Eris' unconscious body trembled, his skin still burnt from the flames that had ravaged him earlier. His blood had soaked into the stone beneath him, mixing with the ancient, corrupted energies of the altar. But it was in the silence of his mind, in the depths of his unconscious state, that the true battle began.
A cold shiver ran down his spine as his mind was suddenly flooded with an unimaginable vision. The world around him shifted, transforming into a landscape of endless blackness, where twisted shadows seemed to crawl and writhe across the horizon.
And then, from that darkness, emerged a figure—a being unlike anything Eris had ever known.
A seraphim, but not one of light and grace. This being was something else entirely, a grotesque parody of the angels spoken of in old stories. Its body was an abomination—a writhing mass of tendrils that seemed to shift and writhe like living nightmares. The figure defied the very laws of anatomy, its form unnatural and inhuman, as though it were an aberration of reality itself. Its skin was a sickly pale shade, stretching and twisting with the pulsating rhythm of some unseen heart.
But it was its face—the face that would haunt Eris' mind forever—that truly froze his soul. It was a visage of grotesque, malignant beauty, twisted and warped beyond recognition. The eyes, two burning orbs of unnatural green, radiated an energy that could not be comprehended by a mortal mind. They burned into Eris with such intensity that it felt as though his very soul was being seared, as though this dark being was searching deep into the core of his being.
His soul recoiled in terror as the eldritch deity's presence seemed to consume the very air around him. The boy's heart raced as his consciousness tried to fight back against the terrifying force, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The power of the seraphim was suffocating, an oppressive weight that threatened to crush him.
And then it happened.
As Eris' mind quaked with fear, a second Crest began to form—this one unlike any he had ever seen, an incomprehensible symbol that danced in the recesses of his vision. It took shape within his iris, pulsing with a dark and malignant energy that seemed to tear at the very fabric of his being.
The glyph was grotesque, a nightmarish sigil that twisted and writhed within his eye. It resembled a stylized eye—its iris a deep, eerie green, and its pupil burning with a spectral fire that seemed to pierce through the veil of time and space. The glyph seemed to burn brighter with every beat of Eris' terrified heart, its presence growing stronger, more consuming with each passing moment.
The Crest within his eye seemed to resonate with the eldritch being, as though it were a part of it—an ancient, cursed force that had been buried deep within him, waiting for the right moment to awaken. As the Crest pulsed, dark energy coursed through Eris' veins, mixing with the already volatile magic of his lunar Crest. The two powers—light and dark—began to blend, their energies fusing together in a twisted harmony that was both beautiful and terrifying.
The boy's body convulsed violently, his limbs twisting in impossible directions as though they were no longer under his control. His fingers curled and snapped, his arms flailing wildly as if they were being pulled in opposing directions. The pain was indescribable, but it was nothing compared to the sensation of being torn between two powers, each trying to dominate the other.
The light of the lunar Crest—once vibrant and pure—began to dim, flickering weakly as the dark energy of the eldritch symbol pushed against it. The Crest, now weaker than it had been before, fought to resist the growing malevolent force, but it was a losing battle. Neither side was strong enough to break free completely, but neither was willing to yield.
In this moment, Eris felt himself slipping—his very essence being consumed by the dark force that had awakened within him. The Crest on his neck pulsed weakly, its serpent form writhing as if it were caught in a web of conflicting energies. The glow of the Crest was faint, dimming with every breath he took, while the eldritch eye within his iris burned brighter, its fire turning the surrounding darkness into an infernal void.
It was then, in the midst of this chaotic and painful struggle, that Eris spoke.
The voice that came from him was not his own, a hiss that seemed to echo from the depths of his very soul. It wasn't a scream or a cry, but something more ancient, more primal. "Zha'thik," he whispered, the words curling from his lips like a curse, the sound vibrating with an otherworldly resonance.
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Flumen stood, frozen in place, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched the scene unfold before him. The eerie glow of the lunar Crest and the eldritch symbol—the twisted glyph within Eris' iris—had created a nightmarish spectacle. The air itself seemed to warp and shimmer around Eris as he lay unconscious, his body caught between the powers that fought for control.
Flumen's breath was shallow, his heart racing with a mixture of fear and awe. He had never witnessed anything like this before. The ground around Eris pulsed with an unnatural energy, and the altar—once a source of dark power—seemed to hum with an intense, sinister force. He had felt the heat of the flames as they licked at his skin earlier, but this? This was something else entirely.
Lyra joined him, her expression one of concern and confusion. She had felt it too—the ominous shift in the air, the sense that something far beyond their comprehension was at play. But even she could not fathom what was happening before them. She glanced at Flumen, her face a mask of determination and fear.
"What in the world is happening to him?" Lyra whispered, stepping cautiously toward Eris, her hand hovering over her sword as if ready for anything.
