Darkness returned slowly, like water seeping into lungs.
Milan became aware of pain first—dull, rhythmic, everywhere. His wrists burned. Rope. His head throbbed as if something inside it had been shaken loose and left rattling.
He opened his eyes Nothing.
A hood covered his face, thick cloth smelling of rot and smoke. His arms were bound behind his back, his legs tied. The ground beneath him shifted with a steady sway.
They were moving. A wagon, he realized. Wooden wheels. The groan of old boards. Around him, muffled breathing—other bodies.
"Scarlet," he whispered. No answer.
"Nadia?" Silence.
Panic tried to rise, but something colder pressed it down. That same pressure behind his eyes. The same darkness waiting just beneath his thoughts, patient, listening.
The wagon stopped. Hands grabbed him, rough and careless, dragging him down. His shoulder struck stone. Someone laughed.
The hood was ripped away.
Light stabbed into his eyes. Firelight. Torches lining the entrance of something carved into the earth—an old tunnel, reinforced with timber blackened by age and soot.
Milan blinked until shapes formed.
Scarlet lay a few meters away, unconscious but breathing, blood dried along her temple. Nadia was slumped beside her, wrists bound, chest rising in shallow bursts. Zero knelt on one knee, head bowed, jaw split and swollen, one eye already darkening.
Fifteen masked figures stood around them. Not uniform. Not organized like soldiers.
They wereCultists. Their masks were handmade—wood, bone, stitched leather. Symbols scratched into them: spirals, inverted crosses, teeth, wolves. Their clothes were filthy, layered, scavenged. Some carried knives. Others carried tools—hooks, chains, old farming blades sharpened to cruelty.
One of them stepped forward.Taller than the rest. Mask painted white, split down the middle by a black line. Around his neck hung small vials filled with dark liquid.
Blood.
"You're awake, Good. I hate speaking to corpses."the man said calmly.
"What do you want?" Milan asked, his voice hoarse.
The man tilted his head, studying him the way one might study a strange animal.
"You, And what's inside you." he said simply.
Zero lifted his head slowly.
"If you think—" He coughed, spitting blood. "—you can control whatever this is, you're already dead."
The man smiled beneath his mask. Milan could hear it in his voice.
"We don't want to control it, We want to wake it."he said.
A murmur rippled through the group. The man gestured, and two cultists dragged Scarlet forward, dropping her at Milan's feet. Her eyes fluttered open.
"Milan…" she whispered. He strained against his bindings.
"Don't touch her." Milan shouted
"Oh, we won't, Not yet." the man said.
He crouched in front of Milan, close enough that Milan could smell iron on his breath.
Scarlet forced herself upright despite the ropes.
"You don't know what you're dealing with." The man straightened and looked at her.
"Oh, daughter of wolves, the chosen one to kill Victor We know exactly what you are."he said softly. Her face went pale.
"And we know who you're missing. Without the one your'e seeking, you are powerless" they all stared at him.
"What master do you people serve, Victor huh?" The man laughed.
"We don't serve Victor, we are the Vigil Of The Hallow. The world is already dead-hollowed out. We do not rule the darkness, we prepare it. And you, you have something that interested us. Because you are the key and the start"
Everyone was frozen in shock when the words were spoken.
The leader began chanting in a voice that did not sound entirely human, a wet, guttural rhythm that crawled under the skin. As he moved, he carved a wide circle on the ground using blood—fresh, steaming, and thick. The stench of iron filled the air. They were impatient, trembling with hunger. The sacrifice could not wait.
Milan, Scarlet, Nadia, and Zero were forced inside the circle, their hands bound tightly behind their backs. The cultists gathered around them began to convulse. Blood streamed from their eyes as their pupils rolled back, their heads snapping upward toward the sky as if something unseen was pulling their souls out through their skulls.
Milan's breath hitched. Horror locked his chest tight.
The leader crouched slightly, his fingers hovering over a pouch of powder beside him, ready to end everything in a heartbeat. One of the cultists stepped forward, a rusted knife clutched in his shaking hand, its blade already stained dark.
"Hey—hey, stop it!" Milan screamed, his voice cracking.
They did not hear him. Or worse—they chose not to.
The man walked straight toward Scarlet. He raised the knife slowly, reverently, savoring the moment. The blade hovered over her—
A massive stone tore through the air and slammed into his chest with a sickening crunch. He was thrown backward like a broken doll. The knife clattered to the ground, landing inches from Scarlet's feet. The chanting died instantly.
Every head turned. Raven stood at the edge of the clearing.
Milan's skull throbbed violently, as if something inside him was awakening, stretching, whispering his name from a deep, endless void. The cultists shifted, preparing to rush Raven—but before they could move, Nutaila appeared from the shadows, striking fast, furious, deadly.
The leader reacted instantly. He hurled the powder into the air. It exploded like ash and breath at once.
Raven froze mid-step. Nutaila stiffened, her body locking in place as the powder seeped into her lungs. Their eyes remained open, trapped in silent terror.
The leader smiled and walked closer.
"Welcome back," he said softly. "I knew you would come for her."
His gaze slid to Scarlet.
Raven and Nutaila were dragged screaming inside—though no sound escaped their mouths—and tied like the others. The powder took full hold. Their bodies became statues, lungs burning, muscles screaming, unable to move, speak, or even blink.
