The passage suddenly opened into a cavernous hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. But it was the left wall that commanded attention—a colossal bas-relief stretching into the darkness.
Haydric approached the wall with the reverence of a pilgrim, stopping just shy of touching it. The torchlight revealed intricate carvings that seemed to shift in the flickering light.
"This is the Wall of Truth," the priest whispered. "The unvarnished history of the Blood Mother."
The torchlight licked across the first carving, illuminating the intricate details preserved through centuries. Before them loomed the horned colossus—the Demon King depicted in terrifying majesty, his bat-like wings spanning the entire height of the wall. His back was turned in regal dismissal toward the kneeling human, whose hands trembled as they raised the jeweled goblet to his lips. The rubies embedded in the cup's interior still glimmered like fresh blood despite the ages.
"This is the fate for those unworthy of the gift," Haydric intoned. His finger traced the next image—the same human now contorted in death, his face frozen in agony, black veins spiderwebbing across his skin.
Gregarious leaned closer, noticing something unsettling. "I've never seen any depictions of the Demon King before. Why would—"
"Because this wall contains truths that would unravel the faith of common Demonoids," the priest interrupted, already moving to the second panel.
The next scene struck like a physical blow. A defenseless human woman cowered on the ground, her arms raised in futile protection. Around her, a mob of humans raged—their faces carved with hatred so precise Gregarious could almost hear their jeers. One figure hurled a stone, its trajectory frozen mid-air. Another raised a fist, moments from delivering a killing blow.
"What is this?" Gregarious breathed, his fingers hovering over the woman's face. The artist had captured something profoundly human in her expression—not just fear, but betrayal.
Haydric's voice dropped to a whisper. "Her. The Blood Mother. This was her mortal life." The torch flickered, making the shadows of the attackers twitch like living things. "Before the mountain. Before her ascension. Before she became... more."
A single detail stood out—the woman's eyes in the carving. Where the others' were blank stone, hers were inlaid with chips of crimson crystal, making them glow faintly in the torchlight as if still alive.
"Come," Haydric said, pulling Gregarious toward the third panel. "The next scene shows her also."
The third scene stretched before them, a panorama of devastation.
The carving was larger than the others, spanning nearly half of the entire width of the hall, filled with a sea of contorted bodies—men, women, even children, their faces frozen in silent screams. Limbs were splayed at unnatural angles, some reduced to skeletal fragments, others melted into the stone itself, as if the artist had sought to capture not just death, but annihilation.
The Blood Mother stood at the center, her arms outstretched, her human form now wreathed in jagged energy. Her face was no longer fearful—it was triumphant, merciless, divine in its wrath.
Gregarious and Haydric walked in silence, their footsteps echoing softly. The sheer scale of the slaughter demanded reverence. A thousand lives, immortalized in stone. A thousand deaths, preserved with chilling precision.
Gregarious studied the craftsmanship—no cracks, no erosion, as if the mountain itself refused to let time touch this memory. Whoever had carved this had wanted this moment to last forever.
The next scene was a mirror of the first, but with a crucial difference.
The same goblet, its rubies still glinting, now rested in the Blood Mother's hands. The Demon King faced her fully, his massive wings unfurled in what could only be a gesture of approval, even reverence. His arms were raised, not in condemnation, but in celebration.
The final carving bore no inscription, no grand proclamation—only the silent weight of truth.
The woman was gone. In her place stood a figure of terrifying majesty, her form now wreathed in the same jagged energy that had slain the thousands before her. Her new wings, now stretched wide, their stone surfaces etched with veins like cracked obsidian. Her new horns, now curved like scimitars, their points sharp enough to pierce the stone around them.
At her feet lay the shattered goblet, its rubies spilled like droplets of blood across the floor of the carving.
The transformation was complete.
The priests called it The Blood Mother's Birth. But the wall itself offered no name—only proof.
The priest's voice echoed faintly in the vast hollow of the mountain as they approached the cavern's heart.
"When our ancestors first saw these walls," Haydric murmured, "they must have felt the same dread you do now. Some must've fled. Others... stayed. And in time, they found what they were truly meant to seek."
Gregarious swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the spear's strap. The weight of history pressing down on him—not just the Blood Mother's legacy, but the realization that every Demonoid walking the Drasil today owed their existence to those who had dared to venture deeper.
The priest fell silent then, his crimson robes whispering against the stone as they navigated the labyrinthine passages. The air grew colder, thicker, carrying the scent of damp rock and that same metallic.
Gregarious burned with questions, but the oppressive darkness seemed to swallow his voice before he could speak.
After what felt like an eternity of walking, the tunnel yawned open into a cavern, their destination, so vast its ceiling vanished into shadow.
At its center stood an altar of black stone, its surface carved with spiraling sigils that pulsed faintly in the dim light. The altar was massive—a perfect circle set within concentric rings of polished rock, like an arena built for gods rather than men.
But it was not the altar that seized Gregarious's breath.
It was the humans.
Dozens of them, no maybe hundreds if not even thousands, sat chained along the cavern's outer rings. Their heads were hooded, their limbs bound in heavy manacles. A muffled cry rose from one—a choked sound, as if their mouths had been stuffed with cloth or sealed shut.
Gregarious froze. "What—?"
