When King opened his eyes, he wasn't in the forest anymore.
The black mist had swallowed him whole, dragging him and Valjean into what felt like an endless void. Now, he found himself lying on cold, hard ground. The air was thick with moisture, and an oppressive silence pressed in from all sides. A faint, unnatural glow illuminated the rocky cave around him, casting long shadows on the jagged walls.
"Valjean?" King's voice echoed strangely in the chamber.
No answer.
He scrambled to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. His sword was still at his side, but it felt heavier somehow. The weight of it made his arm ache as he moved cautiously forward. His eyes darted around the cavern, looking for any sign of Valjean—or whatever had dragged them here.
"Valjean!" he called again, louder this time, his voice tinged with desperation.
A sound from behind—a soft scraping, like something moving across the rocks. King spun around, sword drawn, every muscle tense.
Out of the shadows emerged Valjean, her face pale but determined. She was clutching her side, a thin line of blood seeping through her tunic. Despite the wound, her eyes were sharp as they met King's.
"I'm here," she said, her voice steady despite her injury.
King rushed to her side. "You're hurt. What happened?"
She waved him off. "It's nothing. One of those… things got close before I blacked out. I'll manage." Her gaze swept over the cave. "Where are we?"
"I don't know," King admitted. "We're not in the forest anymore, that's for sure."
Valjean grimaced as she examined the eerie glow that seemed to pulse from the walls. "I don't like this. There's something… wrong with this place."
King nodded, his grip tightening on his sword. "We need to find a way out. Whatever that mist was, it brought us here for a reason."
As they moved deeper into the cave, the air grew colder, the strange glow flickering like a dying flame. The path ahead seemed to twist and shift with every step they took, as if the cave itself were alive, watching them, waiting.
Suddenly, a voice echoed through the chamber, low and whispering. It was the same voice they had heard in the forest.
"You shouldn't have come."
King's blood ran cold. He exchanged a glance with Valjean, who was already scanning the shadows with a wary eye.
The voice grew louder, reverberating off the walls. "You're too late. The ritual has begun."
"Ritual?" Valjean muttered under her breath. "What ritual?"
Before King could answer, the ground beneath them rumbled. A deep, guttural sound echoed from the far end of the cave. The air grew thick with a sense of foreboding, and King felt a familiar coldness wrap around him—just like the black mist in the forest.
They continued forward, drawn by the ominous sound. As they turned a corner, the cave opened up into a vast underground chamber. At its center stood the same stone altar they had seen in the forest, but here, it was larger, more ancient, covered in blood-red markings that seemed to pulse with energy.
Around the altar stood the villagers, the same hollow-eyed figures they had encountered in the woods. But now, they were chanting, their voices low and rhythmic, blending into a terrible symphony that made the ground tremble beneath their feet.
And standing at the center of it all, directly in front of the altar, was the boy—the same boy who had led them here. His eyes were no longer vacant. They gleamed with an unnatural light, his face twisted into a cruel, knowing smile.
"You've come to witness the end," the boy said, his voice echoing through the chamber. "But you're too late to stop it."
Valjean stepped forward, her sword raised. "What are you talking about? What is this place?"
The boy's smile widened. "This is where it all began. And where it will all end."
King's heart pounded in his chest. The energy in the room was overwhelming, a dark force radiating from the altar. He could feel it pulling at him, whispering in his mind, filling him with a terrible dread.
"What's the ritual for?" King asked, his voice tense.
"The awakening," the boy said simply, his eyes gleaming. "The Old Ones are rising. They will reclaim this world, and there is nothing you can do to stop it."
Before either of them could react, the ground beneath the altar split open, and from the crack, a black, writhing mass began to emerge. It moved like liquid shadow, twisting and coiling as it rose higher and higher. The chanting grew louder, faster, as the dark mass expanded, taking shape, filling the chamber with an otherworldly presence.
Valjean's eyes widened in horror. "We need to stop this. Now."
King nodded, his pulse racing. But as they moved toward the altar, the black mass shot out tendrils of shadow, blocking their path. The force of it knocked them back, slamming them against the cave walls. The air was filled with a horrible, echoing laughter—cold and inhuman.
The boy stepped forward, his arms raised toward the writhing mass. "It's too late. They are here."
King struggled to his feet, pain shooting through his body. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to focus. He couldn't let this happen. He couldn't let this thing—whatever it was—escape.
But as he reached for his sword, the shadows closed in around him, suffocating, pulling him toward the altar.
"Valjean!" he shouted, his voice barely audible over the deafening roar of the chanting.
Valjean fought her way through the shadows, her sword flashing in the dim light. But for every tendril she cut down, more rose in its place, relentless, overwhelming.
And then, just as it seemed the shadows would consume them both, the boy's voice cut through the chaos, clear and cold.
"You cannot stop what is already done."
With a final, terrible roar, the black mass surged upward, breaking free from the altar, filling the chamber with an unholy light. The chanting stopped, replaced by a deafening silence.
King's heart pounded in his chest as the shadows closed in around him, pulling him toward the abyss. His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges of his mind.
But just before everything went black, a voice echoed in his mind—Valjean's voice, clear and strong.
"Don't give up."
And then, everything went still.
---
The cave was silent. The villagers were gone. The altar stood empty, its markings dim and lifeless.
But the black mass—the Old One—was gone.
King lay on the cold stone floor, barely conscious, his mind spinning. He reached out, searching for Valjean, but his hand grasped only air.
"Valjean," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
There was no answer.
King's heart raced. He forced himself to stand, his body screaming in protest. He staggered toward the altar, eyes searching desperately for any sign of her.
But Valjean was nowhere to be found.
The only sound was the faint echo of her last words, still lingering in the air.
"Don't give up."