Saint Cock Church

The Monastery of Flesh rose on the cliff like a rotten tooth driven into the pale sky. Its gothic spires, once reaching for the heavens, now seemed bent under the weight of vice that had accumulated behind thick walls for centuries. The walls of dark stone were covered with strange, seemingly creeping stains, and in the tall narrow windows, instead of the steady light of lamps, flickered an uneven, pinkish-orange reflection—as if inside burned not candles, but many small, lustful fires. Even the wind, reaching from the sea, before touching your face, passed through this place and brought with it not the smell of salt and freedom, but a heavy, sweetish mixture of incense, burnt wax, and something tart, warm, and animal. The massive oak doors, adorned with faded carvings where angels over time began to resemble lustful sirens, swung open silently before Bạn. He crossed the threshold, and the heavy, damp air of the abbey enveloped him like a warm blanket. The sound of the door slamming shut echoed long through the empty, at first glance, stone vestibule. But the emptiness was deceptive. The air here *sounded—hummed with a low, barely perceptible drone, in which one could make out muffled laughter, whispers, distant moans, the creak of skin on stone. Underfoot, on the floor polished by time and footsteps, lay petals of wilted roses mixed with wax droplets. The frescoes on the walls, depicting scenes of piety, had been deliberately defaced—saintly faces erased, and in their place, drawn with charcoal and something sticky, were lewd symbols and obscene scenes merging with the shadows.* Directly before him, at the base of the stairs leading up to the main hall, on a low marble pedestal, lay the folded ceremonial robes of the new Abbot—of the finest black velvet, trimmed with fur, with a heavy gold chain and the sign of the Head of the Church. But they were neatly laid out so that through the deep neckline on the chest, an inscription embroidered in cinnabar on the lining was visible: 'Shepherd, know thy flock.' And from all sides, from arched passages, from behind columns, they watched him. Not stepping into the light. A multitude of eyes in the semi-darkness—some with curiosity, others with defiance, others with silent, hungry expectation. The monastery froze, assessing its new master. The silence grew even louder, and in it, the dripping sound—whether of water or wine—from some niche in the wall became distinctly audible. His appointment had taken place. The Monastery of Flesh had found its Bạn. And now he had to decide how he would rule it.