(Neutral Planet Cyreth, Public Square Broadcast, A Common Cult Citizens’ POV)
Across the countless neutral worlds scattered through the universe, every major plaza, tavern, and trading hall fell under the same silent spell as the broadcast began.
The skies above Cyreth, usually filled with the soft hum of airships and market chatter, went eerily still as the largest holo-screen in the capital square flickered to life, projecting the image that none of the Cultists wished to see.
Their Dragon.
Their savior.
Stripped off his basic dignity and forced to stand chained, naked, bleeding.
The sound of the crowd from Voralis roared through the speakers, spilling across cities and marketplaces alike as the ceremonial drums beat like funeral bells.
The voices of Righteous citizens jeered and cheered, overlapping with the rhythmic crack of the whip that echoed from the transmission.
*WHIPLASH*
*WHIPLASH*
With every lash that fell, the people of the Cult flinched as if the pain were their own, their eyes wide and hollow, their bodies stiff with disbelief.
Inside the crowd, they dared not breathe too loud.
For though the neutral planets pretended to be fair, everyone knew which faction held true power here, and to weep for the Cult, or even to look too mournful, was to invite imprisonment or death.
So they stood still—men, women, and children, cloaked in silence while those around them laughed and pointed, calling the image on the screen a fitting end for the "Evil Dragon of the Cult."
No one among the Cult spoke aloud.
They could not.
They only watched, each pair of eyes carrying the same quiet ache.
A middle-aged man in a brown cloak clutched the hand of his daughter tighter, his knuckles white as her small fingers trembled within his grasp.
"Father... why are they hurting him?" she whispered softly, her voice barely audible against the background laughter.
He could not answer. His throat felt locked, his heart heavy as the words choked inside him.
Beside them, an old woman stood with both hands pressed to her mouth, tears rolling freely down her wrinkled face as the soldiers on-screen raised the whip again, striking Veyr until the blood sprayed against the platform.
*WHIPLASH*
*WHIPLASH*
*WHIPLASH*
And yet through it all, the Dragon did not bow.
Even through the pixelated shimmer of the projection, his posture remained proud, his head high, his eyes fixed forward.
As that quiet strength he projected tore deeper into their hearts than any wound could.
Because they knew what it meant.
It meant that even now, after being broken, stripped, and shamed, he refused to kneel.
And if he would not kneel, then they too could not kneel.
But courage was a luxury none of them could afford.
A young man standing by the corner of the square clenched his jaw until blood seeped from the side of his mouth, the rage in his chest screaming for release. Yet when one of the Righteous citizens turned toward him and laughed, he forced a hollow smile in return, pretending to share in their amusement as bile rose in his throat.
All across the planet, the same scene repeated.
In every alleyway, every dim bar, every crowded street where the broadcast played, Cult survivors watched their pride unravel in real time, yet not one dared to show it.
They lowered their heads, or looked away, or bit their tongues until they bled, their hearts burning in silence while the rest of the universe rejoiced in their despair.
’Is this what we’ve become?’
’Are we truly so powerless now?’
The questions echoed in the hearts of millions, unspoken but shared, like a collective prayer swallowed before it could reach Soron’s ears.
Some knelt right there in the mud, pressing their foreheads to the ground, whispering Veyr’s name beneath their breath, hoping that somehow their faith could reach him across the void.
Some could not bear to watch and turned their backs, the sound of the whip haunting them as they walked away, pretending to be indifferent while tears rolled down their cheeks.
And some simply stood frozen, faces pale, eyes hollow, watching the man who once embodied their hope now treated as an animal before the entire universe.
For them, this was worse than exile.
When their home worlds were conquered, they had endured.
When their cities burned, they had endured.
But now, watching their Dragon humiliated while they could do nothing but stand among the mockers and pretend to laugh with them—this was the moment they knew they had reached the true bottom.
And yet, amidst the despair, something small but unyielding stirred within the crowd.
A whisper.
Barely audible.
A single trembling voice that said, "He’s still standing..."
Then another, "He didn’t bow..."
And soon, from corners of the square, hidden beneath the noise of laughter, came faint murmurs of quiet defiance.
"He didn’t break..."
"He’s still the Dragon..."
"He’s still ours..."
None of them dared raise their voices higher than a whisper, but those whispers spread like ripples through the crowd, carried by hearts that still refused to die.
Because though their bodies were slaves to fear, their faith was not.
Even humiliated, even chained, their Dragon still stood, and that alone was enough to remind them that the Cult of Ascension had not truly fallen.
Not yet.
And hence, even as the broadcast continued, as the crowd of Righteous citizens howled with laughter and hurled insults at the screen, the Cultists among them only lowered their heads further, hiding faint smiles behind trembling hands.
For though the universe saw a broken man, they saw a promise unspoken.
A vow that one day, when the time came, every lash and every humiliation would be repaid in full.
—----
A small group of Cultists gathered in secret that night, their faces hidden beneath worn hoods, their voices hushed as they argued in desperation.
"We must save the Dragon," one man said, his tone cracking as he slammed his palm against the table. "I can’t take it anymore. Every day they humiliate him, every hour they show new clips of his suffering. Even if I die, I need to try. I need to save our Lord."
"I understand how you feel," another replied quietly, her eyes fixed on the floor, "but trying to save him now would be suicide. Do you not realize what guards him? He travels with two hundred Transcendent-tier soldiers and four Monarchs. Even if we gathered every Cultist on this planet, we would not reach the steps of his cage before being slaughtered."
"But what then?" the first man shouted, his voice trembling. "Do we just sit here and do nothing while our Lord is whipped in front of the universe? Are we really so helpless?"
"It’s the truth," an older man said at last, his tone low and bitter. "We are powerless. We have no leader, no army, no sanctuary left to flee to. The Righteous Faction has stripped us of everything."
Silence followed, the kind that pressed on the chest and made breathing difficult.
A young woman broke it after a moment, whispering softly. "Maybe... maybe all we can do now is pray. If we cannot save him, then at least let our prayers reach him. Let him know that his people still believe."
The others lowered their heads, her words sinking deeper than they wished to admit.
"Pray," the older man repeated, his voice cracking. "Yes. For now, that is all we can do."
No one spoke after that.
For in their hearts, each of them already knew that no prayer could pierce the walls of his prison, yet still they prayed, because it was the only thing left that made them feel hopeful.