First Encounter with the Doctrine of Desire

Afra paid no heed to the messy knot of her hair falling into her eyes; clutching a thick dictionary of ancient Uralic, she translated the copied document word by word. Karl, pale-faced, wiped down the barrel of his gun, while Catherine occasionally annotated on the projected screen. Jin struggled through the main body of the document with the Academy’s universal language dictionary. As always, he encountered a specialized term that eluded even his dictionary, hesitated, and finally gathered the courage to ask aloud, “Can someone tell me what this word means? I’m not very good at the Academy’s universal language.”

Everyone paused, first checking which word he meant, then all gazed at Jin with a look of pity. Jin almost believed he’d fallen victim to some strange magic, a plump little lab rat awaiting experimentation. Karl put down his gun and, nearly despairing, sneered, “The old bastard even wants us to bring a fledgling along for the mission.”

Catherine adjusted her gold-rimmed glasses, glanced at Jin, then continued tapping away at the keyboard. Afra set aside her heavy dictionary, sighed, and sat next to Jin. “You’re the F-class, aren’t you?”

A boy his age would normally be unable to endure such humiliation, but Jin craved a few more days of life. He nodded obediently, trying to appear both docile and harmless.

“Yes, beautiful miss, could you briefly explain the contents of this document?”

“You ought to know this world isn’t as peaceful as it seems. The Academy isn’t the only organization interested in and researching supernatural and anomalous phenomena. Many others exist, some for self-interest, some to protect humanity. The Cult of Flesh Desire is one such group—this term refers to them. It’s not merely a belief system, but a secret ancient culture with its own language, traditions, and social norms (though outwardly it adapts to the mainstream culture where it resides). To understand their mindset, you must remember their psychology was shaped in a wholly different social context. Therefore, behaviors considered far beyond the pale by most may be perfectly acceptable among its adherents.” Afra pushed up her glasses, refraining from specifying those behaviors, but the contempt in her gaze gave Jin a fair guess.

“The most pressing threat from the Cult lies in their anomalous creation and manipulation of living beings. Enough recurring patterns have been observed among these entities to classify them into distinct ‘types.’ These creatures show no signs of fear or pain and heal wounds at abnormal speeds. Some cultists, through biological manipulation, become anomalous themselves, exceeding human physical limits. Disease is revered by the Cult; offerings of enlarged lymph nodes and tumors have been found on their altars.”

Jin, bewildered, didn’t understand what this lovely young woman was teaching him, so he asked, “What, then, is our mission?”

“Don’t be so hasty. If I don’t explain clearly, you’ll have many more questions. Listen carefully.”

“The weapons, armor, and ornaments of the Cult were found at the Santorini site of the Cretan civilization, possibly placing their origins before the volcanic eruption around 1500 BC that destroyed the Cretan culture. Daevite inscriptions dating back to 1800 BC record a slave uprising in the northern provinces, led by a charismatic cult leader and ‘hybrid.’ Scrolls found there contain prototype passages and terminology of the Cult, including references to ‘Archmage Yann.’ These discoveries suggest the Cult has existed for nearly four millennia. The Cult seems to regard Archmage Yann as a destined deity; for them, apotheosis is inevitable, and Yann is the sole path. They believe Yann is undergoing transformation, and when he completes it, this ‘flawed, stillborn’ universe will be destroyed and remade as a paradise called ‘Ikunaan,’ where all will know salvation and joy.”

“According to prophecy, the moment of apotheosis is next year.” She paused, her face expressionless. “The principal’s intention is for us to investigate the prophesied site of descent, to see what portents may appear there. But from a certain perspective, you could say he’s sending us to our deaths.”

Two weeks later, Trafalgar Square, London, England.

Jin never imagined he’d one day find himself in London as a street performer, undertaking a mission that could only be described as a death wish in the city that bore the last glory of the empire on which the sun never set.

But fate is always stranger than drama. The pressing matter was to earn their living expenses, since their mission had not been registered with the Academy’s administration, and thus had no funding. Jin wasn’t foolish enough to flaunt his unlimited black card before a team of strangers whose backgrounds were unknown; so the four of them worked odd jobs by day and split up according to plan at night, probing the Cult’s roots in the city.

