Nu'al pressed her face against her drawn-up knees, curling into herself like a wounded animal. She bit her lip in frustration, hard enough to taste the coppery tang of her own blood, a small, controllable pain amidst an uncontrollable horror.
Suddenly, a deafening screech of rusty hinges tore through the silence. The heavy door at the top of the stairs swung open, and the beam of a lantern sliced through the darkness, silhouetting two figures wearing grotesque masks made from the preserved heads of animals. One, a muscular giant wearing the head of a stag with magnificent antlers, was the same man who had thrown the strange newcomer in here. The other, more slender and wearing a horse's head, was a woman. The glass eyes of both heads were dead, yet Nu'al felt as if she were being stripped bare by their gaze.
Nu'al lifted her head, meeting their stare with a defiant glare as they unlocked the cell grate with a cold clang of metal. The Horse Head glanced at the corpse beside Nu'al before clicking her tongue in disappointment. Nu'al quickly hid her hand behind her back. There, in the darkness, her fingertips began to emit a faint, flickering light, like a dying firefly. She was trying, with all her might, to summon her magic, fighting against the spiritual pressure that made every spell feel like lifting a mountain.
That's when she felt it—a sharp, piercing pain deep within her, a calculated act of violence against herself. Warm blood instantly began to flow, staining her worn trousers, creating a dark patch that mingled with the dampness of the earth. Her plan was in motion.
The Stag-headed figure approached Nu'al without a word. His rough hand, like a machine's grip, seized her arm and yanked her upwards, forcing her violently to her feet.
Horse Head: "Wait."
The woman's voice was hoarse and commanding, leaving no room for argument. Her sharp gaze fell to Nu'al's groin before finally meeting her eyes.
Horse Head: "Lower your trousers..."
With trembling hands, Nu'al lowered her trousers just enough to reveal the blood beginning to trickle down her thigh. The room was dim, but in the lantern light, the Horse Head could clearly see the wet, red stain.
Horse Head: "Just take the other one..."
She glanced toward Oldred, who still lay unconscious in the corner. The Stag Head seemed to hesitate.
Stag Head: "But... he's defective. His left arm... are you sure?"
The Horse Head nodded with cold certainty.
Horse Head: "This week's hunt was slow. Our stock is running low. The Father will understand..."
With a submissive nod in response, the Stag Head released Nu'al, letting her drop back to the floor. He then walked over to Oldred, dragged the heavy body out by its legs, and left with the Horse Head. The cell door was slammed and locked once more.
In that same instant, Nu'al immediately focused her remaining magic. A key hanging from the Stag Head's belt trembled violently before breaking free from its hook. Nu'al strained, keeping the key from clattering to the floor and alerting them. The key hovered in the air, vibrating, just in front of the bars.
The door above closed, leaving Nu'al alone in the darkness. She stared at the stairs where the stranger had been dragged away, a cold guilt piercing her heart.
Nu'al: "I'm sorry..."
Her whisper was swallowed by the silence. She then looked back down at her stained trousers. With a trembling feat of unseen magic, she had torn her own hymen moments before they entered. A painful sacrifice to trick them, to make it seem as if she were menstruating and thus "impure" for their offering. She had traded her purity for her life, and the life of a stranger for a chance to escape.
***
Nu'al managed to grasp the key with her trembling magic. It fell into her hand with a soft clink that made her flinch. A piece of hope, made of cold, rusted iron, was now in her grasp. *What now?* The question screamed in her mind.
She crawled back into the corner, hugging her knees, the key clutched tightly in her hand.
Nu'al: "What should I do? Even when the bell rings… there should still be guards outside, right?"
The bell was the call for the sacrificial feast, a time when most of the cultists would be busy preparing the meal for their forest god and eating together. But 'most' didn't mean 'all'. There was always a risk. Always a chance of failure.
Nu'al: "I don't want to die here... but I don't want to die foolishly trying to escape... When that bell rings... then... then that's my only chance..."
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm her racing heart. She would wait. Wait for the dinner bell for the monsters to ring.
***
Meanwhile, on the other side of the village, in a wooden building that reeked of the sharp tang of blood, a door was knocked on harshly. A figure wearing the grotesque mask of a black-furred goat opened it in annoyance.
Black Goat Head: "Agh, what is it?! Can't the female offering just be sacrificed already?... Is that horse bitch trying to play games now?"
At the door, he found the giant Stag Head carrying Oldred's limp body. Behind the Black Goat, his brother, wearing the mask of a white-furred goat, peeked out.
Black Goat Head: "Ahh, the mute Stag. Heh heh, alright, alright. Now, who's this? An offering? A defective one at that! Where'd you find this piece of scrap? Looks like your performance has gone sterile, eh?"
The Stag Head just grunted, ignoring the taunt.
Stag Head: "Offering... Hurry. Collect the blood..."
