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Chapter 127 - Why?
🕑 Added 2025-01-23 04:00:03 +0000 UTCAN: Warning, in case you skipped the message in the previous update, this chapter has some horror elements and possibly gore, if you're extremely sensitive. This is a one chapter thing, and it will appear rarely or not at all in the future. Demonic cultivators and something called the Blood Cult has to be scary, bloody, and, well, culty. :) Without further ado, zee chappy...
29th of Season of Water, 57th year of the 32nd cycle
“Help,” the girl whimpered, snapping Newt out of his daze. He looked up, to see her deathly pale skin and the aberrant glyph marring her bare torso.
The girl was a mere mortal maid. Newt recalled her serving tea back when they were still children, when the young miss had retainers her own age, to groom and raise to serve her for life.
The thing in the ceiling was watching, but seeing a dying girl, Newt clenched his teeth and ran into the chamber of horror. His boots splashed as he circled around the stacked bodies, heading for the chained up serving girl.
He passed others, under normal circumstances, Newt would have known the exact count, but in the bloody room, under the watchful gaze of the thing which lurked beyond the ceiling, beyond the seal, he had no clue how many people were suspended between him and the dying girl.
Dozens, hundreds, thousands. Numbers lost meaning, since seeing even one human treated like sacrificial blood was enough to scar the budding soul.
Newt reached the girl and helplessly stared at the steel thorns protruding from her arms. His eyes were clouded, and he had no clue how to remove them without hurting her further, so he snapped the chains.
He picked her up as gently as he could and turned to leave. The act made something deep inside him turn more solid, more real.
“Newstar.”
He ignored the pained rasp and stopped himself from sprinting out. The speed at which he moved would have pushed the broken girl beyond her ability to handle, snapping her boy. Newt walked slowly, water sloshing beneath his feet.
Yes, it was water. Nothing more, nothing less. Water.
“He gave them Mother,” the dying girl whispered, her voice a flickering flame caught in a storm. “He gave them Threeflower.”
Her lips were blue; her fingers cold. Newt was immune to mere mortal heat and chill, but those fingers grabbing his forearm were the coldest thing that ever touched his skin. No frostworm could ever compare.
The basement stretched into eternity. Hours must have passed in which all he could do was sense labored breath, straining to keep going, weakening by a fraction each time the frail girl breathed out.
Rose. Rose can help.
“I don’t want to die.” Glacial fingers which gripped Newt’s arm went slack.
Tears blurred his eyes, and he lost sight beyond smears of light and darkness. Newt moved following his third eye, which told him spiritual energy still flowed with the girl’s blood. She was alive, barely, merely passed out.
She’s alive. Rose can help.
Newt repeated his mantra, seeking salvation after visiting the abyss of blood.
“Newt!” Obsidian shouted all of a sudden, and Newt realized he was outside.
“Heal her,” he croaked, and Rose was already there, motes of blue light flowing into the girl he cradled in his arms.
“Are there others? Shouldn’t we recuse them?”
Yes, there were others. Countless humans were used as nodes of a spell formation, bound and broken and twisted. But if his friends went down there, it would ruin them. Newt knew their forward path would be shaken, if not outright destroyed.
He gingerly moved the girl, handing her to Jasmine.
“You stay here.” He wiped the tears out of his eyes, clearing his sight. “I’ll bring the others.”
Obsidian moved to follow.
“Obi.” Newt’s voice was sharp, but he did not know what he wanted to say. “You can’t go down there. I’ve already seen it, but you don’t have to see something like that.”
Those were the wrong words to say, and Newt knew immediately.
“And you’re saying I should let my friend go through whatever’s down there alone?”
Yes.
“...” No words could find their way past Newt’s lips. He just let Obsidian follow. They sprinted to the basement, and surprisingly Obsidian’s reaction was nowhere nearly as bad as Newt’s.
“Heavens,” he gasped when he saw all the blood and the bodies, but muttered curses were the extent of his reaction.
Obsidian did not notice the thing in the ceiling watching them like a predator. The runes carved into dead and dying humans were nothing more than cruel butchery, they held no threats or tempting promises Newt sensed from them.
It’s better this way.
