A place filled with filth.
That was the first thought that cut through Lucas's mind as his boots scraped against the stone floor of the unknown altar.
The air was rotten yet disturbingly fresh, like the clash of two contradictions forced to exist in the same breath.
The ground pulsed faintly under his feet, veins of black ichor crawling across the stone, whispering.
Every sensation here made his instincts rebel.
The grotesque nature of it was undeniable—yet there was something almost newborn about it, as if the altar itself had only just been born from the carcass of something older, fouler.
His gaze rose.
And there, in the center, stood the masked man.
The figure's presence alone froze Lucas mid-step.
There was no gesture, no killing intent, not even hostility, yet the silent weight pressing out from that man's very existence was enough to pin him in place like prey under the eye of a predator.
[…Master… Escape… You cannot win…]
