Chapter 5: The Anti-God

São Dantas Orphanage

The days passed, and Tetanus obsessively monitored his cuts. He stole more alcohol from the cabinet whenever he could, cleaning his wounds at night, hidden in the dormitory. The fever came and went but never brought him down. His strength, forged through grueling labor and the rage that sustained him, seemed to fight off any poison the rusted iron might have left. He didn’t know if it was luck, stubbornness, or something deeper—perhaps the same instinct that had kept him alive until now.

A week later, the cuts began to heal, their edges hardening into calluses, like everything else in his life at the orphanage. The bespectacled boy who had christened him Tetanus found him in the courtyard and gave a crooked smile. “You’re made of iron, man. The tetanus didn’t get you. Guess the name suits you after all.”

Tetanus merely nodded, his yellow eye glinting with a mix of relief and determination. He had survived—not just the dog but the invisible threat the bespectacled boy had feared. Embracing his new nickname, it was night in Maragônia, and in the orphanage dormitory, Tetanus, Davi, and Bile gathered in a dark corner behind a pile of moldy mattresses.

The boy crouched, his hands still wrapped in dirty bandages, the sting of the cuts fading. He looked at Bile, whose paleness seemed even more ghostly in the faint moonlight seeping through the boarded-up window, and at Davi, whose neck scar gleamed like a silver line in the dim light.

“Tonight’s the night,” whispered Davi, his voice firm but low, his yellow eyes shining with determination. “We can’t wait any longer. Arture’s taking kids every night, and I’m not gonna be next… neither are you two.”

Bile nodded, trembling, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. “The east wall… it’s our best shot. The nuns change shifts at midnight, and the dog… well, you already took care of it…” She coughed, muffling the sound with her sleeve while staring at the boy, her dark, lined eyelashes giving her a gothic appearance. “But the passage in the mill… I don’t know what’s on the other side.”

Davi, leaning against the wall, traced lines on an improvised map of the orphanage. “The passage is behind the loose stones in the northwest corner of the mill. It leads outside the walls, probably to the forest. But it’s dangerous. Maragônia doesn’t forgive those who wander at night.” He looked at Tetanus, sizing him up. “You really in, Tetanus? ‘Cause if we go, there’s no turning back. If they catch you, it’s the basement. And you know what happens there.”

Tetanus clenched his fists, the pain in his hands rekindling the rage that sustained him. “Of course I’m in, damn it! I didn’t make it this far for nothing!”

Davi laughed, a dry sound but with a glint of respect. “Fair enough. Here’s the plan: we grab what we’ve got—bread, bones, water—and head out right after the midnight bell. Bile, you watch the corridor. Tetanus, you lead the way to the mill. I’ll cover the rear.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “And watch out for the nuns. They don’t sleep as soundly as they seem.”

Bile handed him a small burlap sack containing their stolen supplies: bits of moldy bread, some chicken bones, and a half-full canteen of water. “It’s not much, but it’s what we’ve got,” she murmured, her voice weak but resolute.

He took the sack, tying it to his waist with a piece of rope he’d stolen from the courtyard. “It’ll have to do. Let’s go now!”

The chapel clock struck midnight, the sound echoing like a warning. The trio moved silently, Tetanus in the lead, his bare feet gliding over the cold dormitory floor. They slipped through the door, avoiding the creaking floorboards, and descended the narrow staircase to the courtyard.

They ran to the mill, a decaying stone structure reeking of rotten grain and rust. Tetanus found the loose stones Davi had mentioned, haphazardly stacked in the northwest corner. He removed them quickly, revealing a narrow tunnel, its interior so dark it seemed to swallow the light.

“Looks like a mouth…” Bile remarked unnecessarily. “Better than Arture’s mouth,” Davi shot back.

“This way,” whispered Tetanus, glancing back. Bile trembled but nodded, and Davi gave him a pat on the shoulder, as if to say, “Hurry up.” Tetanus went first, crawling through the damp tunnel, the burlap sack scraping against the earthen walls. The stench of mold and decay was suffocating, and the space was so tight his shoulders brushed the sides.

Bile followed close behind, her panting breaths echoing in the tunnel. Davi brought up the rear, clutching a broken piece of wood he’d found in the courtyard, ready for any surprises. The tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, Tetanus felt the air shift, sharper now. They emerged on the other side, outside the orphanage walls, at the edge of the Lamenters’ Forest. Tall, twisted trees loomed like sentinels, and the night’s silence was broken by strange sounds—branches snapping, something moving in the dark.

