Adrian's mind raced, a furious storm of human resolve clashing with Nyxal's dormant destructive instincts. "They're going to attack Oakhaven. My Oakhaven." The thought was a searing brand. He'd come to this world to understand it, to survive, not to witness its slow, agonizing corruption and the destruction of the very first genuinely sentient beings he'd encountered. Elara's kind smile, Jana's professional enthusiasm, the blacksmith's steady hammer—all of it flashed before his eyes. He couldn't allow this. He wouldn't. The fate of these "NPCs" was now profoundly real to him.
He coiled, every muscle in his human form tensing, ready to unleash a precisely controlled burst of Nyxal's speed. He couldn't use overt magic, not yet. He had to be surgical, devastating, and leave as few traces as possible.
In a blur of motion, Adrian erupted from his hiding spot. The cultists were still chanting, their eyes fixed on the pulsating shadow. His speed was absurd, the result of a fraction of Nyxal's primordial agility. He wasn't just fast; he was a silent, lethal streak. He surged towards the cult leader, who was still muttering invocations before the altar. The leader barely had time to register a shadow passing before Adrian's longsword, a dark blur of honed steel, plunged cleanly and silently through their heart. He twisted the blade, ensuring an instant kill, and pulled it free, all in one seamless, terrifyingly efficient movement. He kept his face angled away from the few flickering torches, a dark silhouette.
The chanting faltered, then died. Silence, thick and stunned, descended upon the chamber, broken only by the low, hungry hum of the nascent shadow being.
"Who... who are you?!" one of the cultists shrieked, their voice cracking with a mixture of rage and burgeoning terror. They turned, seeing their lifeless leader slumped over the altar, a dark stain spreading on their robes.
Adrian remained silent, his form still obscured by shadow, his sword held ready. He let his presence speak for itself, a new, unforeseen variable in their dark ritual.
"Why?! Why do you interfere, outsider?!" another cultist roared, drawing a wicked-looking ritual dagger. "Do you not understand what you have unleashed? The Great Thirst will consume you! Aerthos demands its due!"
"You meddle with powers you don't comprehend," Adrian stated, his voice low, resonating with a controlled power that sent a shiver through the remaining cultists. He knew his human form was imposing enough to unsettle them. "This 'Great Thirst' you invoke... it will not stop with this forest. It will consume everything. Oakhaven, the kingdom, the very realm. You are blind to the true nature of your master."
"Fool!" spat a third cultist, eyes blazing with fanatical fury. "You speak of blindness? You are the blind one! This world is rotting! We merely usher in the purification! The Elder Gods whisper of a new order, a cleansing fire to scour the weak! Aerthos is but the first harbinger of that glorious transformation!"
Adrian's mind seized on their words. "Elder Gods? Purification? What transformation?" He needed more. He needed to understand the scope of this madness. "This 'purification' you speak of... it involves draining the life from all sentient beings? Is that your glorious new order?" His voice was laced with cold disdain, playing on their fanaticism.
"The weak shall perish to feed the strong!" the first cultist shrieked, now charging, dagger held high. "Only the worthy shall remain to witness the true dawn!"
"And who defines 'worthy'?" Adrian countered, sidestepping the desperate lunge with ease. He didn't strike back. He wanted to draw more out of them. "A being that feeds on decay and demands sacrifices? You are not bringing a new order; you are merely puppets ushering in utter annihilation. Did your 'Elder Gods' promise you power? Dominion?"
The leader, surprisingly, stirred. His body lay lifeless, but a faint, rasping voice, seemingly emanating from the cult leader's corpse, filled the chamber, imbued by some lingering dark energy.
"He speaks... the truth... our... our glorious transformation... is their final... meal... they promised... power... but... but only... oblivion..." The voice faded, the last flicker of dark energy extinguishing from the dead cult leader.
The remaining cultists stared in horror at their leader's dying confession. Disbelief and dawning terror flashed across their faces.
"He lies!" one screamed, trying to rally. "He twists the words of the prophets! To arms, brothers! The interloper will not thwart Aerthos!"
Their frantic cries turned to shouts of desperate rage as they charged Adrian, a chaotic wave of daggers and arcane blasts. But their conviction had been shattered by their leader's dying words. Adrian moved. He was no longer trying to hold back for interrogation. This was efficient, brutal eradication.
His longsword became a lethal extension of his will. He parried a clumsy dagger strike, then swept his blade in a wide, powerful arc, disarming two cultists simultaneously. He moved with a dancer's precision, dodging a crackling ball of dark energy, the residual energy from Nyxal's true form allowing him to detect and avoid such threats with ease. He struck with lethal accuracy, each blow silencing a cultist, a swift, humane end to their fanaticism.
Their struggles were brief, their screams cut short. Within moments, the chamber was filled with the sickening thud of falling bodies, the only sound the low hum of the shadowy entity.
As the last cultist fell, the atmosphere in the chamber changed dramatically. The oppressive hum from the shadowy entity at the altar began to wane, its pulsating light flickering erratically.
Without the lifeblood of the cultists' ritual and their fervent chanting, the being began to shrink, its amorphous form growing less defined, less solid. It writhed, a silent, desperate struggle against dissolution. It was clearly tethered to their life force and their continued ritual. With their demise, its connection to this realm was severed. It withered, shrinking back into the altar, until it was nothing more than a faint, oily stain of shadow, flickering weakly before it vanished completely.
Adrian stood alone amidst the fallen, his breathing even, his sword held loosely. The chamber, no longer alive with malevolent power, felt cold, empty. The pervasive fungal glow dimmed slightly, as if deprived of its unnatural sustenance.
He surveyed the scene. Corpses littered the ground, all evidence of the cult's vile work. He couldn't leave them like this; it would draw too much attention, too many questions he couldn't answer. He needed to make it look like a natural disaster, or perhaps a more common monster attack. And he needed to protect his secret.
He sheathed his sword. Now, for the real 'purification.' He extended his hand, channeling a controlled burst of Primordial Fire, a skill inherent to Nyxal, a power of fundamental destruction. It wasn't the flashy, uncontrolled inferno of a mage's spell, but a concentrated, intense heat that consumed organic matter utterly, leaving no ash, no trace. He directed it carefully, meticulously, consuming the bodies of the cultists, leaving only blackened scorch marks where they had lain.
He moved quickly, deliberately, leaving the cult leader's body intact. And after a moment's thought, he ensured two other cultists, those who had been furthest from the altar and had suffered clean, fatal sword wounds, were also untouched by the flames. He needed something for the Guild to find, something that would lead them to a logical conclusion about a cult, but not to him, Nyxal, the being who could summon primordial fire. He would explain that he arrived to find the cult leader and two others already dead, perhaps victims of their own botched ritual, and that he himself had dealt with the remaining fanatics and the shadowy entity.
He examined the altar one last time, ensuring no lingering magical signatures remained. The hum was gone. The decay might take time to reverse, but the source had been severed. He had done it. He had protected Oakhaven. His new game was brutal, terrifying, and deeply satisfying. He was Nyxal, and he was ready for what came next.