Chapter 11: The Saint of Smothering Adoration

My hand was still wrapped around Elara’s collar as we walked toward the outskirts.​

The Sacred Camp—that’s what the cultists called it—sat at the edge of the capital where farmland met forest, far enough from civilization that their chanting wouldn’t drive merchants insane but close enough to block supply routes. Dust kicked up with each step, coating my boots in a fine layer of “I hate my life”.​

Elara stumbled.​

Her foot caught on absolutely nothing—a completely flat section of road that somehow became an obstacle when she decided it should be. I yanked her upright by the collar before she could face-plant into the dirt.​

“Careful.”

“Yes, Master Rian.”

Her voice was breathy, face flushed that deep crimson that meant her brain had gone somewhere I didn’t want to follow.​

“Your uplifting grace is too much—I’m unworthy of your touch.”

“You’re walking on a flat road—there’s nothing to trip over.”

“But the journey itself is an ordeal—every step a test of my devotion to endure for you.”

I tightened my grip on her collar.​

She stumbled again—this time I was ready, hauling her back to vertical with minimal effort. She gasped like I’d just performed a miracle instead of basic physics.​

“Master Rian’s strength—”

“Stop interpreting everything as divine intervention—I’m just keeping you from eating dirt.”

“Yes, keeping me upright through your merciful correction.”

This was going to be a long walk.​

The Sacred Camp came into view after twenty minutes of Elara’s “accidental” stumbling.​

It looked like someone had read a book about ascetic monasteries and decided to recreate it using only bad decisions and religious fervor. Rough tents made from brown cloth—the kind that screamed “we’ve rejected material comfort”—were arranged in a perfect circle around a central clearing. Cultists milled about in their matching robes, some kneeling in prayer, others literally standing in lines for reasons I couldn’t comprehend.​

“What are they waiting for?”

Elara squinted at the nearest line—fifteen people deep, all patient and devoted.​

“I think they’re waiting to be ignored by me.”

“That’s not a thing people wait for.”

“It is if they believe my indifference is a form of sacred suffering.”

She wasn’t wrong—as we got closer I could hear their murmured prayers, variations on “grant me the strength to endure her holy neglect” and “let me suffer in her peripheral vision”.​

This was worse than the Lich King fight.​

At least the Lich King had the decency to attack us directly—he didn’t create elaborate psychological rituals around suffering, he just threw necrotic magic and called it a day. This cult had turned Elara’s personal dysfunction into a theology complete with waiting lists.​

I stepped into the camp—still dragging Elara by her collar like luggage.​

Nobody noticed us at first—they were too busy with their devotional activities, their organized suffering, their patient waiting to be ignored. I cleared my throat, trying to channel whatever authority came with being a Guild Master.​

“Attention—I’m here on behalf of the Guild Association to discuss your immediate relocation.”

Silence.​

Not the good kind—the kind where people heard you but decided your words didn’t matter enough to acknowledge. They kept praying, kept waiting in their lines, kept doing whatever incomprehensible thing they’d been doing before I spoke.​

“Did you hear me? I said—”

Elara shifted beside me—her breath catching as she processed the situation.​

“Master Rian—they won’t listen to you unless I introduce you properly.”

“I don’t need an introduction—I’m the Guild Master of Crimson Rose, that should be enough.”

“But they don’t care about titles—they only care about suffering and the hierarchy of pain.”

Her face flushed deeper.​

“They need to know you’re the one who architects my agony.”

Oh no.​

“Elara, don’t—”

“This is my Master!”

Her voice rang out across the camp—loud, clear, trembling with that specific quality that made my headache worse.​

“The Architect of my Agony! The Divine Hand that corrects my sinful flesh! The Holy Authority who grants me purpose through punishment!”

Every cultist stopped what they were doing.​

Thirty, forty, maybe fifty faces turned toward us—eyes wide, expressions shifting from devotion to something worse, that hungry recognition that came from meeting someone’s religious icon in person.​

“The Master—”

One cultist breathed.​

“He who shapes the Saint’s suffering—”

Another voice joined.​

“The Sacred Tormentor walks among us!”

Then they moved—all of them at once, a coordinated rush of brown robes and religious fervor. They didn’t run at Elara like I expected—they ran at me, throwing themselves down before my boots like I was royalty instead of a glorified zookeeper.​

“Great Master!”

A cultist pressed his forehead to the dirt inches from my foot.​

“Allocate us a portion of the Saint’s burden—let us suffer in her name!”