The countless bodies chained to the walls were, in fact, twenty-six. Many more were thrown onto the pile, and Newt suddenly understood why there were no servants anywhere. They were all there. Used by the cultist for whatever nefarious purpose the spell formation had.
Without any prior arrangement, Newt went left and Obi went right, checking the state of those hanging off the chains.
The first one was dead, as was the second, and the third. The fourth person was gasping for breath. Newt broke their chain and brought them up. His mind had entered an altered state; up, down, check whether the next body was still breathing, up and down again. The movement was done in a trance, Newt’s mind disconnected from reality as his body did what needed to be done.
Then, Newt faced Elder Brave. His mindless routine shattered, and he stared at the man he respected as a child, but loathed as an adult.
“Why?” His voice trembled as he glared at the chained man hanging limply from the chains, blood still oozing from his runic wound. “Why did you get tangled up with the Blood Cult? How could you be so stupid?”
The elder looked up, his eyes taking too long before focusing on Newt.
“We never approached anyone.” He licked his lips, struggling to form the words. “We’ve been staying with the Steelwheels ever since you kicked us out of the clan. Then, one day, Patriarch Steelwheel brought a group of higher realm cultivators who captured us and brought us down here. They have been torturing us for days, weeks. I don’t know how long.”
Newt stared blankly as Brave passed out. His lips moved, mouthing silent words, “If they weren’t the ones, and if it was Jasmine’s dad—”
His head snapped back towards the exit. A sudden urge overwhelmed Newt, a desire to tear Jasmine’s father to pieces. Him and his entire filthy family. Why did he do it? Why did Jasmine do what she had done to him?
Newt almost ran to hunt him down. But he did not. He focused on the more important thing. On the human lives before him. On people needing his help.
He broke Elder Brave’s chains and carried him out, laying him on the courtyard’s soft grass for Rose to heal when she got to it. Twelve people were already sleeping, covered with tablecloths Obsidian’s sister had pilfered from the mansion.
Two more were waiting for healing while Rose covered her latest patient, moving towards an unconscious, withered man, who seemed somewhat familiar to Newt.
“Two more to check,” Obsidian said, lowering another wounded on the grass.
Newt nodded. They went back underground together and returned empty handed a minute later. Fifteen out of twenty-seven still lived, Elder Brave being the only surviving Blazing Salamander. Newt thought about the pile of bodies, at least fifty people were stacked atop each other there. His stomach no longer twisted. It boiled instead. He was seething with fury. He was angry at everything and everyone. The dumb elders, his dumb uncle, dumb Jasmine, her dumb father—
Her father!
Newt turned around and looked at Obsidian.
“Obi, can you take care of things here? I have something else left to do.”
Obsidian nodded without a word, his grim expression more than enough to show his determination.
Newt ran into the mansion. Overturning everything as he searched for the one behind the disaster.
Why? The question hammered at his sanity. He clenched his teeth, searching for the sick, sadistic bastard.
That irrelevant, tiny, evil man brought the Blood Cult in their quiet little town. He sacrificed his servants. He sacrificed Newt’s kin, and intended to push the rest of his clan off the cliff. Why? Why did he do that?
Was the inconspicuous patriarch of a mortal family a hidden member of the Blood Cult? Was he their supporter? Newt did not know, but he planned to find out.
He searched every nook of the vast manor, checked every corner, every secret chamber his eyes detected, and he found nothing out of the ordinary, and no sign of the target of his ire.
He fled. Newt ran out of the complex, onto the street. Not a single person could be seen. Newt was momentarily terrified. He feared the Blood Cult might have sacrificed the entire town, but then he saw timid eyes hiding behind the window shutters. The wooden covers were opened just a crack, enough for those looking out to see what was happening in the street.
“Did anyone see where Old Steelwheel had run off to?” Newt’s voice boomed in the street, but no response came.
***
“You will now tell me how and why you got involved with those men.” Elder Flameax told his prisoner, who hung off a tree, just out of sight of town walls. If any emergency happened, he could appear by Newstar’s side in a blink, but until then, he had a suspect to interrogate.
After all, no innocent man fled his own home if he was really held hostage by the cultists.
