It had taken them quite some time to gather the survivors. Only three had managed to survive the ambush, with the others fleeing into the forest. Aziz and Marcus had made sure to knock a few of the convoy unconscious. Reinforcements from the Iron Hearts would come soon; Aziz and Marcus had to move quickly.

Marcus, panting heavily, ran through the forest with a dying Iron Heart slung over his shoulder. Aziz moved above him, leaping from branch to branch with a body draped over each shoulder, his movements swift and precise. Their prisoners had been bound tightly by the wrists and ankles; should they wake, escape would be impossible.

The trek through the dense forest seemed endless, but finally, after what felt like hours, they broke through the treeline and headed toward the Gates of Hell. The entrance loomed ahead, open and waiting. Aziz was the first to reach it, outpacing Marcus with ease. He vanished into the darkness, dropping the two bodies inside before rushing back out.

“Give him to me,” Aziz commanded as he reached Marcus, who was drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.

Without a word, Marcus handed over the last hostage, too exhausted to protest. Aziz hefted the body over his shoulder and disappeared into the cave once more, leaving Marcus to catch up at his own pace.

Once they were both inside the first level of the tunnel, Aziz moved to secure the gate. Using thick vine ropes tied around the iron rings of the doors, he pulled them shut with a groaning rumble. The tunnel shuddered as the doors closed, and soon they were enveloped in total darkness.

Aziz’s sharp eyes caught the faint glow of the campfire in the distance, where Delilah waited.

Half an hour later, they finally laid the bodies near the fire, where Delilah was stirring a pot suspended over the flames. She glanced over her shoulder, giving a small smile as Marcus collapsed in exhaustion beside her, while Aziz dropped the last body against the wall.

“It seems your plan worked,” Delilah said, her voice calm but edged with relief.

Half her face was still covered in mapa paste, the green salve masking the burn marks. Aziz had already told her the scars would be permanent, but the girl had taken it relatively well. Occasionally, he sensed there was something she wanted to say, but she rarely spoke, especially when they were not alone.

"Roof helped," Aziz replied, settling down beside her.

He took the wooden stick she had been stirring with and inhaled the aroma of the concoction. It was a mixture of night-gown herb, black-death poison, and dead berries found in the underground forest. A new formula mentioned by Master Xiang, something that would aid in the next stage of his plan to spread the name of the Divine Snake Cult across the forest. And perhaps, it would catch the attention of the people he was searching for.

"It’s almost time for his medicine. Marcus, take the next dose up to Roof," Aziz instructed. Marcus nodded, grabbing a sealed animal skin containing the pre-prepared medicine for Roof’s condition.

"Mal, lead him," Aziz called. The snake, who had been resting, slithered down from Aziz’s hair, disappearing into the darkness as Marcus followed the hissing serpent.

For a moment, Aziz and Delilah sat in silence as the froth in the pot began to bubble. Then, Delilah spoke, her voice soft, as though even the walls might be listening.

"The first test is to cull some of us in the forest. So many have already died, yet the Order hasn’t said anything," she murmured.

It was true. No one knew the exact number, but that was the cruel game the Order played. The only option was to overkill, forcing the Order to end it at some point. But another thought had crossed Aziz’s mind: What if the Order didn’t have a number? What if... it was a test to the last person standing? If that were the case, he’d have to—

"Aziz?"

Her soft voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked at her, noticing how the flickering embers danced in her eyes. She had grown noticeably thinner. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he’d seen her skipping meals, avoiding the black-death meat.

"You always do that," she whispered, turning back to the flames.

"Do what?"

"Go somewhere else. In your mind. Away from the rest of us."

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He stared into the fire, unsure of how to respond. True, he wasn’t in the pit anymore, but had he ever really left? The pit wasn’t just a place—it was a state of being. The four walls had simply gotten larger. He wasn’t free. He had never truly escaped.

"There you go again," she giggled softly.

"Sorry," Aziz mumbled, trying to focus. Sorry. Strange, but he found that he was genuinely sorry.

"It’s okay," Delilah said, her voice gentle. "You have a lot on your mind."

Silence stretched between them again, the only sound the soft bubbling of the concoction and the crackling of the fire. After a long moment, it was Aziz who finally broke the quiet.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

She shook her head. "The pain is dull now, the burns are—"

"Does it still hurt?" he repeated, not looking at her, his eyes still fixed on the fire.

She hesitated, glancing at him. A few flakes of dried mapa paste crumbled from her cheek, falling to the ground. Then she turned back to the flames. "Yes."

