Chapter 41: The Madman's Experiment

The man’s raspy voice reverberated through the damp, suffocating lab, each word laced with venom and madness as he paced around, his wild eyes glinting in the eerie green glow of the bubbling tanks. The recruits stood frozen, paralyzed with fear, their eyes wide and frantic as they struggled to process the man's twisted words. His malice hung in the air like a blade, ready to fall.

“It’s been so long,” the man hissed, his voice a deranged whisper that cut through the silence like a knife. “So long since I realized the truth. The Towers care nothing for the non-gifted. We are expendable. Disposable. But I... I found a way to survive. To fight back!”

His manic grin widened as he gestured toward the grotesque tubes lining the walls, each one filled with a viscous green liquid that bubbled ominously. The flickering light from the tanks cast unsettling shadows on his face, making his already twisted features look monstrous. The tanks seemed to pulse with a strange life of their own, as though the horrors trapped inside were still struggling to break free.

“I will raise the non-gifted above the rest! I will kill the gifted! I will make the Towers pay for their arrogance!” His words were filled with a fervor so intense that it made the recruits shudder. His hatred, festering for years, was now fully unhinged, and it felt like they were standing in the presence of something far worse than a simple madman.

Abel swallowed hard, glancing at the others. The same fear that gripped him was evident on their faces. They had stumbled into a nightmare with no way out.

The man paused, his wild, bloodshot eyes locking onto them. His voice turned mocking, as if he were relishing the fear in their eyes. “You’re wondering what I need from you, aren’t you?” He chuckled darkly. “These tanks… they hold the essence of horrors—traits I’ve gathered from ancient creatures that roamed this world long before you were born. Traits I intend to harness for my breakthrough into a Magian.”

Abel’s breath caught in his throat. Horrors? Magian? The man’s words barely made sense, but the weight of them was terrifying. Horrors were creatures far beyond anything they could face—and this man claimed to have captured their essence. Abel’s skin crawled at the thought.

One of the recruits, barely keeping their voice steady, asked, “What... what do you want us to do?”

The man’s grotesque smile widened further, stretching unnaturally across his face. His lips cracked, and blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. “You’ll help me contain them,” he rasped.

The recruits exchanged fearful glances, their confusion turning to dread. Abel’s heart raced as his mind spun, trying to comprehend what the man meant. Contain them? How could they possibly contain the essence of horrors? The man’s explanations were full of madness, and yet, the danger was real.

“Get into the tanks,” the man growled impatiently, stepping toward an ancient black chair that stood ominously in the center of the room. It was carved from dark stone, its gothic design twisted and unnatural. Spiked edges protruded from the armrests, and strange symbols were etched into the backrest, glowing faintly in the dim light. The chair looked more like a throne for some forgotten king of nightmares than anything meant for a human. “And find out,” the man added, his tone filled with malicious glee.

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Lorne, who had been standing quietly at the back, clenched his fists in rage. His anger boiled over, and without thinking, he lunged forward with a roar of defiance. His serrated blade gleamed in the green light as he charged the madman, his shout echoing through the chamber.

It was over in an instant.

The man moved with impossible speed, his figure a blur. Before Lorne could even react, the man’s grotesque finger—the one that didn’t belong, the one twisted and malformed—shot forward, piercing Lorne’s skull with a sickening squelch. Blood sprayed from the wound as the finger drove through his head and exited the other side.

Lorne’s eyes went wide with shock, a gurgled sound escaping his lips as his body crumpled to the floor. His lifeless form hit the stone with a dull thud, blood pooling beneath him.

Abel’s stomach turned, and his vision blurred as nausea welled up inside him. He felt his knees weaken, barely able to process the horror he had just witnessed. Lorne… was dead. Just like that. Gone.

The man wiped his finger on his robe, completely unfazed, as if killing Lorne had been no more than swatting a fly. His patience was gone, his expression turning cold and cruel. “I don’t have time for this,” he snarled. “Move. Now. Or you’ll end up like your friend here.”

The recruits stumbled forward, their legs moving on instinct alone. Fear gripped them, making every step feel like they were walking toward their doom. Abel’s mind was in turmoil, his thoughts spiraling out of control. Are we all going to die here? he wondered, his heart pounding wildly.

As they approached the tanks, Abel’s gaze was drawn to the one directly in front of him. The green ooze inside bubbled and swirled, but something else caught his eye—a faint, glittering light within the liquid, shimmering like distant stars. It was as if the essence of whatever horror had been captured inside was trying to break free, its malevolent power barely contained.

Each tank had its own unique hue. Some were tinged with a deep purple, others with a sickly yellow, and one even flickered with strange red sparks. These weren’t just random horrors—the man had collected their essence, each one a different nightmare, and now he wanted the recruits to step into them.

Abel’s hand trembled as he reached out and touched the cold glass of the tank. The surface was slick and unyielding, but the liquid inside pulsed with a terrifying energy. His stomach twisted in fear as he realized he was about to step inside something that could consume him entirely.

The man’s twisted smile grew wider as he watched them. “Yes... yes, that’s right. Get inside,” he crooned. “You’ll help me unlock a power far beyond your comprehension.”

Abel swallowed hard, glancing at the others. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror. They were all thinking the same thing—there was no way out. No escape. They were trapped in this nightmare, and their only choice was to follow the madman’s orders... or die.

The room was filled with the oppressive hum of the bubbling tanks, the scent of chemicals and decay thick in the air. The black chair loomed in the center, casting a dark shadow over everything. The air seemed to thrum with malevolence, as if the very essence of the horrors was seeping into the room, waiting for the moment it would consume them all.

Abel’s heart pounded in his chest as he took a deep breath and prepared to step into the tank. He knew that whatever awaited him inside could be far worse than death—but with Lorne’s blood still fresh on the floor, he knew he had no choice.