Didn’t take long before I tore him apart. Literally.
What was left of him? A ss of shredded limbs and glistening entrails. Took a while to adjust to my high strength stat—unless my opponent had the durability of a fortress, I didn’t even need magic to turn them into a violent sar. Just impatience.
Iron had been an exception. I struggled, because, well, he was durable. tal Pathway plus those draconic scales made him a bastard to crack. Nearly losing to him left a itch between my ribs—the kind that only a rematch (and his femur as a toothpick) could scratch.
[You have slain an Elf - Level 25 Interdiate Fire Mage (III)/Level 3 Butcher (I)]
[You have slain an Elf - Level 22 Arcanist (III)/Level 4 Armorer (I)]
[Experience Points acquired]
[Alignnt activities detected! Additional Experience Points acquired!]
Curious. Still no quest. The system remained silent, uncharacteristically so.
Maybe I wasn’t in my own body? That could explain the discrepancy. My physical form usually dictated how the system interacted with —monsters got quests, non-monsters didn’t. But if I wasn’t in my draconic body, what did that an?
Whatever. Not the ti to dwell.
The second thing that tugged at my mind was the extra experience. Judgnt-based. But how did it work?
Did it function based on my concept of right and wrong? If so, that was concerning—my morality was flexible, pragmatic. Did it take into account my beliefs, weighing actions by how I justified them? Or was it sothing external, determined by so universal scale? A preordained, cosmic law that decreed this is righteous, this is evil—and simply let play executioner?
And if it was based on my own perception, did that an my morality would start feeding into itself? A feedback loop where every act of judgnt reinforced my role? Like sharpening a blade on the whetstone of my own convictions, honing myself into sothing cold and absolute.
…Was that dangerous?
Or was that just power?
I shook my head.
No answers yet. Just more questions.
I spat blood (not mine) and surveyed the carnage.
The real centerpiece of this little house of horrors was the cluster of coffins. Black tal. Tough. Their lids glead with an oily sheen, etched with runes that hinted at… processing. Air Sense still sharp, I pried one open. Then another. Counted ten bodies inside, all preserved in unnatural ways—marked skin, missing eyes, surgical incisions carved with cruel precision.
Mostly beastkin, but elves and humans were in the mix too. No one had been spared. A few were warped past recognition, limbs bent in impossible angles, flesh twisted like sothing had tried to reshape them and failed.
Against the far wall, their little toolbox of tornt: scalpels, hooks, vials of liquid. I plucked one up and sniffed. Another. A few more. Paralytics, healing potions, sothing ant to force a person awake as they bled out. That last one had my mind drawing conclusions it would’ve rather avoided.
Yeah. This was a goddamn experint lab if there ever was one. And judging by the architecture, this wasn’t so temporary slaughterhouse—it had been built with the sewers. Which ant this had been going on for a long, long ti.
A sick feeling curled in my gut.
If we were inside Varkaigrad, then sothing truly fucked was festering down here.
I couldn’t afford to linger. Needed to move. But before stepping out, I scrutinized the runes on the entrance—one last check for alarms or nasty surprises. Nothing. Just a high-quality illusion veiling the chamber.
Satisfied, I stepped forward, bare feet eting the cold, grimy stone. This body was small. Scrawny. By any standard, this little Drakkari couldn’t have been older than twelve. Small hands. Fragile fra. Bruises layered over her like a second skin, remnants of a beating she had no chance to fight against.
The pain humd beneath my awareness—not sharp, not crippling, just a dull, constant whisper. I’d endured worse. Limbs severed, bones twisted, the agonizing rebirth of mutation. This? This was nothing more than a background lody, a gentle reminder that the body still lived.
The tunnel split the mont I stepped out—two paths, left and right.
I glanced back. Where the chamber had been, an illusory wall now stood, seamlessly blending with the sewer’s stonework. Invisible to the eye, but the sll lingered—rot, chemicals, the unmistakable stink of suffering. Soone sharp enough would notice sothing was off.
No visible markings to indicate how the elven cultists kept track of this place. No symbols, no hidden carvings. Which ant they had a different way of finding it. Tools? Magic? Either way, it didn’t matter.
What did matter was my next move.
The tunnel stretched before . Walls slick with dampness, its air thick with the sll of stagnant filth. The ground sloped ever so slightly downward, moisture pooling in uneven dips, reflecting the dim, sickly glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the ceiling. Thick pipes lined the walls, so rusted, so leaking a viscous sludge that slithered into the rivulets of wastewater snaking along the floor.
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Soooo… Left or right?
Logic hissed forward. Peek behind the sewer’s filthy curtain. What’s the worst that could happen? This flesh-suit wasn’t mine. Snip the tether, ghost out, let the girl’s corpse beco soone else’s problem.
My other self recoiled.
She was alive. A kid who’d clutched that pendant like it was the last raft in a shitstorm. I’d skin my enemies alive and nap in their ribs, but this? Leaving her here to choke on dread? Felt like swallowing broken glass.
Guilt? Nah. Guilt’s for people who apologize.
This was… worse. A feral, gnawing refusal. I wouldn’t be the kind of rot that uses a soul as toilet paper and flushes. Survival’s one thing; cowardice reeks louder than a goblin’s underpants.
Priority one: haul this kid’s ass to sunlight.
I reached out, feeling the surrounding air currents.
Wherever their base was, it had to be deeper in—likely sealed off or underground—aning it would disturb the airflow less. So, I focused on the right side. A few breathing signatures flickered at the edge of my senses, distant but present. The air here felt more stagnant.
I frowned, analyzing further. The air to my right was slightly cooler, suggesting an exit leading to the surface. A pressure difference between the sewer and the open air above ant fresh air would naturally trickle down through atmospheric mixing. A faint, outward-moving breeze carried that coolness—likely my way out.
