Chapter 133: Cult Leader: True Identity

The streets of the capital's underbelly were a maze of narrow alleyways, dilapidated buildings, and a constant air of danger.

It was a place where only the desperate or the damned dared to walk after dark.

Tonight, a lone cloaked figure moved with purpose through these shadows, his steps silent, his presence unnoticed by all but the most observant.

The cloaked man turned down a particularly dark alley, the stench of rot and decay filling the air. At the end of the alley, a group of men lounged lazily against the walls, their hands resting on the hilts of knives and other assorted weapons.

They were the Knife Gang, known for their ruthless control of this part of the city. As the cloaked figure approached, the men straightened, eyeing him with suspicion.

One of the gang members, a wiry man with a scar running down his face, stepped forward, brandishing a knife. "You lost, old man? This ain't no place for a stroll."

The cloaked figure did not respond. Instead, he stood still, his face hidden beneath the hood, his silence only serving to agitate the gang members further.

"I said," the scarred man hissed, "you lost? Or are you just stupid?"

Without warning, the cloaked man spoke, his voice calm and measured. "Three plates of eggs, two plates of rice, and seven plates of fish."

The gang members exchanged confused glances. The scarred man sneered. "You think you can order food here? You're either stupid or crazy. Maybe both."

The cloaked man remained unfazed. He repeated the words, each syllable precise. "Three plates of eggs, two plates of rice, and seven plates of fish."

The gang member's sneer deepened as he stepped closer, lifting his knife threateningly. "You trying to mess with us? We don't take kindly to jokes."

Before the scarred man could take another step, a massive shadow loomed behind him. A big, burly man emerged from the darkness, his presence commanding and his fists like sledgehammers.

With a single swift movement, the burly man grabbed the scarred man by the collar and effortlessly hurled him across the alley.

The gang members watched in shock as their comrade crashed into a stack of crates, the knife clattering uselessly to the ground.

"B-boss!" one of the gang members stammered, fear lacing his voice. "It's Big Jor! He's here!"

Panic rippled through the group as they recognized the enforcer.

But their calls for help went unanswered. The leader of the gang, a grizzled man with cold eyes, remained motionless, his gaze locked on the cloaked figure. 

Big Jor's presence was enough to silence the rest of the gang. The leader, however, merely gestured for the cloaked man to follow. "Come with me."

The gang members stepped aside as the leader led the cloaked man deeper into the maze of alleyways.

They walked in silence, taking numerous twists and turns, passing through hidden passages and underground tunnels known only to those who controlled the criminal underworld.

The air grew heavier with each step, the scent of damp earth and decay mingling with something far more sinister.

After what felt like an eternity, they arrived at a nondescript door embedded into the stone wall of an ancient, forgotten basement. The leader stopped and turned to the cloaked man. "This is as far as I go. You're on your own from here."

The cloaked man nodded and stepped through the door. As it closed behind him, the atmosphere inside was immediately overwhelming.

The air was thick with the stench of blood, incense, and decay.

Flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the stone walls, revealing grotesque symbols and dark rituals in progress.

The room was a hive of activity, with cultists scurrying about, preparing for something monumental. 

In one corner, a group of hooded figures chanted in a language that had not been spoken in centuries.

They surrounded a massive altar, upon which lay a writhing figure, bound and gagged.

The cultists paid no attention to the victim's muffled screams as they continued their preparations, their movements precise, almost mechanical.

The cloaked man removed his hood, revealing the stern, unyielding face of Captain Hato.

A ripple of recognition spread through the room, and the cultists froze in their tracks.

One of them, a gaunt figure with wild eyes, immediately dropped to his knees, his voice trembling with reverence.

"Greetings, Cult Leader. Long live your leadership."

The room erupted in a chorus of voices, each one repeating the same phrase. "Long live your leadership."

Captain Hato surveyed the scene before him, his expression impassive. The cultists' fanatical devotion was palpable, and their tireless efforts to prepare the ritual were a testament to the power he wielded over them.

Hato's gaze fell upon the altar, where the bound figure continued to struggle weakly. The chanting grew louder, the air thrumming with dark energy as the ritual neared its climax. 

The gaunt cultist looked up at Hato, his eyes shining with fervor. "The preparations are nearly complete, Cult Leader. Soon, the ritual will be ready, and we shall summon the spirit to bring forth the next phase of our plan."

Hato's lips curled into a thin smile. "Good. Ensure everything is in place. We cannot afford any mistakes."

The cultists nodded vigorously, their fear of their leader outweighing any other emotion. They returned to their tasks with renewed fervor, their movements more frantic than before.

The room buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the promise of something dark and terrible.

As Captain Hato watched the ritual unfold, his mind was already calculating the next steps. The plan was in motion, and soon, the capital would feel the full force of the cult's power.

___

Ruchir and his group had finally pinpointed the likely location of the cult's underground lair, and it led them to the sewers.

