need to shape stories, to cast their fears and hopes into plays and prayers. It could see the patterns within the tale, the attempts to layer morality upon history.
Ahead of it, Aldric scoffed. "It's a good tale they've made," he said, leaning slightly toward Ad.
The girl's body it inhabited leaned forward too, straining to hear.
"For a civilization six hundred years old and all the advancements they've made with our help," Ad replied, her voice cool and measured. "It's remarkable they've come so far, even if it took us working in the shadows to push them."
"'Us?'" Aldric muttered, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "That was you, the witch, Zana, Baharak... I just—"
Ad raised a hand, cutting him off. "Okay, I remember. Geez, how do I even put up with you?"
The play shifted, transitioning into its second part. The swordswoman, once a beacon of mercy, now reclaimed her blade. She turned it upon the white-robed figures, slaughtering them with grim efficiency. Others were drawn to her cause, taking up swords in rebellion. But now, they were depicted as villains, their actions twisted into evil.
"A swordsman is always a devil's executioner, however much a saint sings praises of them," spat a young girl on stage—a significant character, the swordswoman's chosen successor. Her voice brimmed with rage as she condemned those who bore swords.
Another song began, lamenting the need to root out all swordsmen and swordswomen. It did not listen, its interest fading as the tale turned predictable.
"There's as if an inbuilt hate for us," Aldric said, his tone flat yet carrying a faint trace of weariness.
Ad said nothing.
"...I'm sorry," she murmured after a moment. "I didn't know they added this part to the play. It wasn't in the version I saw."
"It's okay." Aldric's tone was indifferent, almost resigned. "I could never get mad at you, anyway."
But then his voice faltered. "How did it ever even come to this? It's as if people were brainwashed to hate the kni—"
He stopped himself mid-word.
It noticed.
Aldric's hesitation, the deliberate way he cut himself off, did not go unnoticed. The word he had nearly spoken lingered unspoken, but it understood. Knight.
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
DaoistpMEI89
DaoistpMEI89 Did I say two chapters from Sunday? My apologies. I DIDN'T KNOW MY STOMACH ACHE WOULD THROW ME IN THE HOSPITAL.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
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