⚠️ Reader Caution
This chapter contains graphic depictions of ritual sacrifice, blood, and unsettling imagery. It is written to be atmospheric and horror-tinged, meant to build tension and dread as the cult's ritual unfolds. Please read with awareness, as the scenes may be disturbing to some.
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The night had settled deep over the land, draping everything in a blanket of silence. Above, the full moon floated at its zenith, brighter than it had been in weeks, its pale light spilling over the world like a watchful eye. Its silver glow washed across the roofs of a small settlement, no more than one hundred and fifty houses clustered together at the heart of a quiet valley. From above, the village seemed almost peaceful—an island of stillness surrounded by the endless dark.
But peace was only an illusion.
In the middle of the night, there were few sounds to be heard: the faint creak of wooden shutters shifting in the wind, the rustle of leaves in the nearby grove, and—most noticeable of all—the uneasy barking of dogs. Their cries echoed through the narrow dirt streets, sharp and agitated, as though they sensed something the sleeping villagers could not. Their hackles rose, teeth bared, eyes fixed on places where nothing could be seen.
Nothing—at least, to human eyes.
The truth was different.
Shadows moved along the edges of the settlement, their shapes slipping between moonlit gaps like smoke twisting through the air. They did not walk like ordinary travelers; their steps made no sound, their forms blurred as though the light itself recoiled from touching them. One moment, a figure would be there, watching from the corner of a thatched roof—and the next, it would be gone, reappearing further down the street.
The dogs were not barking at empty air. They were barking at intruders. Dark figures that roamed the village as if measuring it, counting each home, marking each path. Whatever they were, they carried no lanterns, no tools, no sign of belonging here. They moved with the deliberate stillness of predators, and their presence pressed against the night like a cold hand tightening around the village's throat.
Yet the villagers slept on, unaware of what prowled just beyond their doors.
For now.
The roaming figures, once scattered like restless spirits across the streets, began to move in unison. One by one, they melted into the shadows and drifted toward the same point—a secluded corner of the village where the moonlight dared not reach.
There, at the heart of the darkness, stood a lone figure. His form was wrapped entirely in a black hooded robe, the fabric absorbing the faint light around it until he seemed less like a man and more like a fragment of night given shape.
The shadowy ones gathered in a loose ring around him, their movements slow and deliberate, as if bound by ritual. Then, without a word, they lowered themselves into a bow.
A deep male voice broke the stillness, firm yet respectful, coming from one of the figures who stepped forward from the group.
"Reporting to the Vice Leader of the Scorpion Division… the preparations are complete."
The hooded figure in the center tilted his head slightly, as though weighing the words.
"So it seems," he replied, his tone calm but edged with a quiet authority. Even muffled beneath the folds of his hood, the voice carried the unmistakable timbre of a man accustomed to command.
The Vice Leader's voice cut through the murmuring shadows like a blade.
"Has it been discovered which of the Seventeen Higher Demons is being summoned?"
The man who had stepped forward kept his head bowed. "No, Vice Leader. The summoning circle does not permit that information to be revealed beforehand. We know only that it is one of them… but not which. For what reason they seek this particular demon—if they even know themselves—remains uncertain." His tone carried a faint unease, as though the very subject pressed uncomfortably against his mind.
A thoughtful silence followed. The hooded figure's head inclined slightly, the darkness of his cowl hiding his eyes.
"Hmm… very well," he said at last, the low hum of his voice vibrating in the still air. "We will begin the summoning one hour from now."
His words carried no doubt, only the calm certainty of command. Then his tone sharpened, laced with something colder.
"And the brainwashing spell—has it been prepared without flaw?"
"Yes, it has," the man confirmed without hesitation. "In just one hour, the villagers will be gathered at the summoning platform."
"Alright… hmm," the Vice Leader murmured, a thoughtful sound rumbling in his throat. "Have you checked whether there are any rats roaming around?"
The man straightened slightly, answering at once. "No. We've already searched the entire area at least five times."
"Hmm… that should be the case," the hooded figure replied, though his tone suggested he was not fully convinced. "But search one more time. If there are any moles, they must be rooted out before the ritual begins. The Alliance Leader has told us to be careful… and we will obey him. Is that understood?"