The sewers of the capital were infamous—a dark, twisted labyrinth filled with filth, a breeding ground for mutant giant rats, and a pungent stench that could overwhelm even the most seasoned soldiers.

Garret, usually loud and brash, found himself shrinking back at the thought of entering such a place.

As they approached the pothole that would serve as their entry point, Garret began to complain, his voice dripping with discomfort.

"Ruchir, do we really have to go down there?"

"I mean, there has to be another way, right?"

This place is disgusting! And... and what about the rats? They're huge, I've heard. And they're... they're infectious! "

"We could catch something, you know!"

Ruchir glanced back at Garret, his expression firm. "There's no other option, Garret. This is the only way we can reach the underground. We have to find out what the cult is up to before it's too late."

Garret groaned, trying one last time to change their minds. "But... can't we at least, you know, take a detour? Maybe find a clean alley that leads somewhere nicer?"

Robert couldn't hold back a laugh. "Garret, if you're that scared, why don't you stay up here and keep watch? We could always use a lookout for the... mutant rats."

Professor Aanya, always the composed and sharp-witted mentor, seized the opportunity to tease Garret further.

She leaned in close, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. "Oh, Garret, I didn't realize you were so fragile. I suppose we should've packed some scented candles and a silk handkerchief for you."

Garret puffed out his chest, trying to regain some of his dignity.

"Hey, I'm just being practical! This outfit I've got here—" he gestured to the absurd combination of protective gear he'd thrown together, "—is specially designed to keep all that filth off me. You'll see. I'll be the cleanest one of us by the end of this."

Robert doubled over with laughter. "You look like a walking pile of garbage, Garret! How do you expect to fight anything in that getup?"

Even Professor Aanya couldn't resist a chuckle. "Garret, that outfit might protect you from the dirt, but what about the rats? Those creatures don't care what you're wearing. They'll go for your ankles regardless."

Garret, ever shameless, waved off their remarks with a huff. "Laugh all you want, but when we get out of here and you're all covered in who-knows-what, you'll be wishing you'd listened to me!"

Ruchir shook his head with a smirk, leading the way as he lifted the pothole cover. "Enough talk. We're going in."

Reluctantly, Garret followed them into the dark, foul-smelling tunnel.

As he descended, he kept mumbling to himself about the filth and the dangers, but he couldn't help feeling a bit proud that he was at least somewhat prepared—however ridiculous he might have looked.

Once inside the sewers, the reality of their situation hit them hard. The air was thick with a choking stench, and the walls were slick with grime.

The faint sounds of skittering claws echoed through the tunnels, a constant reminder of the mutant rats lurking nearby. The group moved cautiously, with Professor Aanya scanning their surroundings.

The passage was narrow, forcing them to walk single file. Ruchir took the lead, followed by Professor Aanya, then Robert, with Garret bringing up the rear, trying not to let his imagination run wild.

"Ruchir," Garret whispered, trying to keep his voice steady, "do you really think this is the right way? I mean, who in their right mind would set up a base down here?"

Ruchir responded, keeping his focus ahead. "The cultists aren't in their right minds, Garret. That's why they're dangerous. And we need to stay sharp—anything could be a trap."

Just then, a rustling sound echoed from behind them. Garret froze, his heart pounding in his chest. "What was that?!"

Robert chuckled. "Relax, Garret. It's probably just one of those rats you're so fond of."

Garret shot Robert a glare, though it was mostly lost in the dim light. "You're not funny, Robert."

Professor Aanya, with her keen eyes, noticed something unusual ahead.

The tunnel's floor was slicker here, and there were strange markings on the walls—subtle, almost like runes, but eroded by time and dampness.

"Everyone, stop," she said, her voice firm but quiet. "There's something off about this place."

Garret, suddenly very serious, leaned in closer to the professor. "What do you mean, Professor? Did you find something?"

She pointed to the faint symbols on the walls. "These markings... they're not natural. They're wards, or perhaps remnants of an older spell. We're getting close."

Ruchir nodded, his expression grim. "Let's be on our guard. If the cultists are using these tunnels, they'll have traps or defenses set up."

Garret muttered under his breath, "Great, just what we need... more surprises."

As they moved deeper, the tunnel began to widen, and the air grew even more oppressive.

Garret's nerves were fraying, and he couldn't resist a final attempt at humor, though it was tinged with real fear. "Well, if we don't find these cultists soon, at least I'll have the cleanest gear out of all of us."

Robert snorted. "Yeah, Garret, you'll look great... as bait for the rats."

Despite the tension, the group couldn't help but share a brief, nervous laugh.

But as they rounded a corner, the mood shifted instantly—the tunnel opened into vastness, with something glinting faintly in the distance.

Ruchir held up a hand to stop them, his voice low. "This is it. Stay alert."

They moved cautiously into the tunnel, with the realization that they were no longer alone.