"Silence!" The priest's roar echoed through the cavern as his boot connected with the trembling human's ribs. A ripple of movement passed through some of the captives—a few struggling against their bonds, most too broken to resist. Their muffled whimpers hung in the cold air like dying echoes.
Gregarious' claws tightened around the spear strap. "Humans?" The word tasted strange on his tongue—equal parts curiosity and instinctive revulsion.
"Precisely," Haydric replied, brushing invisible dust from his robes. "Your reaction interests me. Most of our brethren need to be restrained from tearing into them like festival meat." His chuckle was dry as tomb dust. "But I remind them—we are not mindless beasts. These creatures serve a higher purpose."
The sea of bound bodies stretched into the gloom—row upon row of hunched silhouettes. Gregarious' nostrils flared at the scent of unwashed flesh and iron. "How did you gather so many?"
"Six thousand, give or take."* The priest gestured dismissively. "Everyone caught trespassing on our borders. Their punishment was death... until we offered alternative sentencing."
As they descended the rough-hewn steps, Gregarious' mind raced. He'd expected a simple relic delivery—not this theater of the damned. The spear's weight seemed to double with each step. Why show him this? Why involve him at all?
His throat burned with thirst, though not the physical kind. Six thousand lives. Six thousand chances to sate the Hunger. Yet they remained untouched, preserved like... offerings.
At the altar's base, Haydric dropped into the formal prostration—forehead to stone, fists pressed to the dirt. Gregarious managed a shallow bow, his balance precarious with the spear.
"Blood Mother," the priest intoned, "forgive our intrusion upon your sanctum." Rising, he relieved Gregarious of the spear with unsettling reverence.
"Magnificent, isn't it?" Haydric asked the Blood Mother as if she were alive.
The priest's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're probably wondering why you're here. Kastran, your father, and I... we built something extraordinary." For the first time, something like emotion cracked his demeanor. "He was our finest explorer. Our sharpest mind. The foundations you see? All his eager planning."
A pause. The mountain itself seemed to hold its breath.
"He wanted you to complete his work. And soon—very soon—you'll understand everything. As of now however, we are close to achieving everything we've worked so hard for." The priest closed his eyes in a found peace. He made sure to inhale and exhale thoroughly, taking in every second of this moment.
The cavern gave a sudden, violent shudder—stones groaning, dust sifting from the ceiling like gray snow. Gregarious instinctively braced against the nearest pillar, but the tremor passed as quickly as it came. The priest didn't even blink.
"We are all part of an organization centuries old," Haydric continued, smoothing his robes. "The Crest Order. And we wish to induct you properly into our higher ranks." His fingers steepled. "You've proven yourself trustworthy with sacred relics. More importantly, you have your father's instincts. We need our next great explorer."
Gregarious' pulse thundered in his head where his horns would one day grow. "Me? But I'm not even an adult yet." He swallowed, suddenly aware of how his voice still wavered between octaves. "I'm honored, truly—but shouldn't this wait until after I've received the Blood Mother's gift?"
Haydric's lips curled, revealing the faintest hint of realization. "Ah, the gift. A trivial delay." He waved a dismissive hand. "Consider this your provisional acceptance. The formal ceremony can follow your ascension at the festival."
"Thank you!" Gregarious nearly leapt, then caught himself—adults didn't bounce like overexcited pups. He forced his voice deeper. "My mother will... she'll be proud."
"Indeed." The priest's chuckle was velvet over steel. "I'll visit Abhorrent before the festivities to inform her myself. Make it official."
They shared a smile, though Gregarious faltered as his gaze drifted to the four obsidian pillars framing the altar. Their surfaces were carved with interlocking spiral grooves, all converging toward the central dais like tributaries to a hungry river.
"Do you know what these do?" Haydric asked, following his stare.
Gregarious shook his head. "No, I don't."
"They're part of a mechanism that—"
The cave shuddered again, harder this time. A distant crack echoed through the cavern, sending a flock of bats scattering into the shadows. Haydric frowned, head cocked as if listening for something, then shrugged.
"As I was saying," he continued, "this apparatus drains the blood of the Blood Mother. Every year, on the same night, it awakens."
"The festival!" Gregarious connected.
"Precisely." Haydric's fingers traced a groove in the pillar. "Our ancestors discovered this place, just as they discovered the carvings. And like fools—or visionaries—they drank what pooled here." He referenced the stone floor with a cratered middle. "You already carry her diluted blood in your veins, Gregarious. But in adulthood? That's when you'll drink it directly—straight from the source. That's when you truly become a demonoid."
Gregarious' mouth went dry. "I... didn't realize it worked like that."
Haydric's voice swelled with fervor as he raised the spear high, its tip glinting in the dim light.
"Your father discovered the truth long ago—the Blood Mother's return was never a matter of if, but when. And today, you've delivered the final key!" His crimson eyes burned with zeal. "This spear shatters the seal. With it, and the sacrifice of a thousand humans, we will—"
The mountain roared.
A quake unlike any before slammed through the cavern, sending cracks spiderwebbing up the pillars. The priest staggered, barely keeping his grip on the spear. Then—silence.
A terrible, suffocating silence.
No more rustling chains. No muffled whimpers. Just the drip of something thick hitting stone.
Gregarious turned.
Blood.