Black Goat Head: "Ahh, fine, fine… jeez..."
He grumbled lazily but gestured for his brother to help. The door closed. The twins carried Oldred into a room that looked more like a slaughterhouse than a ritual chamber. Rusted meat hooks hung from the ceiling, and the stone floor was stained black with years of dried blood. The White Goat Head began dragging Oldred toward one of the hooks, preparing to bind his feet and hang him upside down.
Suddenly, the Black Goat Head let out a small whistle.
Black Goat Head: "Hey, hey. Wait, hold on a second."
He held up a hand, stopping his brother.
White Goat Head: "What is it?"
The Black Goat Head pointed at Oldred's steel arm, which gleamed faintly in the dim lantern light. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, glinted with greed.
Black Goat Head: "That. That thing."
White Goat Head: "You want it?"
Black Goat Head: "Of course, you idiot! What do you think our cut is?! We do the worst job here! Hours in this disgusting, stinking place makes me sick! At the very least, we deserve a souvenir, right?!"
With a short sigh of resignation, the White Goat Head let go of Oldred's legs. The two of them then heaved Oldred's body onto a stained stone cutting table. The Black Goat Head roughly shoved his brother aside.
Black Goat Head: "Go on! Get the bucket and the tools! And the bone saw!"
Clicking his tongue in annoyance, the White Goat Head hurried off to another room to retrieve their equipment, leaving his brother alone with their still-unconscious victim.
***
Consciousness returned to Oldred not like the opening of eyes, but like being dredged up from the bottom of a muddy ocean. The first sense to activate was smell: the putrid stench of blood and decay, so thick it churned his stomach. Then hearing: an annoyed grumbling and the squeal of metal. Finally, touch: the cold of the stone table on his back and a rough handling of his steel arm. The pain from the mask fused to his face was a constant, low hum in the background. He didn't move, allowing himself to be presumed still unconscious.
The Black Goat-headed figure was trying to forcibly remove Oldred's bionic arm. He lifted it, twisted it, searching for a seam or a hidden mechanism he could pry open.
Black Goat Head: "Where'd they even get this thing? This mask, too... I've never seen anything like it."
He continued to pull and tug fruitlessly, his grunts growing more frustrated.
Black Goat Head: "That damn 'Forest God.' He's strong, sure, but he's a pain. I heard he dissolved in his own sin and awakened some kind of strange power, creating this 'weird zone.' No wonder I can't get out of this hellhole... And now he demands sacrifices? What the hell, tsk…"
He tried to wrench the arm off with a growl.
Black Goat Head: "At least I should thank him. Thanks to this damn dome, I'm safe from those crazy Lunarians."
His frustration peaked. He then yelled toward the other room, his voice echoing.
Black Goat Head: "Hey! Bring a crowbar, a hammer, something! This thing is stuck on tight!"
He shook his head in disgust, glancing toward the door.
Black Goat Head: "Heh, what a coward..."
When he glanced back at Oldred, he was met with an impossible motion. Oldred's steel arm shot up with lightning speed, clamping onto the cultist's head with a dull KLANG.
Black Goat Head: "Eugh!? What? What the—?!"
His words were cut off as Oldred slammed his head into the stone table with brutal force. CRACK! Again. CRACK! And again. CRACK! Finally, Oldred lifted the limp body and tossed him like a ragdoll against the wall, where he collapsed in an unmoving, unconscious heap.
The White Goat Head then emerged frantically from the next room, carrying a rusty bone saw.
White Goat Head: "Hey! What's wrong?! Why is it so noisy—?!"
He stopped short, his eyes locked on Oldred, who was now sitting upright on the table, and then on his brother's body crumpled in the corner. The saw fell from his hands with a loud clang. He raised both hands, trembling.
White Goat Head: "Wait! Wait! I won't tell anyone! I swear!"
Oldred didn't answer. He slid off the table, his movements slow and menacing. His gaze fell upon a meat cleaver lying nearby. He picked it up.
White Goat Head: "Sh-shit! You're insane!"
His instincts took over. He turned and tried to run for the exit. But before he could take a second step, a terrifying whistling sound came from behind him, followed by a loud **THUNK!** A cleaver, thrown with deadly precision, embedded itself deep in the wooden door, right next to his head, blocking his escape.
He froze, staring at the still-quivering blade before slowly turning around. Oldred was right in front of him, as if he had teleported. Before he could even scream, a steel fist smashed into his face.
**BOOM!**
The piston-like blow was so powerful that the white goat's head snapped back, hitting the wooden wall and creating a small indentation in its surface. As Oldred retracted his fist, the figure collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, unconscious.
Oldred stood in the silence, surrounded by two unconscious bodies and the ever-thickening smell of blood. He then tucked the cleaver away inside his coat, intending to leave the two men who would surely die from their brain injuries.