Chapter 7 – The Descent into the Choir

Katakana stumbled forward, the ground beneath him no longer solid, but a strange, shifting stone that hummed under his feet. The Choir’s song vibrated in his chest like a living heartbeat, pulsating through every vein, every nerve. He could feel the tether to his siblings now nothing more than a whisper in his memory, fragile and fleeting.

The fog parted just enough to reveal a vast, open chamber stretching endlessly in all directions. Towering stone pillars, carved with faces frozen in agony, rose from the floor. The walls pulsed faintly, as if breathing, lined with runes that shimmered with a dull, crimson light. At the center lay a raised stone altar, slick and blackened, surrounded by faintly glowing sigils forming a circle that hummed in harmony with the Choir.

Katakana’s stomach twisted. This was no ordinary ritual site. This was a prison built from music and fear, a space meant to bind souls and drain their essence.

He tried to step back. “I won’t do this! I didn’t choose this!” he shouted, voice cracking, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive silence of the chamber.

From the shadows, the townsfolk began to appear. Not the people he remembered, but hollow-eyed versions, shuffling forward with resignation written in every movement. Mothers, fathers, children, all with faces pale and empty, eyes fixed on the stone altar as if it held the answer to everything.

One of them stepped forward, a man whose shoulders had once been strong, now hunched with fear. His voice was almost a whisper, trembling. “It is not your choice, boy. It is the Choir’s will… the Offering must be fulfilled.”

Katakana’s hands trembled. “Why? Why do you all just stand there?”

They looked at him blankly, almost not seeing him. “We survive in obedience,” another said, an old woman whose lips quivered as she spoke. “To resist is to vanish before the Offering. We… we cannot…”

He clenched his fists. “Cannot what? Fight? Protect each other? Remember?!”

The stone altar in the center pulsed, the sigils glowing brighter as if reacting to his defiance. The shadows twisted along the walls, moving independently, echoing the shape of the Choir’s endless mouths. A low, sharp whisper, older than the world, cut through the air.

“You belong here,” the voice said. “The hunger knows you. The Offering begins.”

Katakana’s chest burned. His hidden power, the skeleton form hinted at before, pulsed faintly beneath his skin. The Choir felt it too, a disturbance in the eternal symphony. But it was not yet fully awakened; it waited for him to claim it, to fight.

From the edge of the chamber, movement caught his eye. Cloaked figures in black robes slipped silently between pillars. Their masks gleamed faintly under the runes’ light, twisted in expressions of hunger and cruelty. The Broken Will had followed him here.

St. Williams the Crave did not appear yet, but Katakana could feel the presence of the clan, their attention like cold fingers brushing against the back of his neck. They were here not only to ensure the Offering continued but to see if the boy who had resisted could be a weapon, or a failure.

Katakana’s heart pounded. He tried to reach out to the townsfolk again, to plead, to stop the ritual. But every voice that tried to speak for him seemed swallowed by the oppressive hum. Their eyes were glassy, blank. Fear had chained them too tightly.

A sharp vibration ran through the stone beneath his knees, and the sigils on the altar flared. Katakana fell to his hands, the hum turning into a deafening chorus, the sound of a thousand mouths singing at once.

And in that moment, he realized: he was not just fighting the Choir. He was fighting centuries of fear, obedience, and hunger.

The veil between the ritual space and the Choir’s endless void trembled, showing glimpses of the skeletal figure, the whispering souls, and the shadows of the past Offerings. Every name, every sacrifice that had vanished, flickered briefly in the air, a reminder of what awaited him if he faltered.

Katakana forced himself to his feet. He could not allow fear to take him completely. If he yielded now, he would vanish like all those before him. If he resisted, he could awaken the power waiting inside him, the form hinted at by the skeleton, the scythe, and the shadows.

The townsfolk stepped aside mechanically, the way the obedient always do. The Broken Will advanced silently, masks glinting in the crimson light, ready to enforce the Choir’s will.

Katakana took a deep breath, feeling the hum of the Choir thrumming through his body, feeling the hidden pulse of power within him stir faintly. His fists clenched. His eyes glowed silver.

“I will not vanish,” he whispered, voice firm against the overwhelming chorus. “I will not be just another name erased. I will fight.”

The stone altar glowed brighter, shadows twisting eagerly around him.

Somewhere, deep inside the Choir, the skeletal figure stirred, as if sensing the challenge.

And somewhere in the fog beyond the ritual space, St. Williams’s eyes gleamed behind his mask. The Crave had come to witness the first ripple of resistance.

The descent had begun.