The bag that had been placed over his head smelled oddly familiar, however he didn't exactly have the clarity of mind to pin point exactly where he had smelt it before.
A a set off chains jangled as they bound his arms and legs, not that these attackers needed that anyway. He could hardly slip out of their grip even if he wanted to.
"Who are you?! What do you want!" he screamed, hoping that someone from the other cabins would hear him and send for help.
"Begin," one of the attackers murmured.
A massive hunk of a fist tore into Moros's stomach, knocking air and this morning's lunch out of his stomach.
He fell to the ground in pain, struggling to draw air into his lungs.
'W-why.'
"Again."
This time a flurry of kicks bludgeoned his head, ribs and face. Pain and fear ate away at his mind as he was beaten inches from death. All he could hear were the snapping sounds of his bones cracking , and the exhausted sobs coming from his own mouth.
'Why? Why are they doing this?'
He couldn't move, it was as if the chains had been magically imbued, sapping strength out of him with every passing second. And even if they weren't, everything hurt too much to even attempt fighting back.
Hot tears drenched the rag over his face, making it hard for him to breath.
"Take it off."
The rag was pulled off his face, and he got a better look at his attackers. Beyond the shadows cast by their hoods they wore silver masks. Something about the adornments etched into them was familiar, but again, he was too in shock to put any real thought into it.
They gave him a moment to catch his breath... to cough up blood and to let his tears dry.
Those several seconds of silence were some of the scariest he'd ever been through since his childhood. Not knowing when they would attack him again... the fear of an unknown punch breaking another rib from the darkness around him.
"W-why," Moros mumbled finally. His swollen lip made it hard to speak.
"Resign as an apostle," the attacker standing at the center him said blankly. He was the shortest of the group, but from the way all the others stared at him silently, he was clearly the leader.
He pulled a pentagram out from within his robes. The church's symbol of divinity.
"Do that, and spit on this cheap trinket, and the pain will stop."
Moros stared up at the attacker as if they were crazy. No, in fact he was completely certain that they were.
'This is why they snuck into my cabin, and beat me?'
His first thought was that they were city kids. Probably not too happy that orphans had made it into their prestigious academy. Who else could they be?
But they couldn't honestly expect an attack like this to go unpunished. This was dumb, but perhaps all the rumors about city kids being snobbish idiots were true.
Moros smiled, and cleared his throat, bringing mucus into his mouth.
He spat, the mucus landing on the lead attacker's robe.
"Fuck you. If you guys touched my sister, the church's punishment will be the last of your worries."
The lead attacker looked down at the mucus on his robe, before kneeling down to look Moros in the eyes.
"You think this is a joke?" he asked.
Moros froze. No... something was off.
These weren't kids. They had used magic to tie him up, and some of them were much too large to be heading to the academy.
"Bag him."
'Wait... spit on the divine pentagram? No member of the church would even joke about that. These guys are...'
The bag was placed on Moros's face again.
'...heretics.'
Punches and kicks tore into his body once again, cracking what few bones remained unbroken. These guys were going to kill him... the realization hit him like a train.
'The rite... the rite, I have to activate it,' he thought, fumbling for his wrist. However his arms had already been snapped, and on top of the chains draining his strength, he just didn't have it in him to reach it.
'Fuck. How? How did heretics get into the train?'
"Stop. Remove it."
The bag was lifted off his head once again, and the pentagram was presented right in front of his face.
"Do it."
Moros's eyes had swollen shut, he could barely make out the pentagram now, much less anything else in the room.
'Why... why do they want me to do this? Why won't they just kill me?' he wondered. A lot of things didn't make sense, but there was just too much going on for him to think clearly. All he knew was that he wasn't going to listen to heretics... to the sort of people that had killed his parents.
Just then, it dawned on him... the silver masks.
He knew where he had seen them before.
These were shadowkin... the very same group from all those years ago.
He smiled, the wounds on his lips tearing open even more.
He struggled to form words, and when they finally came out, they were not but a hoarse whisper; "...fu... you..."
The lead attacker pulled him up by the hair, and brought his close to his ear. "Say that again."
"F.u.c.k you," Moros mumbled, before spitting right into the attacker's ear.
The lead attacker grunted, wiping the spit out his ear. "Is this really worth your life?" he asked, dropping Moros to the ground.
"I will only give you one last chance. Resign as an apostle, and spit on the pentagram."
Moros just remained silent, hot tears stinging the bruises on his face.
He was pathetic. After all these years, he'd finally gained the power he always wanted... he'd finally come face to face with these fiends again. Yet he had been captured, and beaten before he could even do anything.
Perhaps this was just his fate. To die a useless victim of the 'lord's beautiful world.'
"Kill him... slowly," the lead attacker, ordered.
And one of the other attackers pulled out a large knife, and slowly climbed on top of Moros, raising the knife right above his chest.
'Laura. I hope you they didn't capture you too,' he thought, as the knife slowly descended. 'I leave our plans to you... I'll go ahead and wait for you.'
Right as the knife was about to pierce his chest.
"Stop."
The attacker stood up.
'What?'
The lead attacker removed his mask, revealing a silver eyes man, with short cut hair. He had a single scar running along his right eye, which had turned the iris an milky white color.
"Congratulations, apostle Moros," he said, standing at attention, like all the knights he had seen on TV.
"You have passed your first lesson... death before dishonor."
Moros was flooded with a mix of emotions... confusion, relief, anger, joy.
"Welcome to Writheborn academy."