“Please, step on my unworthy spine—let me feel the weight of divine authority!”

Another voice from somewhere in the pile of prostrated bodies.​

“Grant us discipline! We crave correction!”

I looked down at the mass of fanatics literally begging me to abuse them—then I looked at Elara, who was trembling so hard I thought she might vibrate into another dimension. Her eyes were glazed, breathing ragged, face flushed so deep it approached purple.​

“Master Rian—”

Her voice barely a whisper.​

“They understand—they see what I see—your authority, your power to inflict purposeful suffering.”

“This is not happening—I’m not their sacred tormentor, I’m here to disperse a cult, not validate their mass delusion.”

“But you brought me here—dragged me by the collar through the dusty road—that’s already more correction than they’ve experienced in their entire spiritual journey.”

She swayed on her feet.​

“I haven’t just brought a healer—I’ve brought a perversion catalyst who turns everything into fuel for dysfunction.​

I took a breath—deep, steadying, the kind you took before jumping into freezing water or dealing with situations that required professional composure you absolutely didn’t have.​

“Everyone, stand up—I’m not here to allocate suffering or grant discipline.”

They didn’t move—if anything they pressed themselves flatter against the ground.​

“The Master tests our faith through rejection!”

Someone shouted from the mass.​

“He denies us to strengthen our resolve!”

“This is the Trial of Unworthiness—we must prove ourselves through persistent devotion!”

No, no, absolutely not—they were interpreting my attempt at crowd control as some kind of spiritual examination. Every word I said was being filtered through their religious framework and coming out as validation.​

I looked at Elara again—she was on the verge of collapse, overwhelmed by the collective attention, by the realization that fifty people were mimicking her worst impulses.​

“Master Rian—”

She dropped to her knees right there in the dirt.​

“This is my fault—my sinful tongue has made everything worse—please, silence me before I corrupt them further.”

“Elara—”

“Discipline me in front of them—show them the consequences of perversion disguised as piety—make an example of my wicked flesh.”

Her hands clutched at my coat—desperate, pleading, entirely too genuine for someone who was supposed to be helping me.​

“I beg you, Master—correct me so thoroughly they understand the difference between devotion and depravity.”

The cultists watched this exchange with rapt attention—I could see it in their eyes, that dawning realization that they were witnessing something sacred in their twisted theology.​

The throbbing behind my eyes intensified—this was it, the moment where I either handled this professionally or gave in to the absurdity and played the role they’d cast me in.​

I looked at the cultists—still prostrated, still waiting for direction.​

I looked at Elara—on her knees, trembling, begging for correction that would somehow fix this mess.​

I looked at my own exhausted reflection in a nearby water bucket—the face of a man who’d given up on normal solutions three disasters ago.​

“Fine—you want commands? You want authority?”

My voice dropped to that Guild Master tone—the one that made Valeria submit and Seraphina pause her manipulations.​

“Then here’s your divine instruction—pack up this camp, relocate fifty miles north to the abandoned monastery near the mountain pass, and stop blocking trade routes before I make your suffering significantly less voluntary.”

The cultists stirred—not in rebellion but in something worse, recognition and acceptance.​

“The Master has spoken!”

One of them rose—a thin man with wild eyes and bleeding palms from self-flagellation.​

“We are commanded to relocate—this is the pilgrimage of penance!”

“Fifty miles of sacred suffering to prove our devotion!”

Another voice joined—then another, until the whole camp buzzed with excited acceptance of what I’d meant as a threat but they’d received as blessing.​

Elara looked up at me—her expression a mix of shame and something dangerously close to pride.​

“Master Rian commanded them—spoke with such authority they couldn’t resist—this is exactly what I’ve been fantasizing about all morning.”

“That’s not something you should say out loud.”

“But it’s true—watching you dominate an entire cult with nothing but presence and voice—”

She pressed her forehead against my knee.​

“I’m so unworthy of witnessing this.”

The cultists had already started packing—moving with surprising efficiency for people who’d been lying in the dirt moments ago. Tents came down, supplies were organized, the whole operation transforming from stationary camp to mobile pilgrimage in real-time.​

I’d done it—suppressed the cult, relocated them away from vital infrastructure, solved Beatrice’s PR disaster.​

By becoming exactly what they wanted me to be—a villain with authority who commanded through dominance instead of reason.​

The headache wasn’t going away.