Jin grumbled inwardly about Catherine’s plan as he smiled at tourists, forced for two weeks straight to play a single tune. Though clueless about music, by now his guitar no longer sounded like a walrus giving birth to farming implements. What he couldn’t understand was why Catherine, as team leader, chose “London Bridge” for their performance. If it was for simplicity’s sake, he’d prefer “Ode to Joy”—at least that had a more auspicious tone.

“Noted: tourist at seven o’clock with a black backpack. Relax, pass by naturally, and plant Microbug No. 42,” Catherine’s voice remained as cold as ever. Jin had no choice but to stow his guitar, looking like a hapless artist about to try his luck elsewhere.

Meanwhile, in the Lambeth Suite at London’s Tatraly Hotel, the other three prepared methodically. They looked like tourists on a seven-day London trip, but not every law-abiding visitor hides a PF89 80mm rocket launcher under their bed. God knows where Karl got it—Jin swore he saw the guy disappear into the bathroom and sneakily produce the thing from his trousers, as if his pants were a magic pocket from a cartoon.

“Divine feast... leading flesh...” The sound of chewing, chilling to the bone, echoed in Jin’s headset. He took it off. “Sounds like a group of Brits with peculiar diets. I thought they only had fish and chips and pie and mash.”

“You’d better keep it on. The more intel you know, the less likely we’ll hear your screams,” Catherine, still focused, scribbled notes. In two weeks, her meticulous planning and unflappable tone had earned everyone’s respect for this temporary leader, icy as she was. After all, would you rather follow someone who wavers and constantly alters plans in the face of sacrifice, or someone steadfast, calm, and unswayed, advancing toward the goal?

Jin obediently donned his headset again to listen to the “Symphony of Consumption.” “The ambassador of Alakada will cross the Gate of Janus ahead of schedule. Prepare flesh and soul...” A shrill burst of static cut the signal.

Jin spoke first, “We’ve scouted some explosive news. Now we just need to send it to Birmingham, have him dispatch the action team for follow-up. All right, Cretan Plan complete. Anyone want to join me tonight for a view of Trafalgar Square? I’ll buy supper.”

Karl and Afra nodded, except for Catherine.

Catherine, expressionless, shattered Jin’s fantasy, speaking coolly, “Yesterday I received a message from Birmingham about the action team. Here’s the roster: Catherine, Karl, Afra, and Jin. We must personally verify all collected intel at the designated location to ensure its authenticity.”

“Why don’t we just sneak back?” Afra probed, since their passports hadn’t been confiscated.

“The old fox has already locked down our permissions. Forget customs; even MI6 has filed us.”

A silence, then an outburst.

After warmly cursing Birmingham’s parents in various languages, everyone had to accept the truth.

“What does he want?” “A mission report rated no less than B-level.”

Karl panted, “Does he think we’re the Four Apocalyptic Doctors from the SCP Foundation?”

Afra sprawled on the sofa, sighing, “Maybe we should stall a bit longer, wait a few months, crash a Cult gathering and whip up some intel?”

Even Catherine couldn’t help biting her silver teeth. “Our funds will last three more days at most. After that, our only income is the guitar kid. We all know how much he makes in that case each day.”

Jin kept a blank face. “Maybe we should just join the Cult. If they’re ruthless, we needn’t be virtuous—we’ll switch sides.”

Since arriving in London, he hadn’t once used his black card. He was new to the Academy, but he wasn’t new to the world. He knew the old saying: a commoner with a treasure invites disaster. That limitless card should never be discovered on someone as weak as him.

Catherine thought seriously, then rejected the suggestion. Four young people, hearts full of despair, waited quietly in the dark for dawn. Youth has this advantage: when cornered, they seldom choose to compromise, but rather, with pride, choose to live facing death.

In the early hours, London’s streets lay empty. Fog began to swirl in the silent night beneath dim streetlights. Jin, reciting “Song of the Lute” under his breath, strummed his guitar, looking for all the world like a destitute artist just evicted by his landlord.

Time drifted by until a figure in black robes appeared. Catherine’s cool voice came through the headset, “Target sighted. Karl, lock on. Jin, act.”

Jin stretched lazily and swaggered up to the black-robed man, greeting him, “Good evening, sir.” The man froze, about to speak, when Jin’s guitar loomed in his pupils, smashing into his face.

Jin glanced at the broken guitar in his hand, tossed it into a bin without regret, having endured it long enough. Grinning at the struggling man on the ground, he shouted, “Long live vegetarians!” Then, without delay, bolted, screaming into his headset.

