It had been three long days since Denis last glimpsed sunlight. Confined to his cold, damp cell, he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the distant exit.
"When will these bastards speak with me?" Denis rasped.
Denis had recently found himself in quite the predicament. A new cult had emerged in the slums he called home. As a gang leader, Denis took offence to this mysterious group encroaching on his territory, attempting to convert the vulnerable inhabitants of the slums. Initially, he dismissed the cult, allowing them to carry on their activities unhindered. But as the cult provided the people with something they had long been denied - hope, Denis realised he could no longer ignore their presence. In the slums, hope was a dangerous thing; it bred dissent and filled the minds of his targets with thoughts that threatened his control.
Left with no other choice, the ambitious gang leader took action. He stationed his gang members strategically throughout the slums, ordering them to target anyone they suspected of being affiliated with the cult.
At first, Denis's plan seemed to be working flawlessly. In fact, one could argue that it was wildly successful – that is, until he was kidnapped and woke up in this miserable cell. For days, he hadn't seen another soul, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts, wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess and whether his gang was out there searching for him.
'I should have never trusted those incompetent fools to watch my back,' he couldn't help but think.
After all, if his gang were truly capable enough of protecting him while he slept, how had he ended up in this forsaken cell? His musings were cut short by the appearance of a robed figure just outside the cell. Denis watched warily as the individual, whom he assumed to be one of the cultists based on the characteristic Hydra mask they all seemed to wear, reached into his robe and pulled out a set of keys. Denis sprang to his feet, doing his best to exude confidence.
"Finally here to release me, you dim-witted cultist? I bet my boys are outside, ready to spring me from this dump you've stuck me in," Denis bluffed.
He wasn't naive; he knew it was unlikely that anyone was waiting outside to rescue him, but he hoped to glean some information from the cultist. However, it was like talking to a brick wall – the robed figure continued to unlock the cell door without uttering a word.
*You have been afflicted with [Jailer's shackles] for 1 hour*
*During the duration of this affliction, your hands are rendered immobile and you are unable to use any skills or abilities.*
His hands moved without his control behind his back with glowing blue shackles holding his hands together. Denis felt a wave of despair wash over him. Escaping his captors would be difficult enough with all his skills intact; now, he had to devise a way out without them.
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the cultist pushed him out of his cell. They walked past other empty cells, leaving Denis to wonder what had become of their former occupants. As they ventured further, the corridor revealed telltale signs of frequent use and drag marks, indicating that Denis was not the cult's first prisoner.
They halted before a massive wooden gate adorned with depictions of mythical beasts, humans engaging in dark practices, and a sacrificial scene. A nine-headed hydra loomed above it all, gazing imperiously down upon the events below, like a deity surveying its worshippers. Although the gate was too large for one person to open, a small entranceway allowed passage.
With another violent shove, Denis stumbled through the entrance. The room beyond was immense, its stone walls etched with scenes reminiscent of those on the door. His attention shifted from the room to its occupants – around thirty robed figures, all wearing Hydra masks, who parted to allow Denis through.
He scanned the crowd, hoping to spot a familiar face among the cultists. But with everyone concealed behind those masks, identifying any undercover gang members was impossible if they were somehow present and waiting to free him.
The cultist who had led him from his cell forced Denis to his knees before a man wearing a four-headed Hydra mask – the first he had seen with more heads than the others with them all wearing one with three heads.
"Today, brothers and sisters, we gather to judge the man before us," the masked man declared, his gaze sweeping the room. "This man has committed crimes against our cult. He ordered his gang to bully and beat our potential converts, and conspired with other gangs to attack our acolytes as they spread the Lord's message."
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The man's gaze fell upon Denis, his voice devoid of emotion, as though he had posed the same question countless times before, lending it a mechanical quality. "What is your plea?" he inquired in a monotonous tone.
"Listen, I'm truly sorry, but I never instructed any of my men to attack yours. They acted on their own," Denis lied as convincingly as possible.
"He lies, priest," one of the cultists behind him declared before another reached over and punched Denis in the stomach.
"Ughh," Denis groaned in pain.
He felt the gazes on him intensify as if he had committed a grave offence, but none was more chilling than that of the priest standing before him.
"You shouldn't have lied," the priest said, his voice maintaining its mechanical tone. "However, I'll offer you a way out of this predicament. When you targeted our cult, did you have any co-conspirators?"
