Shrill screams echoed throughout the halls of a building. They were filled with the suffering and indignation of a lone man as he experienced a hellish torture. The screams began loud and filled with rage and anger, but as time trickled on they began to fade in volume and the rage and anger turned into a desperation for survival. Time continued to pass, and eventually, the screams became little more than whimpers, and the desperation was no longer a plea for survival, but for a merciful death.

The source of these horrific cries was none other than Callum Clark, as he withstood the horrific tortures in the Sacrifice Room. The figures, eight in total, were cloaked in their typical garb: Dark black and gray robes, complete with a hood and an eerie mask which concealed all but their eyes. Only serving to add to his torture was the horrific sensation the figures provided him. Their presence made his skin crawl, and although his vision was obscured by the bag placed upon his head, he knew that their eyes were alight with passion and that beneath their masks was a smile.

All but one of the figures were performing the torture without speak. The only one to speak was constantly chanting throughout the ritual, his arms spread wide as he called out in an unknown language. The voice seemed mystical as it reverberated quietly, the supernatural aura that it possessed filled Callum with anxiety. It was not alone in that fact, many things were causing him great anxiety at that time.

For example, their gaze. He could almost feel their vision on him. It slithered slowly like slugs across his exposed flesh, which was mangled and bloodied by the daggers, hooks, and steel rods. These were the tools they used to cut, tear and beat the life from his body, the very tools that had been painted with his color. Or perhaps it is more apt to say that his body was the canvas, and these tools did the painting, using his blood as a medium. The gashes and puncture wounds forming beautiful lines and dots on the canvas, the bruising and bleeding filling the masterpiece with color and life.

As time passed on, Callum fell deeper into the sense of despair of it all. He did not know why they beat him so. He had originally believed that, as a sacrifice, death would come swiftly. He was wrong. He knew not why they were not more eager to send him to whatever erratic and malicious being they worshipped, why they dallied in torture instead. However, he had his suspicions. From their gaze, he knew they enjoyed every flesh-rending moment, and so he firmly believed that these lunatics were truly out to enjoy themselves and that they didn’t even seek to please some otherworldly being.

Thus, Callum despaired. There would be no success from begging or pleading if they enjoyed it so, he knew it to be true. Perhaps if they were uncomfortable, and were only doing it out of the belief of its necessity for their deity, he would not feel such empty and cold despair alongside the overwhelming and searing pain. He knew, deep in his very being, that he was doomed to a complete and utter death. As he felt the white-hot pain turn cold, and the spots of light that snuck through the bag vanished as his eyes went dark, he opened his arms to embrace death at last.

Finally, it’s over. Death arrives always, never a moment sooner than Fate allows. Perhaps in my next life, I’ll have better luck. Creator knows I’ve suffered enough for two lifetimes. However, he was wrong yet again. For what he embraced was not death, but something else. A very strange something.

“Finally,” hissed a deep and rolling voice from behind him. “Finally, those idiotic mortals realized how to open the lock once more. It’s been thousands of years since she was released, and yet I’ve suffered here, waiting. No more.”

A sharp pain coursed through Callum’s tired and weary eyes, forcing them open as a thick purple smoke rolled out from beneath his eyelids. It quickly filled the bag and began to billow out through any and every opening it could find. Not long after, the smoke began to pour out of his mouth and nose, as a seemingly infinite amount of it manifested within his lungs. So much of the gas that it became impossible for him to even breathe, causing a horrible sensation of suffocation to come over him.

Next, it fled from his ears, causing him no small amount of discomfort. The gas seemed to be accompanied by muted, horrific screams as it passed through his head. Eventually, it began to emerge from the wounds that covered his body. He could feel the strange sensation it left him with, as it fled from his veins and entered the open air, but he knew not what it entailed.

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Upon seeing the first puffs of the smoke, seven of the figures hesitated, a portrait of confusion beneath their masks. However, none of them spoke, barring the one figure chanting. The chanting figure had no knowledge of the purple smoke, their eyes closed and their mind in a daze as they continued to chant the mysterious language.