“Fire support!”

“Why are you yelling so loud?” Karl fought the urge to rub his aching ears, eyes fixed on the contorting body. He needed to find the optimal firing angle before being spotted. This was his best shot at eliminating the target. Everything went as expected—the target pursued Jin closely, giving Karl ample angle to hit the man’s coccyx.

“Estimated SK-BIO type Gamma cultist. Karl, fire, keep the torso intact. Jin, protect Afra and approach in one minute. Complete sampling before police arrive. Rendezvous at Point A.” Catherine’s clear, frosty voice came through everyone’s headset.

Gunfire tore through the thick fog, ringing out unchecked in the night. Yet the surrounding houses remained dark—no lights, no voices. Darkness washed over everything like the tide.

Suddenly, Catherine’s tone changed, her voice in the headset no longer calm. “Thaumaturgic fluctuations detected! Retreat! Repeat, all units retreat! Target is not alone!”

Mist rose silently. Jin felt a strange calm, footsteps seeming distant, as if this were a world apart. He turned instinctively, then smiled bitterly, standing before Afra. Into the headset, he said, “Don’t bother. Next time—no, there won’t be a next time.”

Time seemed to stretch in that moment. He thought slowly: in this world, ordinary people don’t see the sun many times—but he wasn’t the protagonist, just an insignificant person, doomed to die on some mission. Still, his luck was terribly bad—his first time, and he was done for.

Afra, just reaching the target, sighed as well. Her clear eyes held deep regret. “Never thought I’d die here. I always thought tech support lived longer.”

Glowing eyes flickered in the dark, all opening at once—scarlet pupils shining like torches, countless pairs staring at their prey like stars.

Karl, atop his vantage point, saw the creatures approaching amid gunfire—pale, slack skin, a huge multi-toothed maw taking up the entire face, long arms ending in blade-like exoskeletal structures. These grotesque, ugly, dangerous monsters—any one would make Darwin despair for evolution.

As the nocturnal creatures bathed in cold moonlight, Jin, though long aware the world was no longer safe and beautiful, was still shaken by terror—the collapse and reconstruction of common sense stunned him. In the face of these blasphemous creations, fear, though invisible, flowed over the body like wind.

Karl saw his own heart appear before him, yet felt no pain, only remembering the afternoon he first held a gun. People danced samba in the streets for Carnival; his alcoholic father, for once, wasn’t beating his mother curled on the floor. One hand clutching the bottle, the other grabbing his trembling mother, he stood drunkenly on the balcony, letting go and cheering, “Bird, fly, fly!” He still remembered the Beretta 92F—the moment he pulled the trigger, Carnival music seemed so quiet, so beautiful.

“SK-BIO type A, SCP Foundation calls it Behemoth.” Afra tried to steady herself, but her voice trembled; when death arrives, no one remains calm.

“I’m still young, never had a girlfriend. Is the genome that’s lasted hundreds of thousands of years going to end with me?” Jin gazed at the approaching glow, mind wandering. He suddenly regretted choosing solitude in his youth; he could have settled for less, so maybe his life’s last moments would have more vivid memories.

Blood and death bloomed on the city’s forgotten edge; the young deer heard clearly the chilling sound of chewing in their headsets. Karl didn’t even leave a final word.

Life fades so easily; death is never a crafted design—it knocks abruptly, far earlier than tomorrow.

Jin pulled the headset to his mouth and spoke slowly into the transmitter, “Catherine, are you there?”

“Run to Point B, I’m ready to cover you.” Catherine had no time for the melancholy in his words; her voice was faintly breathless, with gunshots audible in the background.

“I heard computer majors go bald at thirty. You should laugh more while you still have hair—it’d look nice.” Jin took off his headset and tossed it to the ground. He and Afra stood back to back. One must resist, after all—even if doomed to be food, at least let these monsters know humans make lousy meals.

As those things drew near, he remembered the endless wheat fields of his youth, the sky awash with dazzling pale gold.

He’d known for a long time that his ordinary life ended the moment the SCP Foundation caught him; from then until now, he’d only stolen a little time. He’d resolved to face the end with a smile, to live each day well, but his lonely heart hadn’t found much worth remembering in this stretch of days. Such a pity.

But so be it.