Thunder. Thunder.
The storm raged across the heavens, lightning tearing the sky apart as rain battered the world below...
In one of the countless windows of a dark, forgotten building, a young man stood motionless, staring into the downpour with hollow eyes. His reflection wavered against the glass, distorted by rivulets of rain and sudden flashes of white.
He exhaled—a long, heavy sigh and turned away from the window.
He didn't know whether the weather was gloomy…
or simply mocking him.
Either way, he couldn't endure it anymore. Not after what had happened in the last few hours.
As he paced the room, its contents came into view.
Small.
Cramped.
Unremarkable.
A thin mattress pressed against the wall.
A rickety table.
A half-filled bookshelf coated in dust.
A narrow bed.
An old almirah, its paint peeling like dead skin.
Perfectly ordinary.
If one ignored the rope.
A thick black rope still hung from the ceiling beam—snapped cleanly at its midpoint. Beneath it, dark stains marred the floor, partially washed away but never erased. The remaining half of the rope rested loosely around the young man's neck, its fibers scraping against bruised skin.
At first glance, it looked like a failed suicide.
But it wasn't.
Well… it was successful, in a way.
The young man's gaze lingered on the broken rope. His expression twisted as an ugly memory clawed its way to the surface. He reached up, rubbing his neck, fingers tracing the faint burn marks left behind.
"Tch…"
A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.
"Looks like I really fucked up, huh…"
Yes.
He truly had.
Because just a few hours ago—
He had woken up hanging.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
Literally.
***
Lucien.
Twenty-two years old.
A humble college student.
He had died only a few hours ago on Earth—claimed by a pandemic that had devoured millions. On his deathbed, he had already resigned himself to the end.
And yet…
Instead of oblivion, he woke up choking.
The first thing he felt was pressure.
Around his neck.
His vision blurred. His lungs screamed. Instinct took over as his body thrashed violently. Panic flooded his mind as he struggled, kicking, clawing—
Crack.
The rope snapped.
His body slammed into the floor.
Pain exploded through his spine, sharp and absolute. He lay there gasping, clawing at his throat as air finally rushed into his lungs.
"What the fuck—what the actual fuck?!"
Disorientation overwhelmed him.
Then—
Memories.
Not his.
A violent storm of foreign thoughts tore through his mind, crashing together like shattered glass. He screamed, clutching his head as agony consumed him.
"AAAAAAAAAA—!"
***
Lucien exhaled slowly.
Three hours had passed since then.
Three hours since he had come to terms with the impossible truth.
He had transmigrated.
Into a fantasy world.
…If one ignored the small detail that he now inhabited the body of a child.
A child who had been kidnapped—along with several others—from their families just days ago, during a full moon. Dragged into this place. Forced into discipleship.
A cult.
One that worshipped an eldritch horror—an entity of eyes, tentacles, and madness beyond comprehension.
Their future?
Blurred.
Broken.
Almost certainly short.
And yet, even after learning all this, Lucien believed he could manage somehow.
Pretend to be obedient.
Pretend to worship some tentacled abomination.
Wait for an opportunity.
But he was wrong.
The original owner of this body was also named Lucien.
And last week's memories were fragmented—blurred beyond recovery.
So he turned to the diary resting on the table.
That was his mistake.
Lucien stared at it, a grimace twisting his face.
Opening that diary was the worst decision of his life.
With unsteady steps, he walked toward it.
The final page.
Written in dried blood.
Only one line.
"Everyone here is a sacrifice."
Thunder roared.
Lucien slammed the diary shut.
How many twists could his fragile heart endure in a single day?
First—he died.
Second—he transmigrated into a cult.
Third—it seemed everyone here was destined to die.
Maybe not confirmed.
But Lucien knew.
Deep down, he knew this cult—this so-called Abyssal Temple—guarded secrets that could get him killed like a dog if he learned too much.
"It's a mess…"
He clenched his fists.
"But first, I need to know why the other Lucien tried to kill himself."
He wasn't a coward.
He had never been one.
So what if this place was filled with lunatics and monsters? One day or another, he would escape.
"One day… I'll burn this temple to the ground and that go—"
Knock. Knock.
His heart stopped.
The bravado shattered instantly as panic seized his chest.
Fuck.
Did it hear me?
Knock. Knock.
"Fuck—fuck—"
Lucien shoved the diary out of sight, the motion frantic—like a child hiding contraband from a parent.
He grabbed the knife hidden beneath the table, gripping it tightly as he moved toward the door.
His breath was shallow.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
He yanked the door open.
'To hell with—'