"We understand," all the shadowed figures answered in unison, their voices a low, collective murmur that seemed to blend with the night itself.
They had prepared for this ritual with painstaking precision—every chant, every sigil, every drop of blood accounted for. Yet the Vice Leader's warning was clear: there could still be… disturbances. And the Alliance Leader's caution was not something to be ignored.
But none of them knew that, from the darkness beyond their circle, a pair of eyes glinted faintly in the moonlight—watching, unblinking. They did not blink when the shadows moved, nor when the Vice Leader's voice cut through the night. Silent and patient, the watcher remained still, like a predator crouched in the undergrowth.
And somewhere in the cold air, between the whisper of leaves and the restless bark of distant dogs, a quiet thought stirred—
You have no idea what's coming.
*****
It had already been an hour since they arrived and began preparing whatever strange demon-summoning ritual this was. They were thorough—painfully thorough. I watched as they scoured the area no less than five times, checking for any intruder who might be hiding nearby. Judging by the unnatural stillness of the village, they must have cast some sort of sleeping spell over the people. That would explain why not a single soul stirred, despite strangers wandering their streets.
But who exactly were they? I narrowed my eyes, unable to recognize their attire or symbols. Some unknown cult? A hidden sect? Or perhaps a faction I had never heard of? Their objectives were just as unclear as their identities.
Oh well, it hardly mattered. For now, I only needed to keep watch, bide my time, and seize any opportunity to gain something from all this.
As I mulled over these thoughts, the doors of the houses creaked open—one after another, almost in perfect unison. My eyes sharpened. Villagers began stepping out, but there was something wrong. Their movements were too stiff, too precise.
Hmm?
A low hum escaped me as I noticed their eyes—blank, empty, stripped of any will of their own. Like puppets on strings, they shuffled toward the summoning platform the hooded figures had constructed. Step by step, they moved in eerie silence, their formation unnaturally orderly.
When they reached the platform, they stopped, standing like lifeless statues before the gathered cultists. Only the guards and scouts remained stationed at their posts.
One figure, cloaked more prominently than the rest, stepped forward from the center. His presence seemed to command attention. He spoke something to the villagers, though his words were too faint for me to catch. Whatever he said, it worked—their bodies stirred again, beginning to move in response to his command.
At least a hundred villagers broke away from the rest of the group, shuffling forward like puppets. Step by step, they climbed onto the platform and, as if guided by one will, dropped to their knees. Men, women, children, even the frail elderly—all bowed their heads in perfect unison, offering their necks as though they had rehearsed this countless times before.
A matching number of hooded figures emerged from the gathering, each gripping a massive machete. They moved with eerie synchronization, positioning themselves behind the kneeling villagers. The sight made my stomach tighten. Were they really going to execute them? The scene looked disturbingly similar to how goats were sacrificed in ancient rites.
Just as the blades were raised high, another figure stepped forward. This one seemed more delicate, her silhouette slightly feminine. She carried a book—its cover dark, its pages heavy with age and secrecy.
Hmm? What kind of book is that? I frowned, straining my eyes. Whatever it was, I didn't recognize it.
While the executioners stood frozen with their weapons poised, the woman began reading. I couldn't hear her words, but I could feel them, as though the very air vibrated with each syllable. Her voice must have been reciting something crucial to the ritual.
Minutes dragged on before she finally lowered the book and stepped back. The air was heavy, as if waiting for something inevitable.
Then, the man I had seen earlier—the one who seemed to be in command—stepped forward. He raised one hand, signaling the executioners to hold. Slowly, he closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and when he opened them again, a chilling resolve burned within them.
In one fluid motion, he unsheathed the sword at his waist.
Chik.
The sharp sound of flesh being severed rang out as he slashed down—not at a villager, but at his own wrist, severing his hand in a single strike. At that exact moment, as if bound to his will, the hundred machetes came crashing down in unison.
Chik! Chik! Chik!
A hundred heads fell at once. The villagers' bodies collapsed backward, their lifeless forms hitting the wooden platform almost rhythmically. Not a scream escaped them. Not a single sound, only the dull thud of bodies meeting the ground.