Herman's Disciple!

The blood plague ravaged the town mercilessly, leaving a trail of despair and decay. Once filled with the joyful chatter of families and friends, the quiet village now lay in eerie silence, a ghostly remnant of its former self. Streets that once bustled with life were now desolate, the laughter replaced by the haunting absence of hope. The plague hadn't just infected bodies, it had seeped into the very spirit of the town, draining its vibrancy and leaving a hollow, dead city.

Luther felt helpless. He had fought, he had struggled, but he had reached his breaking point. To reclaim fragments of plague stone from the diseased husks that roamed the streets. But even that had proved futile. The plague was a relentless enemy, and the shortage of Plague Stone fragments loomed over him like a dark cloud. In total, he had managed to collect only seventeen pieces; a pitiful sum compared to the hundred required to synthesize the Plague Stone.

Not every ghoul or zombie held a fragment. Take the one he had tracked down yesterday: Luther had prodded and searched its decayed flesh, his hands trembling with both dread and frustration. But there was nothing. Another fruitless hunt. Another wasted effort.

Before heading out again, he turned to Hailey, lying weakly on the bed. "Hailey, I'll be out for a bit. Make sure you take your medicine."

A faint voice drifted back to him, barely more than a whisper. "Got it."

Hailey was sick. She was just an ordinary woman, untrained, unarmored against the plague's creeping corruption. Two days prior, she had shown the first signs: the fever, the cough, the fainting spell that finally betrayed her condition to Luther. She had tried to keep it from him, but her body had revealed the truth.

"Luther…" Her eyes, glassy and pleading, fixed on his face. "Am I… Am I going to turn into one of those… those monsters?"

Her cheeks flushed with fever, her expression filled with a mixture of fear and sorrow. Luther felt a pang of sympathy he hadn't known he was capable of. He sighed, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face.

"Don't worry, Hailey," he whispered, attempting to hide his own doubts. "I'll find a way to cure this. I promise."

But his heart felt heavy. When he first met Hailey, she was nothing more than an inconvenience, another helpless civilian. Yet now, after days spent together in this harsh world, she had come to mean something to him. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but he knew he couldn't bear to lose her.

"You're lying," she muttered, a tear slipping down her cheek.

He had nothing to say to that. Instead, he remembered Solomon, the man who had once saved his life, only to fall victim to the plague himself. The memory was raw, filled with regret. In the end, it was Luther's own hands that had given Solomon a merciful release.

"Damn it!" he snarled under his breath, the bitterness welling up. "Why is survival so impossible for ordinary people?"

Hailey stirred, her breathing growing labored as she drifted in and out of consciousness. In a moment of reckless desperation, Luther took out his knife, nicked his finger, and let a few drops of his own blood fall into her medicine bowl. His blood was no cure, but it could offer a temporary reprieve, a brief delay in the inevitable.

"Here," he murmured, lifting her gently and coaxing her to sip the bitter concoction. "Drink, then rest."

Hailey coughed, but her color seemed to improve just a little, her breaths less strained. For now, it was enough. But Luther knew all too well that time was running out.

As he stepped outside, his expression hardened, transforming from concern to steely resolve. The constant battles with the undead had honed his skills, making him stronger, sharper, more aware. And in the fragments of memories he had pieced together from the zombies he hunted, he had caught a glimpse of his true enemies, Hermann's disciples. They were fanatics, followers of a dark god, and they were the ones spreading this pestilence.

His hands clenched into fists as he recalled the clues that had led him to this conclusion. He knew where they hid, lurking in the shadows, whispering their blasphemies. And with every day that passed, he came closer to finding them.

In a darkened villa on West Street, far from the prying eyes of the infected town, the disciples of the blood plague god gathered. Shadows pooled around them as they stepped into a dimly lit room, the air thick with the sickly-sweet smell of burning herbs. Blue flames flickered from candles, casting an unnatural light across their robed figures. Slowly, they formed a circle, a silent ritual of devotion.

On the floor between them was a symbol; a grotesque rune, traced in smeared lines of black, gray, and crimson. At its center lay a pulsating mass of dark, twisted flesh, writhing with thin, veined tendrils. It seemed almost alive, its surface flickering with an eerie, unnatural glow as if syncing with the breaths of the cultists.

"The great god of blood plague," they chanted in reverence, voices low and fervent.

"We adore you," murmured one, his eyes gleaming with zeal.

"We serve you," intoned another, his fingers trembling as he reached toward the undulating mass.

"We are your loyal believers," they chorused, each word a note of twisted reverence, their voices blending into a haunting hymn.

As they continued their dark prayer, the mass of flesh pulsed with an unknown rhythm, responding to the energy of their worship. It was alive, a grotesque offering to the deity they revered; a god of death, of decay, and of the blood plague that had drowned the town in darkness.

And somewhere in the shadows, Luther watched. His gaze was cold, unyielding, and filled with a quiet fury. For Hailey, for Solomon, for every innocent who had fallen victim to this vile disease, he vowed to make them pay.

