"Welcome, travelers," the old man said, standing at the center of a wide stone altar surrounded by cultists in identical flowing robes. He looked toward them, his face unnervingly calm. "I must admit, I did not expect you to possess such terrifying strength—to slay a holy apostle of our Lord so effortlessly."
The cultists surrounding him stared at the intruders with blank, glazed eyes. None of them showed the slightest hint of fear or hostility; their expressions were completely hollow.
Jeanne, Skadi, and Irene didn't need a second glance to know these people were far beyond saving. Normal human beings didn't gather in dark subterranean chambers, draped in ritual garb, worshipping foul abominations.
As Jeanne stepped closer, the sharp smell of fresh blood hit her nose—not the metallic stench of ancient, dried stains, but the hot, heavy scent of a recent slaughter.
"You killed those villagers," Jeanne said, her eyes dropping to the grooved channels carved into the altar floor, now brimming with fresh crimson. The missing locals had met their end here after all.
If only those terrified peasants had trusted them even a little, they might have escaped this grim fate. Yet Jeanne felt no sudden flare of rage, only a cold, heavy sadness.
"Kill them?" The old man spread his arms, a euphoric smile spreading across his wrinkled face. "We granted them salvation! Their blood and flesh served as the foundation for our glorious evolution! Tell me, travelers... do you wish to join us? Together, we can—"
Bang!
Before he could finish his sermon, Irene pulled the trigger of her hand-cannon. The sharp crack echoed loudly off the stone ceiling.
The shot was sudden and precise, but the old cultist didn't fall. Two mindless followers stepped into the bullet's path, their bodies acting as living shields to absorb the force of the projectile.
"Tsk. Such a short-tempered judge," the old man chuckled softly, utterly unbothered as his meat shields collapsed to the floor. "Taking a life without a second thought... Yet your anger is misplaced. Death is merely a part of the grand cycle."
Even with his life directly threatened, the old man displayed no terror. He smiled warmly at them, as though delighted by their presence.
Behind him, a horrific change began to take place among the dead cultists. Their lifeless bodies twitched violently as unseen forces pulled them toward the center of the crimson pool.
Slurp...
Something was feeding inside the pool—another sea creature was lurking beneath the surface!
Realizing what was happening, the group moved to intervene, but they were a moment too late. The dead bodies disappeared into the thick crimson liquid. Seconds later, a few pale, splintered bone fragments floated back to the surface.
With practiced ease, the old man scooped out the bone fragments and stacked them neatly onto a pile at the edge of the altar. Seeing the jagged pile, Jeanne immediately realized where the splinters in the previous chamber had come from.
"You monster..." Irene gasped, her hands shaking as her knuckles turned white on her rapier. "You fed fellow Iberians to that thing?!"
"Do not step any closer!" Skadi warned suddenly, sensing a massive wave of bio-energy below.
Without waiting for the entity to burst out, Skadi leaped into the air and brought her colossal sword down with shattering force. The sheer weight of her blow smashed through the stone platform, collapsing the altar into rubble.
A torrent of thick blood erupted from the breached structure, exposing the creature hidden within—a repulsive, bulbous mass of pulsating flesh.
The scarlet blob was bristling with hundreds of writhing, slimy tendrils that thrashed wildly in the air, enraged by the sudden destruction of its lair. Thick, fleshy tendrils extended from the creature's core, plunging directly into the backs of the old man and his followers, linking them together like puppets on biological strings.
"How rude..." the old man sighed, his voice echoing unnervingly. "The apostle cared little if its majestic form was revealed to this foul air, but we ought to construct a pristine sanctuary for our savior using the only pure elements left in this land..."
"Shut your mouth, you utter bastard!" Irene snapped, her patience completely snapping.
Raising her hand-cannon, she emptied a barrage of explosive shots directly into the central mass. The heavy rounds tore through the beast's tissues, sending its tendrils thrashing even more violently.
"What are you doing?!" the old man shrieked, his calm facade instantly shattering into raw fury. "How dare you harm the divine apostle with your filthy weapons! Sacrilegious trash like you deserves no salvation!"
With a wave of his arm, the tendril-linked cultists surged forward, charging Jeanne's party like a wave of mindless beasts.
As Jeanne clashed with the vanguard, she immediately noted an alarming change. These corrupted puppets possessed strength far beyond any normal human—their physical force was immense!
Yet against three seasoned fighters, brute force alone was nowhere near enough. Though the cultists fought without fear, pain, or self-preservation, their movements were wild and unrefined.
Even Irene, the least physically imposing of the group, easily parried their awkward swings, slicing clean through the fleshy tendrils bound to their backs.
Jeanne quickly noticed that the tendrils were acting as external nerve conduits. Whenever a tendril was severed, the cultist would freeze, a brief flicker of human consciousness returning to their eyes—only for them to blindly reach back, attempting to reconnect the slimy appendage to their flesh.
Before any of them could reattach the tendrils, Jeanne summoned a wall of holy fire, sweeping over the fallen cultists and reducing them to fine ash. Not even their corrupted remains were left for the creature to reclaim.
"Desecration... Pure desecration!" the old man screamed from his high ledge, pulling at his hair in a frenzy. He began performing a bizarre, jerky dance, stomping his feet in rhythm to an unheard melody. "Unforgivable! I will personally deliver the apostle's judgment upon your heads!"
Screaming hysterically, he lunged down from the platform. Driven by the biological strength flowing through his tendril, his physical speed and power far surpassed his followers.
Yet the old man wasn't the primary threat. The real danger lay in the hundreds of slimy tendrils whipping through the air around him, attempting to snare Jeanne and the others.
Unsure what horrific effect a tendril's touch might bring, the group maintained a strict defense, severing any appendage that crept too close while deflecting the old man's wild strikes.
"Fafnir, burn it!" Jeanne called out, hoisting the little dragon up onto her shoulder.
Taking a deep breath, Fafnir opened his jaws and unleashed a massive stream of dragonfire straight at the central meat mass.
The white-hot flames swallowed the pulsating blob in an instant. The creature thrashed about, its high-pitched screeches ringing through the underground plaza as the intense heat scorched its fleshy form.
With the main body engulfed in flames, the fleshy tendril attached to the old man's spine snapped, severing his link to the beast.
Stripped of his borrowed vigor, the old man instantly withered back into a frail, breathless senior. Skadi stepped forward, easily disarming him and pinning him to the stone floor with the flat of her blade.
"Start talking," Irene said, stepping up and pointing the tip of her rapier directly at his throat. "What were you people trying to accomplish here?"
"You... you wretched—" the old man spat, his eyes bulging with hatred.
"If you're planning to waste my time with cultist gibberish, think twice," Irene cut him off, her tone turning ice-cold. "I passed my Inquisition trials with high marks. I know precise anatomical cuts that won't touch a single vital artery. You'll stay wide awake for every second of it."
A sharp, icy smile touched Irene's lips—a look that sent a shiver of pure terror through the old cultist's heart. He realized this young judge wasn't making empty threats; she was fully prepared to flay him alive for answers.
Yet despite his terror, his fanatical devotion held fast. He clenched his jaw, refusing to utter a word about his master or their biological secrets.
Seeing his silence, Irene flicked her wrist in a series of lightning-fast strikes.
Within seconds, a dozen thin, shallow cuts opened across his arms and chest, bright red blood welling up from the wounds.
"Well, look at that," Irene said coldly, watching the crimson droplets pool on his robes. "At least your blood is still red."