Deep Sea Embers

In a gruesome act, a sharp and wicked spike brutally pierced the skin, adding another painful, senseless injury to a body that was already severely beaten and bruised. The eerie whispering and animalistic howls that filled the surroundings suddenly surged in volume as if the horrifying swarm of beasts was exulting in their successful strike. Their macabre merriment rang out like a discordant symphony of victory.

Agatha raised her arm in defense, using her staff as a barrier against the harrowing figure, a monstrous creature that was more akin to a bone spike than any recognizable human form. A startling, splintering sound echoed by her ear.

Caught off guard by the noise, it took her a moment to realize it was the final breath of her trusty staff. It had finally succumbed to a terminal break, irreparable and definite.

Her faithful companion through numerous combats had met its doom. Against an invincible enemy, it had persisted until it could no longer resist its impending destruction.

“Well fought, Gatekeeper,” sneered a hateful, conceited voice once more, “A ready sacrifice enhances the ritual, but overexertion risks ruining the dish.”

With the fragments of her shattered staff still clutched in her hand, Agatha gradually lifted her eyes. Dried blood had crusted around her eye, limiting her sight to a narrow, bloodshot view. Yet, through this restricted vision, she was able to take in the entirety of the grim spectacle unfolding before her.

The chilling shadow realm had receded, revealing the central area of the sewer system that had been grotesquely remodeled into an arena of sacrifice. The walls and entrances were defaced with grimy symbols and signs of corruption. Suspended from above were sharp, stalactite-like formations and withered branches that threatened ominously, while the floor beneath had morphed into a sprawling “pool.”

Where once there had been solid ground, there now gaped a wide chasm, hollowed out to accommodate a substance as black as the blackest night. The tarry mire seemed to possess a repugnant life of its own, emitting waves of sickening, squelching sounds.

The hall was swarming with disciples of the harrowing figure, each one accompanied by their own shadow demon. They huddled around the black pool in the center of the hall like nauseating insects flocking to a rotting carcass, chanting unholy prayers and growling wildly. In response to their chaotic invocations, the black pool stirred, its movements becoming increasingly vigorous.

This was their sacrificial site. They impatiently anticipated their final tribute, the “sacrifice” these deranged individuals revered: the gatekeeper of Frost.

They had already created a counterfeit of another gatekeeper, who was being directed towards a similar gruesome fate.

“Your supposed acts of free will are nothing more than steps leading you towards a preordained outcome. Don’t you find this grand scheme… artistic?”

Emerging from the epicenter of the black tar pit, a blond man stretched out his arms towards Agatha. His face possessed a remnant of attractiveness, but his lower half had morphed into a monstrous, writhing mass. At this moment, he resembled a grotesque “tentacle beast,” a vile mutation birthed from the tar pit, grotesquely mimicking a human form.

“Very well, the time has arrived. You’ve grown acquainted with your surroundings. Proceed now, the hour for the sacrifice is upon us.”

At the brink of the tar-like pool, a structure akin to a tentacle slowly started to rise. As it emerged from the muck, its tip began to harden and gradually took on the form of a dagger.

The sacrificial tool, a sinister herald of imminent disaster, edged ominously closer to Agatha.

However, Agatha maintained an air of tranquil determination, whispering to herself, “Just a little longer… right there…”

Her hand ascended slowly towards her chest.

But suddenly, her movements were harshly halted.

With a jolt, she found herself disconnected from her own body, her ability to control her movements completely severed.

“I see your intentions… your attempts to sabotage… to derail our plans,” the voice of the blond man echoed from a distant corner of the room. Struggling to lift her head, she saw his form looming at the periphery of her hazy vision.

“Unfortunately, to ensure there is no disturbance during the sacrifice, we’ve taken ‘precautions’ from the outset – didn’t you realise? Your journey through this duplicate city, your relentless slaughter of infinite decoys, even various incarnations of myself… all were meticulously planned to tether you tighter to this place.

“Do you feel your awareness of this sanctuary sharpening? That our ‘heretical’ scent grows stronger? Did you never question why?

“The reality, dear lady, is that the moment you entered here, you had already become an unwitting member of our ranks.”

With all her strength, Agatha managed to raise her head. The lethal spike hovered perilously close to her heart while her body lay paralyzed.

Now, the puzzling discomfort she’d felt during her journey, the motive behind the seemingly pointless war of attrition instigated by the cultists, everything fell into place.

It was all an insidious plot to taint her.

