Chapter 5:The Clocktower Cathedral
The rain fell in sheets, a relentless downpour that turned Blackthorn's streets into rivers of reflected neon and shadow. Viktor Malenko moved through the storm like a wraith, his coat soaked and clinging to his frame, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and cold resolve. The Obsidian Oath had made their move, and now the girl, Lila, was in their grasp. He had no time to waste.
The Clocktower Cathedral loomed ahead, its spire piercing the stormy sky like a dagger. Once a place of worship, it had long since been abandoned to the elements and the city's darker elements. Its stained-glass windows were shattered, its stone walls blackened by soot and time. But tonight, it pulsed with an unnatural light, a sickly green glow that seeped through the cracks and spilled into the night.
Viktor paused at the edge of the cathedral's courtyard, his sharp eyes scanning the area. The place was crawling with cultists—hooded figures in dark robes, their movements synchronized and deliberate. They moved like ants, carrying torches and strange artifacts into the cathedral.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small device—a compact aether-tech scanner he'd acquired from a black-market dealer in the Gallows Market. The screen flickered to life, displaying a heat map of the area. Dozens of red dots moved inside the cathedral, clustered around the central nave. That's where they'd be keeping Lila.
Viktor's jaw tightened. He wasn't the Nightmare yet, but he would be soon.
In the shadows of an alleyway, Viktor shed his coat and tie, revealing the sleek, black armor beneath. The transformation was swift and practiced. He strapped on his gauntlets, their edges lined with razor-sharp blades, and pulled the mask over his face—a featureless, obsidian visor that reflected no light.
From a hidden compartment in his armor, he drew his twin handguns—custom-made, their barrels elongated and engraved with serpentine patterns. They were tools of precision and terror, designed to instill fear as much as to kill.
But it was the final piece of his arsenal that truly set him apart.
Viktor reached behind his back, his fingers brushing against the hilt of his Obsidian Sword. The weapon was sheathed in a scabbard of blackened steel, its surface etched with runes that glowed faintly, like embers in the dark. He gripped the hilt, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
As he drew the blade, the air itself seemed to shudder. The sword emerged with a low, resonant hum, its obsidian surface shimmering with faint, vein-like patterns of dim white light. The blade was impossibly dark, as if it had been forged from the void itself, and it seemed to drink in the light around it, casting the alleyway into deeper shadow.
Etched into the blade, in jagged, glowing script, were the words:
"Night Creature."
The letters pulsed faintly, as if alive, their light shifting between white and black. The words were a reminder—a declaration of what Viktor had become. The sword was not just a weapon; it was a fragment of the Abyss, a conduit for the darkness that flowed through him. It was a thing of hunger and destruction, as much a part of him as the shadows he wore like a second skin.
The Nightmare stepped into the rain, his presence radiating an aura of dread. The cultists at the perimeter froze as he approached, their torches flickering in the downpour.
"Who—who are you?" one of them stammered, his voice trembling.
The Nightmare didn't answer. He raised his guns and fired two shots in quick succession. The first bullet struck a cultist in the temple, the man's head snapping to the side as blood and brain matter sprayed across the cobblestones. The second shot hit another cultist in the lung, the man collapsing to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The others scrambled to react, but they were too slow.
The Nightmare was a blur of motion, his strikes precise and brutal. He holstered one gun and gripped the hilt of his Obsidian Sword with both hands, the blade humming faintly as it cut through the air. A cultist lunged at him with a curved dagger, but the Nightmare sidestepped the attack and brought the sword down in a diagonal slash, cleaving the man from shoulder to hip. The two halves of the body hit the ground with a wet thud.
Another cultist charged at him from behind, swinging a mace. The Nightmare ducked under the blow and drove the point of his sword upward, piercing the man's jaw and exiting through the top of his skull. He yanked the blade free with a sickening crunch, the cultist's body crumpling to the ground.
A third cultist tried to flee, but the Nightmare was faster. He hurled a throwing knife, the blade embedding itself in the man's spine. The cultist collapsed, paralyzed, his screams cut short as the Nightmare stepped on his throat.
Within moments, the courtyard was littered with corpses. The Nightmare stepped over them, his boots splashing through the rain-soaked ground as he approached the cathedral's entrance.