"Good," Aziz said, his voice heavy. "Don’t ever forget it, Delilah. Let that moment burn into your mind."

He wasn’t just talking about the physical pain. He knew it was the memories—the helplessness—that tortured her the most.

"Help me."

Aziz blinked, surprised. He turned to look at her, and his heart tightened at the sight of her tear-filled eyes. She gripped the fabric of her trousers tightly, her knuckles white.

"You’re strong, Aziz. Teach me. Teach me to be strong like you. What happened... I never want it to happen again. Never again."

Her voice broke as she choked out the last words, tears streaming down her cheeks. She covered her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that escaped. Aziz felt something stir inside him, something raw, but before he could respond, a rustling sound broke through the moment.

Their prisoners were beginning to stir.

Delilah quickly wiped her tears, composing herself as Aziz stood.

"Come," he said, walking toward the tied-up trio. "We’ll talk about that later. First, let’s make these ones ours."

Nodding Delilah began preparing the concoction. The slave mind potion of Master Xiang. Another three would soon be part of the Divine Snake Cult.

The bubbling concoction was nearly ready, and her hands moved steadily as she poured it into an empty animal skin, careful not to spill a drop. The flickering firelight cast long shadows over her face, illuminating the dried mapa paste still clinging to her burns. Her expression was calm, unwavering—so different from the girl she had once been.

Aziz watched from the corner of his eye, still crouched beside the unconscious hostages. Each movement she made was precise, almost mechanical, as if the weight of what they were doing didn’t faze her anymore. The liquid was sealed tightly before she set it down, rolling the mixture between her palms to form rough, dark pills. The sharp tang of night-gown herb mixed with black-death poison filled the air, pungent and dangerous.

Handing over the pills her fingers brushed his briefly before she quickly retracted them, her healthy cheek flushed. Not a word passed between them, but there was no need. They both knew what came next.

He crouched beside their first captive, a boy with matted hair and a dirt-smeared face, slack and lifeless for now. His breathing was shallow, but he would wake soon—not soon enough to stop what was about to happen. Aziz pried open the boy’s mouth, slipping one of the pills between his lips, then massaged his throat until he swallowed.

For a moment, nothing. Stillness.

Then the boy’s eyes snapped open—wide, too wide. His pupils dilated, and his limbs began to twitch violently, as though something deep inside him was fighting its way out. Aziz stood and stepped back, watching with a practiced calm.

The transformation was grotesque. Eyes bulging, veins pulsing, the boy’s body convulsed as the pill rewrote his mind from the inside out. His jaw clenched and his back arched, a gurgle escaping his throat as the pill completed its dark work—bending him to the will of the Divine Snake Cult.

According to the teachings of Master Xiang, the snake blood within the pill made the victim susceptible to the commands of the Heir. Just as Aziz could command Mal, he could now command humans.

He didn’t flinch as the boy’s body continued to writhe, every muscle straining against the agony. This was the path of the Bloodcoil Sect—obedience through pain, control through fear.

Aziz turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, half-expecting to see some flicker of hesitation on Delilah’s face. She was young, once soft and full of kindness. But when his gaze met hers, there was no trace of doubt. Her expression remained unreadable, as though she had witnessed this a hundred times before. The firelight cast shadows across her features, making her look almost ghostly. It was a reflection of what he had become.

Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, they softened, just a flicker of life breaking through the dead calm.

Aziz returned to the task, pressing another pill into the next hostage’s mouth. The reaction came swiftly this time—violent and immediate. Veins bulged, eyes rolled back, and the body seized in a silent scream. In moments, it was over. The boy collapsed into unconsciousness, his mind shattered and remade into something pliable, something useful.

"You’re not disturbed by this?" Aziz asked, his voice quiet as the flickering firelight danced in his violet eyes.

Delilah didn’t waver. "What happened to me—it won’t happen again. Not to me. And not to anyone I care about." Her tone was steady, devoid of the uncertainty she had once carried.

He studied her for a moment longer, the weight of her words sinking in. Then he nodded, feeding the last pill to the remaining hostage. The reaction was the same—bulging eyes, straining muscles, the agonized expression that would soon fade into submission.

Aziz stood and stepped back, watching as the body fell limp. His eyes shifted once more to Delilah. She hadn’t flinched once, hadn’t turned away from the horror unfolding in front of her. She wasn’t the same girl who had been broken by the world. The softness had burned away, leaving behind something else.

The Divine Snake Cult was growing.

And so was she.