The very next moment, the malevolent spike drove mercilessly into her heart.

At the heart of the mud pit, the blond cultist threw his arms towards the sky. As the gatekeeper’s heart was pierced, he reveled in the horrific display, crying out in ecstasy, “The offering is made! The life force of the saint kindles the dawn of our lord’s rise! Praise the name of the Nether Lord, herald the day of prophecy!”

Every cultist in the hall echoed his proclamation. Those fused with demons, monstrous and grotesque, spiraled into a wild frenzy, bellowing the name of their enigmatic lord. Some brandished blades, slashing their own flesh to feed the insatiable black mud at the center of the hall with their blood. Even the demons among them succumbed to the fervor, releasing a cacophony of mad, discordant shrieks!

However, in the midst of this tumult of fervent cries, the black material in the mud pit underwent a brief yet violent upheaval before subsiding into an eerie stillness.

The blond cultist, entrenched in the center of the “pond”, was jolted abruptly from his ecstatic trance. His mounting alarm clearly visible, he scrutinized the now tranquil pool, his eyes shooting towards the spike embedded in the saint’s heart, and finally landing on the battle-weary and pale gatekeeper positioned at the edge of the sacrificial platform.

“…You’re… void of life?!” The fanatic’s composure fragmented, pointing at Agatha in stunned disbelief, “You… why are you a walking shell?!”

Agatha returned his stare with unyielding resolve. And in that instant, a gentle smile finally graced her visage.

“Do you honestly think, as a gatekeeper, I would disregard the sinister transformations occurring within my own being?” Agatha retorted, slowly lifting her arm. As the grip of the sacrificial ritual weakened, she could feel the control over her body tentatively returning to her.

“When I followed your misleading path to this profane gathering and discerned the malignant potential of this blood-thirsty ceremony, I initiated my own countermeasures…” Agatha’s hand moved serenely towards the spike lodged within her heart. As her fingers wrapped around it, tendrils of emerald flame started to weave an entrancing dance between them, infusing the invasive spike.

Her eyes rose, her gaze unwavering and resolute, fixed on the cultist wallowing in the sludge pool.

“Every unholy ritual depends on the vitality of life’s essence—I’ve drained mine.”

“Do… do you comprehend the repercussions of your actions?!” The fanatic, eyes wide in disbelief, pointed shakily towards Agatha. “You… you have…”

“Rest assured, it’s merely a minor setback,” Agatha retorted, her head shaking almost imperceptibly, her smile persisting. The flames radiating from her grasp began to intensify. “As long as I could kindle the flame…”

“What are you implying…”

As the cultist stewing in the sludge pool attempted to counter, his voice was abruptly drowned by another seismic roar originating from the remote corners of the assembly hall. The deafening rumble instantaneously shattered the remaining bonds of the sacrificial ritual—a colossal portal, deeply anchored within the congregation and the towering wall it was affixed to, was obliterated by powerful explosives!

“Boom!”

Shards of stone and concrete were hurled through the air, the remnants of the portal blending with a peculiar black substance, launching into the assembly hall like deadly projectiles. The cultists closest to the blast were instantaneously vaporized.

“They’ve breached the portal!”

“Unthinkable! They’ve been repelled for generations… How could spectral warriors break their own cycle?!”

At the heart of the sludge pool, the blond cultist leader whirled his gaze in disbelief towards the origin of the explosion. However, before he could distinguish the figures surging through the remnants of the shattered portal, a towering pillar of green fire exploded into his peripheral vision.

His attention snapped back, only to witness the sacrificial offering, destined for the Nether Lord, now enshrined in flames, radiating brilliantly in the mesmerizing tableau of spectral fire!

The instant the colossal portal within the congregation was shattered, Agatha had managed to extricate herself from the shackles of the sacrificial ritual. Capitalizing on this transient window of opportunity, she had kindled the emerald fire, using her own spirit as the catalyst.

A spiritual conflagration erupted!

In the unexpected panorama, awash in the ethereal glow of green flames, Agatha spotted a massive breach in the wall opposite the “sludge pool”. A squadron bearing a striking resemblance to sailors, alight with the same emerald flames, stormed into the hall.

The flames enveloped them, and the spark ignited within her resonated with an intense harmony.

A grin spread across Agatha’s face as clarity draped over her and comprehension flourished.

Amidst the cavorting flames, she slowly extended her hands, lifting them in a gesture of welcome.

“The beacon has been kindled.”