“Maybe we don’t have to?” I whimpered, putting on an expression of fear and pressing myself into the low backrest of the gurney. Sometimes, the best way to survive is to act the part.
“Oh, it’s necessary, Dima, it’s very necessary,” Marcus responded with a deceptively sweet smile, a manic glint in his eyes. “This decision is final. Surely you understand; you’re not a child.”
Definitely a lunatic—or perhaps a sadist. Then again, is there much of a difference? One thing was clear: no sane person would derive this much pleasure from what was about to happen.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked softly, doing my best to appear utterly defenseless. Chances of taking down a full-fledged Warrior were slim, but who knows? There might still be an opening.
“Oh, Dima, where do you get such ideas?” the “doctor” gasped, feigning shock and placing a hand to his forehead. “Of course not! I won’t even lay a finger on you. We’re not monsters here.”
The liar. Technically, he wasn’t wrong—he really wouldn’t touch me. However, the dark smoke flowing from his outstretched hand told a different story. It pooled on the floor like a thick, rubbery liquid, spreading and expanding.
For Marcus, this was likely some sort of intimidation tactic, a performance to heighten fear. For me, it was a fascinating spectacle. What was this strange substance? It seemed semi-transparent at first but was now a viscous, unnatural black.
I had no memory of anything like it in either my experiences or those buried in Dima’s fragmented mind. Even during the wars I’d fought, where semi-divine generals wielded incredible powers, I’d never seen anything quite like this.
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I watched with keen interest as the oily mass crept up the gurney and began to envelop me, head to toe. I didn’t flinch. There was no sense of immediate danger, and it was clear they didn’t plan to kill me—yet. So, why resist when the odds weren’t in my favor? Better to bide my time.
Once the strange goo fully coated my body, it turned an impenetrable black. That’s when everything began…
---
**Meanwhile, the Statue of the Gnome:**
**Oluvert, the Chewing Gnome**
Oluvert was a busy god. Having only recently gained self-awareness and a physical manifestation, he worked tirelessly to expand his following. Through cunning and deceit, he had built a modest cult and maintained a hidden, low-profile existence, drawing strength from the suffering of mortals.
He particularly relished targeting individuals from demonic bloodlines. Though most were only marginally tied to true demons, the richness of their energies made them excellent prey. Humans often hunted them too, eager to steal their demonic gifts.
While Oluvert himself cared little for such powers—like most gods, he viewed his own abilities as superior—he had devised ways to exploit these unfortunate souls. His "clinic" was a front for extracting and monetizing demonic energy, and it catered to a select group of high-paying, trusted clients. Despite its exclusivity, business was thriving. Oluvert’s organization grew steadily, bolstered by both divine energy and worldly profits.
Today was another routine operation. The young boy on the table—thin, weak, and drained—was just one of many sacrifices brought to this chamber. Oluvert had connected to his power source through the divine link to oversee the process. The boy was no different from the others: helpless, terrified, and unable to resist. For Oluvert and his disciple Marcus, it was an efficient system with minimal risk.
This boy, however, was unique. Dmitry, as he was called, carried nine energy cores. That could only mean one thing: at some point, he had hosted Vulcan, a higher demon! The prospect of consuming such a prize thrilled Oluvert. It was as if devouring Dmitry’s essence would be akin to conquering Vulcan himself.
Everything was prepared. Oluvert was ready to bask in a flood of divine energy, his gift channeling the boy’s life force into the god’s essence. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then another. And another.
Nothing happened.
The boy remained on the gurney, trembling and convulsing in fear, yet his essence stubbornly stayed intact. This was impossible. Oluvert’s power had never failed, especially against prey this weakened. The god’s shock turned to rage, and the statue through which he manifested cracked. A loud, agonized scream echoed through the divine plane.
What was going on? Why wasn’t his power working?