The disembodied voice cackled in Callum’s ear, “Soon, I’ll be taking your body, and consuming your soul. Say your goodbyes, kid. No need to worry, I’ll be sure to put it to good use. After all, it’ll be mine soon.”

In the air above Callum’s body, within the haze of purple smoke, a strange figure began to take shape, their body composed entirely of the gas. It was horrific in appearance. It seemed like a human, but the legs were a single short tendril that curled slightly, and instead of two arms it had eight. The face of the figure was strangely human-like, only it lacked just enough detail to make it monstrous.

“No…” Callum spoke weakly, his voice drowned out by the chanting and the ever-present but elusive screams that roared silently in the smoke. “Not like this…” He could accept death, but the thought of his very soul being devoured by this thing was unacceptable. There was enough uncertainty in death, and the thought of fading to nothingness was horrifying.

A horrible, maniacal laughter pounded in Callum’s head. “Not like this, you say? You are still holding on to some thread of hope, it seems. Very well, allow me to erase it for you,” the voice said. Immediately after, Callum’s head felt as though it were in a vice. He felt pressure bearing down on his skull from both inside and out, pressure so strong that his teeth began to crack and chip as he clenched them together.

“Well? Well? How about now? Well?” Callum was mocked repeatedly by the voice as the pressure grew and grew. The amount of smoke billowing from his body increased rapidly, and he began to scream through his clenched teeth. The room was now completely filled with a thick haze of purple. Some of the figures had begun to collapse, the foam that came from their frothing mouths spilling out from beneath their masks.

Even the chanting figure’s mouth was beginning to froth, but they continued to chant, albeit slower than before. Callum fought to remain conscious, with nothing but a burning desire to keep his soul intact fueling his desperate attempts. After what seemed like hours, the chanting suddenly stopped as the figure fell to the ground in a heap.

“What are you doing, you fool?! Get up, get up! If you fuck this up on me, I’ll tear you apart! I’ll enslave every incarnation of you in the future! I’ll leave your soul nothing but a hollow shell, and force you to suffer endlessly through every cycle of your pathetic mortal life!”

The chanting figure laid motionless, despite the threats and curses the voice launched at them. “Fine, then. I’ll just take this body over myself! I don’t need your filthy, pathetic attempt at using Darkspeak to take over some scrawny mortal. And the first thing I’ll do is slaughter you and everyone you love. No, everyone you know! I’ll kill everyone you know, you knew, and you were going to know!” The voice broke out into more maniacal laughter, only stopping to hurl more curses at the unconscious cultist.

“Wait, what is this? No, this can’t be… How can a mortal of this plane have True Resistance? No, let me out! I want out!” Slowly, the screaming of the voice turned into sobs. “Please, let me out! Kid, I’m begging you, I’m sorry! I just wanted revenge! I can… I can help you! Anything you want, I can get you! Just let me out! I’ll take over someone else’s body, one of those masked freaks!”

Callum was stunned at the sudden change in the being’s personality, and how manipulative it was. However, he was not so foolish as to let it out, even if he knew how he would refuse. I’ll drag it to Hell with me. If I must die, then it will too. One last good act for the world. I won’t let it take away my soul or anyone else's.

“Damn it, kid! Let me out! I’m warning you, if you don’t let me out you’ll regret it just as much as I will!” The voice was roaring now, a combination of fear and rage shattering the guise of servitude the entity had erected only moments ago. “Fuck, it’s too late! I hope you like me, kid, cause we’re about to get a whole hell of a lot closer.”

Sudden pain. Pain unlike anything, completely incomparable to physical training, or from the torture, and even the headaches from the smoke. The intensity had far eclipsed any sensation Callum had ever had in his life, good or bad. It rendered him incapable of thought and drove the breath from his lungs. His thoughts, his regrets, everything faded away. The world itself seemed to be nonexistent, separated by an uncrossable chasm.

All that remained was the pain that he felt. It was neither sharp nor dull, neither cold nor hot. There were no real identifiable qualities of it at all, only that it came at him all at once and in an overwhelming amount. At some point, he finally lost consciousness, giving him relief at last.