The hunt was no longer just about survival. It was about justice. And Luther was ready to exact it.

"Please grant us eternal life!" A figure cloaked in a dark, flowing robe stepped out from the shadows, his voice slicing through the murky silence of the room. His tone was fervent, a chant steeped in desperate reverence as he led the circle of believers in their prayer, hoping to summon a response from the dark god they served.

The mass of blackened flesh in the center of the ritual circle trembled, its pulsating form quivering in time with their words. Yet, it gave no other sign, no miraculous acknowledgment. The disciple's eyes narrowed beneath his hood.

"Still no response?" he muttered, his voice a mix of frustration and anticipation.

Unfazed by the murmurs from his fellow worshippers, the dark-robed man took a slow, deliberate step toward the center of the rune-marked floor. With a ritualistic calm, he reached into his robe, his hand emerging moments later, grasping a freshly removed, still-beating heart. Gasps echoed from the other robed figures as they realized what he held, their expressions shifting from shock to reverence.

"To offer your very heart…" someone whispered in awe, their voice trembling.

Yes, this was a true disciple, one whose devotion went beyond words. This was not the first time he had offered such a sacrifice; by now, he had removed more than twenty hearts in his quest to earn his god's favor. But despite his growing frustration, he kept his doubts hidden, burying them beneath the unwavering dedication that defined his role among these zealots.

"There are so few lambs left in our pasture," he thought grimly, glancing at the others with a veiled sigh. "Each day we must slaughter another, yet still, the god does not awaken. When… when will this hunger be sated?"

But his hands did not hesitate. With his other hand, he raised a dagger, its edge gleaming dully in the candlelight, and plunged it into the heart. Blood, thick and dark, trickled down, pooling at the base of the writhing mass in the center of the rune. The tentacles quivered, stirred by the offering.

Then, something unexpected happened.

From the heart of the black flesh, a serrated mouth gaped open, jagged and menacing, lined with rows of tiny, needle-like teeth. The disciple's breath caught, his eyes widening in disbelief. This… this had never happened before.

"Is it alive?" he thought, a thrill of terror and exhilaration sparking through him. "Could this really be… the God of Blood Plague?"

But before he could process the revelation, a sickening sound; a rip, like fabric tearing, cut through the room. His body went numb, a sudden weakness spreading through his limbs. Slowly, he looked down.

His stomach had burst open, a gaping wound spilling dark blood and viscera onto the floor. His face contorted in agony and horror.

"No… no! No!" he gasped, clawing at his own robes as if he could somehow pull himself back together. "Help… someone…!"

He collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud, his body convulsing as his blood pooled around him. His fellow disciples watched in silent terror, their whispers turning into frenzied murmurs.

"What should we do? What's happening to him?" one cried, his voice shaking.

"Is this… is this the god's way of choosing an apostle?" another wondered aloud, his tone caught somewhere between awe and fear.

The others exchanged glances, torn between reverence and dread, their gazes fixed on the disciple as his body twisted and writhed. None dared approach, none thought to flee. This was their purpose, their home. They had nowhere else to go.

Then, something even more horrifying happened. From the gaping wound in the black-robed man's abdomen, slick, black tentacles burst forth, writhing and stretching toward the circle of disciples. Before anyone could react, the tendrils struck, piercing through robes, flesh, and bone, burrowing into their hearts with a ghastly precision.

One by one, they felt their life draining away, their strength fading as the tentacles coiled tighter. Yet, in their final moments, their faces softened, their lips curling into serene smiles. In their minds, they saw visions of paradise; a world beyond the suffering and the horror, where loved ones waited with open arms, where the plague and the monsters held no dominion.

"No more war… no more fear," one disciple murmured, his eyes unfocused, his lips curving in a faint smile as the light faded from his eyes.

One by one, they succumbed, each corpse left with an expression of peace, their final breaths taken with blissful resignation.

As their bodies slumped to the ground, the black-robed disciple's form transformed further. The tentacles multiplied, writhing out in every direction, crawling along the walls and ceiling, filling the villa with a creeping darkness. They slipped into the shadows, lurking, waiting, the entire structure becoming a trap; a waiting mouth ready to ensnare the next unsuspecting soul.

A thick silence settled over the villa, broken only by the faint, sinister rustling of the tentacles as they slithered into place.

Nightfall blanketed the town. The villa's door creaked open.

Luther stepped in, holding a kerosene lamp aloft, the faint yellow glow casting shadows along the walls. He wrinkled his nose, his expression tightening as he caught the foul stench hanging in the air, a mixture of rot, blood, and something else he couldn't quite identify.

"What in the…?" he murmured, scanning the room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he took in the ominous quiet, the eerie sense of being watched.

But Luther was no stranger to the horrors of this plague-ridden world. Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on his weapon and stepped further into the darkness, unaware of the shadows waiting to ensnare him.