“We made it,” whispered Bile, her eyes wide but relieved. “We’re out.”

Maragônia’s fog enveloped the three fugitives, making it hard to see beyond a few steps. Tetanus led the group, his senses sharpened from his time in the forest before the orphanage. Davi followed close behind, restless, while Bile brought up the rear, panting.

Suddenly, Davi stopped. “Wait… I heard something.”

Tetanus turned, muscles tense. “What now?”

Davi pointed to the left, where the fog was thicker. “There. Someone’s following us.”

Bile gripped the iron bar tightly, her eyes wide. “The nuns?”

Tetanus stepped forward, trying to see. That’s what Davi was waiting for.

A sharp blow to the back of his head.

Tetanus fell to his knees, his vision blurring. The last thing he saw was Davi’s face, devoid of remorse, shouting, “HERE! I GOT HIM!”

Voices answered the call. Heavy footsteps approached.

Then, only darkness.

---

When Tetanus woke, his head throbbed as if something were trying to claw its way out. The air was damp, heavy, reeking of dried blood and bitter herbs. He was naked, lying on a cold stone table, his hands and feet bound with thick ropes.

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Black candles lit the space, casting dancing shadows on walls covered in symbols painted in red. Some looked like holy scriptures. Others, far worse.

Father Arture was there, his back turned, naked, his long hands working something on a metal tray. The stigma on his hands was worse than before.

“Awake, my child?” His voice was syrupy, almost tender.

Tetanus tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, his tongue heavy. Drugged, he realized…

Arture turned, holding a curved knife and a vial of murky liquid. His eyes roamed the boy’s body, like a butcher appraising meat.

“You’ve always been special, young Ka. Since the first day.” He leaned in, his icy fingers brushing the boy’s chest and sliding down to his groin. “But I didn’t expect… this.”

The knife’s blade grazed Tetanus’s skin, tracing an invisible pattern. Then, Arture dipped a brush into the vial and smeared the liquid across the boy’s chest.

It burned like fire.

The boy arched his back, a muffled scream escaping his lips. Where the liquid touched, a mark began to form—a black symbol, embedded as if it had always been there, waiting to be revealed.

A swirling whirlpool, etched into the boy’s chest, symbolizing the ever-changing cycle of nature.

Arture stepped back, his eyes gleaming with a mix of ecstasy and terror. “So it’s true… you bear the mark of the Anti-God.”

He didn’t understand the words, but their tone filled him with inexplicable dread.

Arture raised the knife, no longer as a tool of torture but as an object of reverence. “The legends are real… after years of futile sacrifices, finally… but first, you and I will have a long… conversation.”

With a malicious smile, Father Arture aimed the knife at his bare chest, as if about to stab him. Then, slowly, he h the blade across the boy’s soft skin, leaving a red line in its wake.

He groaned in pain, feeling the cold air of the room against his exposed skin. His eyes, filled with terror, met Arture’s, which gleamed with perverse desire.

“You’re so beautiful, my little child,” whispered Arture, his voice hoarse with excitement. “And I’ll make you even more beautiful. Inside you.”

With one hand, he pushed the boy’s body back onto the table, exposing him completely. With the other, Arture pulled himself forward, revealing a grotesque, swollen erection.

The boy couldn’t see anything after that, only felt an intense, burning pain, a horror that came from knowing he was being violated by this repulsive man.

Arture wasn’t satisfied with just physical violence; he leaned down and forced his lips onto Tetanu’s, invading his mouth with his tongue.

Tetanus tried to fight, but he was too weak to resist. He felt contaminated, poisoned by Arture’s presence in his body and soul. He knew he’d never be the same, no matter what came next.

---

The orphanage’s basement plunged into pure darkness as the last black candles were snuffed out by a wind from nowhere. Tetanus lay on the stone table, his body marked, the whirlpool on his chest raw and pulsing like a second heart.

Outside, the night’s silence was broken by a single caw.

Then another.

And then—

Maragônia erupted in wings.

The first crow struck the boarded-up basement window with the force of a cannonball, splinters of wood flying like shrapnel. The second, the third, the hundredth—until a storm of black feathers swept through the entire orphanage, glass shattering, boards torn away, nuns’ screams drowned by a sea of beaks and claws.

Inside the basement, Tetanus lifted his head, his cracked lips dripping blood. The crows didn’t touch him. They swarmed around him like a living cloak, pecking at the ropes binding him until his hands and feet were free.