Without hesitation, distortion flickered around as I moved. Exploring could co later; first, I needed to confirm the exit. A few signatures stirred in the tunnels around , but none were imdiate threats.
Then, sothing new caught my attention. Mana lamps—here, in the sewers?!? The first one ca into view, tallic and embedded into the wall. It struck that, despite being underground, I’d never truly experienced darkness down here. So kind of sickly light had always been present, whether from bioluminescent fungi or sothing else.
I pressed a small hand against the engravings. tal. Sturdy. Old.
"Light that keeps encroaching darkness at bay…." I muttered, reading the inscription.
Every lamp bore the sa ssage. And sohow, I doubted those cultists had put in the effort to install them. No, these had been part of Varkaigrad’s sewers since their construction. But what kind of darkness had they been ant to hold back?
Baffling. But only slightly.
I crept toward the source of the fresh air, cautious and deliberate, only to freeze as a ripple of breathing signatures prickled at the edges of my Air Sense. A step closer, and they multiplied like weeds after rain. My frown deepened. Cold wind—yes, unmistakably from this direction—but why a crowd at what should be the exit?
I could still retreat, but a stubborn thought coiled around my resolve. A peek wouldn’t hurt. Just a glance. No ddling. Absolutely none.
With Phantom Dragon Dance cloaking , I edged closer. The air was so thick with overlapping signatures that my Air Sense blurred, a cacophony of life muddling the edges of perception. Ahead, an archway yawned open, revealing a single elf stationed there, hands clasped in a mockery of prayer.
Dark mana humd through my veins as I wove a matrix, each strand of the hex carefully, silently spun. The elf didn’t notice. He didn’t notice my approach either.
Sleep.
He crumpled before he even had ti to flinch. Quick, quiet, efficient. I stepped forward, my bare, dirt-sared foot raised—then brought it down with unceremonious brutality. His skull caved like overripe fruit, a muffled crunch that didn’t even echo. Notification flashed, but I ignored it.
Lightning here would’ve been flashy, sure, but too loud. Too bright.
Noise wasn’t my concern here, though. Not with the steady hum of sound emanating from further ahead.
Flattening myself against the wall, I slipped closer, peering past the curve of the archway. What I saw chilled the blood in my veins.
A vast cylindrical shaft descended into darkness like the gullet of so ancient beast. Balconies jutted out from the walls at intervals, semicircles of stone that overlooked the abyss. I stood in one such alcove, my vantage perfect, if not for the scene below.
In the center of the shaft, illuminated by an eerie, flickering glow, stood an altar. No, a statue—an enormous hexagon with a skeletal figure suspended upside down at its heart. My vision swam as I looked at it, a stabbing headache threatening to split my skull.
Around the altar lay a trench filled with bodies. Corpses, stacked like discarded refuse. Beastkin. Humans. Elves. Even dwarves, their stout forms unmistakable. Each one bore the sa grotesque signature: a gaping void where their hearts should have been, edges charred in the sa unnervingly perfect shape.
From beneath the altar, little drains carried a constant trickle of blood, channeled through carved grooves that led to the statue’s base. A deliberate design. A system. The sacrificial pit never dry.
Surrounding it, a crowd murmured in hushed reverence. Hooded robes concealed their forms, but their pointed ears betrayed them—elves. All of them.
But what caught my eye wasn’t them. It was the child on the altar.
A Faerin. Fox-kin. Naked. His body covered in glowing runes, resignation dulling his wide, terrified eyes. He lay beside the cursed statue that gnawed at my skull. Still. Silent. He knew what ca next.
And so did I.
An elf stood over him, dagger clutched in reverence, poised for the final cut.
Another sacrifice. Another body for the pile.
Beneath my skin, sothing stirred. An anger so deep it slithered through my bones, too familiar, too grotesque. It coiled around like an old friend, whispering, gnashing, demanding.
My glare locked onto the lead figure—the one with the dagger. His robes, more ornate than the rest. The leader.
He whirled, voice rising above the murmurs.
“Our mont is near. Lord Styn Lor has spoken His verdict. We follow the will of our Goddess—not the falsehoods whispered in the hollow halls of those pretender churches!”
A murmur of agreent. So clenched their fists. Others lowered their heads in fervent prayer.
“They have strayed! They cower in their temples, preaching watered-down lies. But we know the truth. We are the bearers of Her true word. The first to heed Her will. And soon, we shall reclaim what was stolen from us—what these filthy beastkin dared to defile with their unworthy hands!”
A swell of voices. Conviction. Worship.
His gaze swept across them, fevered.
“It has begun to stir beneath us, deep in its sacred slumber. It awakens. And when it rises, we will be the first to grasp it!”
The crowd exhaled as one. A prayer. A promise.
The dagger tilted, silver glinting under the sickly light. Then it caught fire.
A sickly green fla, unnatural and writhing, crawled from the elf’s hands, wrapping around the blade like a serpent coiling around its prey.
“Witness it, My Lord!” he cried, voice trembling with devotion.
The fox-kin child did not move.
But I did.
A flicker, a twitch, a single command to thousands of neurons in the lead cultist’s hands.
His rage, his conviction, his body—all betrayed him.
Fingers stiffened. Refused to obey. The dagger tumbled from his grasp, fire and all.
Be it instinct, desperation, or sothing rawer—the boy saw his chance.
His small hands lashed out, snatching the falling dagger mid-air, the fla licking at him, his fingers, his skin—but he did not falter.
Before the lead cultist could even process his own rebellion—before his face could twist in confusion, in horror, in fear—
The boy drove the burning dagger straight into his chest.
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