Before either of them could act, a chilling whisper filled the air—the faintest utterance from Eris' lips. "Zha'thik," he hissed, and the sound sent a ripple through the atmosphere, a wave of dark, malevolent energy that surged out from him.
Flumen and Lyra both staggered back as the very air seemed to twist around them, the ground beneath their feet vibrating with an unnatural force. Something was happening to their bodies—something they could neither control nor understand.
Their flesh began to contort, shifting and warping in ways that defied nature. Their limbs lengthened and thickened, their skin darkened and cracked as if burned from the inside out. The air filled with the sickening stench of decay as their bodies began to twist into grotesque, unrecognizable forms. The transformation was violent and agonizing, their cries of torment echoing through the ruins.
But it was not just their bodies that were changing—their minds, too, were being ravaged. Corruption seeped into their very souls, tainting them with an ancient, eldritch force. Their eyes glowed faintly with an eerie green fire, their vision blurred as the influence of the dark power clouded their thoughts. The very essence of their being was being eaten away, corrupted by the same power that had awakened within Eris.
And all the while, the altar—the twisted monument to an ancient, forgotten god—seemed to hum in resonance with the forces at play. It was as if the altar itself was feeding off the transformation, growing stronger as the corruption spread.
But then, just as things seemed to spiral into chaos, a sudden shift in the atmosphere stilled the very air around them.
A figure stepped into the clearing, appearing as though from nowhere. The mysterious old man stood at the edge of the ruin, his presence immediately commanding attention. His robes were tattered and worn, and his face was weathered with age, but his eyes—dark, ancient, and wise—were fixed on Eris. A strange familiarity lingered about him, a quiet power that felt out of place in the bleak surroundings.
He looked at the struggling bodies of Flumen and Lyra with little more than an expression of pity before turning his attention to Eris. His hands, gnarled with age, moved in a slow, deliberate gesture.
A wave of his hand sent a soothing wave of energy washing over Eris. The boy's body—still suspended in his convulsions—seemed to relax, the two opposing Crests within him momentarily ceasing their battle. The pain in his body faded, and the chaos around him slowed to a stop.
The old man's presence seemed to calm the wild forces within the boy, the corruption receding for a moment as Eris' form became still, as though resting in a tranquil state. But this was not just peace—it was a respite. The boy's body had become a battlefield, torn between two destructive forces, but for the first time, both Crests seemed to rest at an uneasy balance.
Without a word, the old man raised his hand again, and the altar—the twisted monument to darkness—began to crack and crumble. The stones splintered, the ancient power contained within them unraveling in an instant. In a violent burst of energy, the altar exploded, disintegrating into dust, taking with it all traces of the dark rituals that had taken place there.
But it was not just the altar that vanished. The flesh of Flumen and Lyra—twisted and contorted into grotesque forms by the corruption—was also erased, reduced to nothingness in an instant. The air was filled with a soft, almost peaceful whisper, as though the ruins were being cleansed, and the malevolent power that had taken root was purged from existence.
The old man then turned his gaze to Eris, his eyes filled with ancient wisdom. He looked at the boy for a long moment, as though weighing the cost of what was to come. And then, with a final, decisive wave of his hand, the remaining traces of corruption—the very essence of the altar, the energy that had poisoned Flumen and Lyra—vanished without a trace.
The old man's work was done.
Before either of them could fully comprehend what had just happened, a new presence arrived on the scene—Vince, his eyes wide as he took in the devastation before him. His gaze flickered across the ruins, noting the absence of Flumen and Lyra, their bodies nowhere to be seen.
He opened his mouth to speak, to demand answers—but before he could utter a word, the old man, as though sensing his arrival, turned and vanished in an instant. One moment, he was there; the next, nothing but a faint ripple in the air marked his passing. He left no trace, no clue as to his identity or purpose.
Vince stood there, bewildered, staring at the empty space where the old man had stood. His heart raced, his mind trying to piece together the strange events that had just unfolded.
"I… I didn't see anything," Vince murmured, his thoughts clouded with confusion. His eyes flickered toward Eris, who lay still amidst the ruin, unconscious but seemingly unharmed. "Did he take the bead?" he asked himself, though there was no answer. Vince couldn't know that Eris still bore both Crests—one hidden deep within his eye, the other glowing faintly on his neck.
With a heavy sigh, Vince moved toward Eris, kneeling beside the boy. He reached out, checking for any signs of injury, but there was nothing—just the faintest glow from the serpent crest around Eris' neck.
Confusion and unease gnawed at him, but there was no time for answers. Vince could feel the weight of something terrible hanging in the air, something far beyond his understanding.
He needed to act.
And as he prepared to carry Eris back to safety, he couldn't shake the feeling that the mysterious old man—the one who had so effortlessly destroyed the altar, the one who had come from the shadows—was the key to the puzzle. But there was no trace left to follow.
With a final glance over his shoulder, Vince turned away, Eris in tow, leaving the ruined altar and the destruction of Flumen and Lyra behind.