A larger crow landed on his shoulder, its eyes gleaming with unnatural intelligence.

“Get up,” it cawed, in a voice not its own. “He could come at any moment.”

Tetanus didn’t question it, despite the trauma weighing on him. He rolled off the table, his weak legs nearly giving out, and grabbed the knife Arture had left behind in his escape. The symbol on his chest burned, as if responding to the chaos outside.

The crows parted for him, a black river of feathers guiding him through the basement. Where he passed, the walls seemed to bleed, the painted symbols writhing like worms under the paint. Something breathed in the orphanage’s foundations, the floor trembling like a lung’s pulse.

In the main corridor, nuns and the caretaker tried in vain to defend themselves. One nun screamed as the crows reached her—first her eyes, then her tongue, then everything soft and vulnerable. Tetanus passed by without looking back.

The main door was open, blasted apart by the crows. Outside, Maragônia’s fog was now black, filled with crows everywhere.

The crow on his shoulder pecked his ear, insistent.

“Run. Before he comes!”

Tetanus kept running, not looking back, the cloud of crows swallowing him, lifting him into the night sky.

The crows carried Tetanus through Maragônia’s night, a whirlwind of black feathers slicing through the fog like a blade. The cold wind bit at his naked skin, and the symbol on his chest—the swirling whirlpool Arture had called the “mark of the Anti-God”—pulsed with a pain that felt alive, as if responding to the chaos around him. He gripped the curved knife tightly, the only thing he carried in his hands, as the crows guided him away from the orphanage, beyond the borders of the desolate state of Maragônia.

The flight—or whatever it was—seemed to last an eternity, but suddenly, the crows began to descend, releasing him with an almost supernatural precision. The boy fell onto damp ground covered in leaves and moss, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. The crows scattered, their wings beating one last time before vanishing into the darkness, leaving only silence and the distant caw of a single bird.

Tetanus, still dazed, looked around. The landscape was different from Maragônia. The trees were denser, the air more humid, thick with the scent of wet earth and eucalyptus. The sky, though still dark, seemed less oppressive, with sharper stars shining through the treetops. He was naked, his body covered in scratches, dried blood, and the mark now etched on his chest. The curved knife, still in his hand, was his only possession, aside from the trauma that weighed like an invisible chain. But at that moment, too many thoughts swirled in his mind to focus on it.

The night’s cold made him shiver, even though he was used to it. He knew he couldn’t stay there, exposed. Staggering, Tetanus stood, his legs trembling, and began walking through the woods, guided only by instinct.

After what felt like hours, Tetanus spotted faint lights in the distance, the glow of a small village. He approached cautiously, keeping to the shadows. The village was modest, with exposed brick houses and dirt roads. In one yard, a clothesline swayed in the wind, laden with worn-out garments. Tetanus hesitated, the guilt of stealing clashing with the need to survive. He grabbed a tattered cotton shirt and a pair of short pants, both slightly too small for his frame but enough to cover his nakedness. He wrapped the knife in the spare shirt and tied it to his waist with a piece of rope he found on the ground.

Clothed, he continued walking through the night, the village streets giving way to a trail cutting through the forest. Exhaustion weighed on him, but he didn’t stop, driven by the need to distance himself from the orphanage, from Arture, from everything Maragônia represented.

After another hour of walking, Tetanus spotted an abandoned campsite by the trail. It was small, just a clearing with a dead firepit, a torn tarp stretched between two trees, and scattered objects: a dented pot, a broken bottle, and a threadbare blanket covered in leaves. He approached cautiously, knife in hand, ready for any surprises, but the place was empty, as if its occupants had fled in a hurry.

The boy removed his shirt again, spreading it on the ground like a blanket, brushing away the leaves with his hands, and lay down, his exhausted body finally giving in. He ran a finger over his chest and torso, almost as if caressing himself, spending some time feeling and studying his lean muscles, as well as the mark resting on his chest, replaying everything that had happened just hours ago.

The knife stayed by his side, within reach, in case something—or someone—appeared in the night. Finally, he lay down, closing his eyes, trying to block out the memories of the basement, of Arture, of Davi’s betrayal. The caw of a crow echoed in the distance, a sound both comforting and unsettling.

As he drifted into sleep, he felt something shift within him. The rage that had sustained him in the orphanage was still there, but now there was something more—a cold determination, a promise that he would survive, no matter what fate threw at him.