Raven was shoved closer to Scarlet. Their eyes met. Fear, relief, pain—all of it passed between them in silence. Zero stared at Raven, recognition chilling him to the bone.
Milan felt it again—something dark, ancient, stirring inside Nutaila. She felt it too. Their eyes locked, and the air seemed to thicken around them.
"Now everyone is here, We no longer need the one with the blood. We have the Vessel. We have the Herald. We may begin."the leader declared.
The ritual resumed. Pain exploded inside the circle.
It was not physical alone—it was deeper, crueler. As if invisible hands were reaching inside them, crushing organs, twisting bones, squeezing souls. Scarlet whimpered soundlessly. Nadia's eyes filled with terror. Zero clenched his jaw until blood trickled from his lips.
The leader approached Scarlet again, knife gleaming under the moonlight.
"The chosen one goes first."He forced her upright.
Slowly—mercilessly—he drove the blade through her hand.
Blood poured freely, splashing onto the blood-soaked earth. Scarlet could not scream. She could not fight. Tears streamed down her face as her body shook uncontrollably. Her lips trembled, her eyes wide with agony and helplessness.
The smell of blood grew stronger. Then Nutaila's eyes turned black.
Not shadowed—empty. Bottomless.
Rage tore through her like a storm. With a violent surge, she shattered the powder's grip and lunged for the leader. She reached for the knife—but his hand closed around her throat instantly, lifting her off the ground. His grip tightened, bones creaking.
His eyes turned completely white.
"In our ritual, we are stronger than darkness itself."he said calmly,
Nutaila smiled through the pain.
"You may study my power, but do you understand how his works?"she rasped,
She reached inward, tearing through herself, forcing her energy into Milan—into the abyss inside him—calling it awake.
The spell shattered.Milan rose violently to his feet.
Darkness flooded his eyes, swallowing every trace of white. The ground cracked beneath him as he moved—too fast to follow. He struck the leader with monstrous force, smashing him into the earth again and again until the ground caved inward with a sickening roar.
Nutaila collapsed. She scrambled to Scarlet, ripping the bindings apart.
"Are you okay?" she whispered desperately.
Scarlet nodded weakly, blood dripping from her fingers.
Nutaila turned to free the others
The cultists surged forward as one, blades raised, mouths twisting into animal snarls. Their chanting dissolved into screams as Milan stepped into them.He did not run.He appeared.
The first cultist barely had time to inhale before Milan drove the knife upward beneath his jaw. The blade punched through bone and tongue, bursting out through the roof of the man's mouth. Milan twisted the handle sharply and ripped it free, dropping the body before it even finished convulsing.
The second rushed him from the side.
Milan caught his wrist mid-swing. Bones snapped with a wet crack as Milan twisted the arm backward, forcing the man to his knees. Without hesitation, Milan slammed his knee into the cultist's face. Teeth exploded outward, blood spraying across the circle. Milan seized the man by the hair and smashed his skull into the ground until it stopped moving.
Two more came at once.
Milan ducked low, grabbed one by the ankle, and yanked hard. The cultist fell screaming. Milan stomped down on his throat, crushing it completely. The scream ended in a gurgle.
The other swung wildly.
Milan stepped inside the arc of the blade and drove his elbow straight into the man's sternum. Something caved inward. As the cultist folded, Milan seized his head and twisted—hard. The neck broke with a hollow pop, and the body collapsed bonelessly at his feet.
Blood coated Milan's hands.The remaining cultists hesitated. That was their mistake.
Milan moved faster than fear. He threw the knife into one man's chest, the blade sinking deep between the ribs. Before the body hit the ground, Milan was already behind another, wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling tight. The cultist clawed uselessly at Milan's arm as his windpipe crushed. Milan dragged him backward and snapped his neck, discarding the corpse like waste.
A blade sliced across Milan's shoulder.He did not react. Milan turned slowly.
The cultist holding the knife froze—just long enough to understand his mistake.
Milan grabbed his face with both hands and drove his thumbs into the man's eyes. The cultist screamed as Milan forced him backward, pushing until the skull struck a standing stone. Milan slammed his head again. And again. And again—until the screaming stopped and only wet sounds remained.
The last two tried to run.
Milan caught the first by the back of the neck and drove him face-first into the blood-soaked circle. He pressed the man's head down until the chanting symbols smeared across his face. Then Milan slit his throat and watched the blood spill into the ritual markings.
The final cultist turned, sobbing, begging.
Milan said nothing.
He walked forward, seized the man by the chest, and lifted him off the ground with one hand. With the other, he drove the blade into the cultist's stomach and pulled upward slowly, carving through flesh and bone. The body slid apart and collapsed at Milan's feet.
Silence returned.
Bodies covered the clearing—twisted, broken, bleeding into the earth. The ritual circle was no longer complete. It was drowned.
Milan stood in the center of it, breathing heavily, eyes black as the void itself.
He picked up another knife.
And turned toward Nutaila. Milan did the impossible his darkness was consuming him. Everyone was surprised as they couldn't say a word just staring with fear.
"Hey—hey, wake up," Nutaila pleaded, trying to reach him.
The cultists lay dying on the ground. Milan reached her and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her high into the air. Nutaila struggled, kicking helplessly. Milan was far too strong. She did not want to fight him. Her eyes turned dark as she screamed with everything she had.
"Wake up!"
Milan released her. The darkness drained from his eyes. He collapsed to the ground and lost consciousness.