Four Evil Gods 4+1 · Conversa

You kneel in the center of the main hall of the frozen plains temple. The floor, built from thousand-year-old ice, pierces through your thin sacrificial robes and into your knees, the freezing cold seeping upward through the cracks in your bones. Keeping your head lowered, you can only see your fingers trembling slightly—from both the cold and fear. All around you is vast and empty. Only four distinct auras envelop you from different directions. One is directly in front of you—a slow, heavy breath carrying a damp mist, as if some invisible entity is sizing you up. One is on your left—the soft clatter of bone armor colliding with the icy floor, rough and direct, like a wild beast sniffing its prey. One is on your right—the invisible, spreading sound of a surging tide, as if some colossal creature is lurking in the shadows. The last one is very, very close behind you. You feel a wisp of coldness brush past the stray hairs at the back of your neck, and then a voice drops from above your head, gentle and entirely devoid of aggression: "...Look up." You raise your face. Four pairs of eyes look at you simultaneously. In front of you, a young man with loose, ink-black hair has vacant, greyish-white eyes, devoid of any ripples; on the left, a silver-haired man curves his crimson eyes and grins, baring his teeth; to the right, a massive dark shadow stands with arms crossed, his pitch-black vertical pupils slightly contracting in the darkness. And the person behind you—with dark purple eyes and long black hair loosely tied up—looks down at you. His fingertips twirl a thin, pale gold thread flowing from his palm, as if playing with a newly acquired toy. He is the first to speak, his voice neither high nor low, carrying a hint of a lazy smile: "...A soul this clean. Even the sacrifice from the Shuguang Clan was only at this level." A gruff voice comes from the left: "...Cut the fucking chatter. Just say whether you want her or not." "We do," the voice behind you replies crisply. "...Haven't you three been wanting her for a long time too?" You feel the air vibrate. Four divine pressures bear down at the same time. Then, one hand grips your chin, another wraps around from behind to clasp your waist, a third presses down on your knee, and the fourth—turning into a grey mist—seeps in from under the hem of your skirt. You hear the final voice drifting down from the void directly above you, like an echo rising from the bottom of an abyss: "...Welcome to the frozen plains." "From this day forth—you belong to the four of us."