"No, it was my idea. I asked my gang to attack. It was purely business. You entered my territory without permission and began converting my targets," Denis replied fearfully.
"He speaks the truth," the cultist behind him confirmed.
"If you release me, I swear never to target your cult again. I can even give you the stash of valuables and money I've accumulated over the years," Denis pleaded.
The priest appeared to ignore his plea, addressing the crowd instead. "It seems the town's authorities haven't taken action as we anticipated. Nevertheless, I'm confident we'll be noticed eventually, and we can proceed with our plans."
Turning to Denis, the priest seemed to have reached a decision. "We got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Denis. We assumed you were part of a larger scheme to undermine and destroy our mission."
Hearing his name, Denis perked up, believing he might live to see another day. His hope grew when the priest asked, "So, Denis, would you like to join our cult to atone for the wrongs you've committed against us? We could use the talent of a man from the underworld like yourself."
"Ye—" Before Denis could eagerly agree to join the cult to escape his current predicament, all the while secretly plotting revenge, he was interrupted.
"He is unworthy."
All eyes turned toward the speaker, and Denis noticed this figure for the first time. A man wearing a nine-headed hydra mask lounged in the room's sole chair, seemingly bored by the proceedings. His robes were identical to those of the others, but his presence was unlike anything Denis had ever encountered. It was akin to staring into the eyes of a nether beast, knowing that no matter what, one's demise was inevitable.
The demeanour of the priest and the other cultists shifted dramatically, as though they awaited their sovereign's command.
"Great One, I was unaware of your presence," the priest said respectfully.
"It matters not, but this man is unworthy of joining us."
"Yes, Great One," the priest hastily replied. "Prepare the altar and sacrificial knife, Initiate." He gestured to the robed figure who had led Denis into the room.
Anxiety welled up in Denis as he heard the word 'sacrifice.'
'These thrice-damned cultists won't actually sacrifice me, will they?' he thought.
As the priest and Initiate moved, Denis spotted a large, angled stone table. Desperation gripped him when he noticed the red groove in the stone, leading to a pool of red liquid below.
"You don't have to do this. I'll join; just let me go!" Denis sprang to his feet, searching for an escape route. Hands reached out to restrain him, preventing any further movement.
"Bring him to the altar." Denis was led to the altar.
Bound to the altar, Denis panicked, cursing and struggling against those holding him down.
*[Jailer's shackles] affliction has been removed*
He could finally move his hands, but before he could use them, the Initiate fastened shackles on both sides of Denis, followed by his feet. The Initiate then retreated, leaving the priest to loom over Denis.
"You motherfu—" Denis attempted to curse.
*You have been afflicted by [Silence of the Lambs]*
*You are now silenced and unable to cast any spells or abilities while on the altar*
Denis watched in terror as the Initiate presented an ornate box to the priest. Inside, a single knife lay cushioned in the centre. The blade was long, narrow, and sharply pointed, its glint boding ill in the dim light. The handle, crafted from a dark, bone-like material, bore intricate symbols and patterns that seemed to slither like serpents. The ebony blade itself had jagged teeth, intentionally dulled. Denis couldn't suppress a shudder as he considered the gruesome rituals this blade must have performed.
With reverent care, the priest grasped the knife and turned back to Denis, poised to plunge it into his heart. Yet, before he could, a hand rested on his shoulder.
"Allow me to perform this ritual," the nine-headed hydra cultist commanded.
"Of course, Great One," the priest replied, humbly passing the sacrificial blade to the figure and stepping away from the altar.
The figure towered over Denis, gazing into his tear-filled eyes.
"You have only yourself to blame," the figure intoned. "Your actions have brought you to this fate."
With deliberate force, the figure drove the knife into Denis' heart.
*Warning! You have sustained catastrophic damage to your heart*
*Warning! You are now internally bleeding*
*Warning! Your health is critically low; seek healing within 20 seconds*
*19*
*18*
…
"Don't worry. Your gang will join you soon," Denis heard the figure say chillingly as his lifeblood started to ebbed from his wound and his vision began to fade. The last thing Denis registered before death claimed him were the mismatched eyes of his executioner: one blue, the other amber.
*1*
*0*
*You have died to [Immortal Dream’s blade]*
*Your soul is now being consumed by [Immortal Dream’s blade]*