Inside, the cathedral was a nightmare made manifest. The air was thick with the scent of incense and blood, and the walls were adorned with grotesque murals depicting the Abyss and its horrors. The cultists had gathered in the nave, their hooded heads bowed in reverence as they chanted in a language that made the air itself seem to vibrate.
At the center of the room stood an altar, its surface stained with blood. Lila was bound to it, her small frame trembling as she struggled against her restraints. Her eyes were wide with terror, but there was a flicker of defiance in them—a spark of resilience that reminded Viktor of someone he used to know.
Standing over her was Father Graves, his robes adorned with symbols of the Abyss. In his hands, he held a jagged dagger, its blade glinting in the eerie green light.
"The time has come," Graves intoned, his voice echoing through the cathedral. "The Abyss hungers, and we shall feed it. With this sacrifice, the Eternal Dark shall rise!"
The cultists' chanting grew louder, their voices rising to a fever pitch. The ground beneath the altar began to crack, tendrils of black smoke rising from the fissures.
The Nightmare stepped into the light, his presence cutting through the cacophony like a blade.
"The only thing rising tonight," he said, his voice a low, menacing growl, "is your body count."
The cultists turned as one, their eyes wide with shock and fear. Father Graves sneered, his grip tightening on the dagger.
"Kill him!" he barked.
The cultists surged forward, their weapons drawn. The Nightmare met them head-on, his movements a blur of precision and brutality. He fired his guns in rapid succession, the bullets tearing through the cultists with deadly accuracy. One shot struck a man in the knee, shattering the joint and sending him sprawling. Another hit a woman in the shoulder, the force of the impact spinning her around before she collapsed.
When his clips ran dry, he holstered the weapons and drew his Obsidian Sword, the blade humming as it cut through the air. A cultist lunged at him with a spear, but the Nightmare sidestepped the attack and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, cleaving the man in two. Another cultist swung a mace at him, but the Nightmare parried the strike and drove the blade through the man's chest, the obsidian edge slicing through armor and bone alike.
Father Graves watched from the altar, his expression growing more frantic as his followers fell. He raised the dagger high, preparing to plunge it into Lila's chest.
"No!" the Nightmare roared, hurling one of his guns with deadly accuracy. The weapon struck Graves' hand, sending the dagger clattering to the ground.
The Nightmare charged forward, cutting down the remaining cultists with ruthless efficiency. He reached the altar just as Graves recovered, the man's face twisted with rage.
"You think you can stop us?" Graves spat. "The Abyss cannot be denied!"
The Nightmare didn't respond. He grabbed Graves by the throat and lifted him off the ground, his grip unyielding.
"The Abyss can have you," he said, his voice cold and final.
The Nightmare dragged Graves across the floor, the man's body limp but still twitching. He slammed him against the wall, the impact jarring the man back to semi-consciousness. Graves groaned, his eyes fluttering open, only to widen in terror as he realized what was happening.
The Nightmare reached into his gauntlet and produced a hidden blade, its edge glinting in the eerie green light. Without hesitation, he drove the blade into Graves' groin, the man's scream echoing through the cathedral as the knife sliced through flesh and bone.
Graves' body convulsed, his hands clawing at the air as the Nightmare twisted the blade, ensuring the wound was as agonizing as possible. Blood pooled beneath him, staining the floor a deep crimson.
The Nightmare released the blade and grabbed a shard of broken glass from the floor. He forced it into Graves' mouth, the jagged edges cutting into the man's lips and tongue. Graves gagged, his screams muffled as the glass pressed against the back of his throat.
The Nightmare clenched his fist and drove it upward into Graves' jaw, the force of the blow shattering the glass inside the man's mouth. Shards of glass pierced through the sides of Graves' cheeks, blood streaming down his face as he let out a guttural, inhuman wail.
Blood sprayed in a fine mist, splattering across the Nightmare's mask and armor. The crimson droplets clung to the obsidian surface of his visor, dripping down like tears of blood. He didn't flinch, didn't wipe it away. He wore the blood like a second skin, a testament to the carnage he wrought.
The Nightmare stepped back, his chest rising and falling with the adrenaline coursing through him. He grabbed Graves by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall again, the impact driving the air from the man's lungs.
From his belt, the Nightmare produced six long, rusted nails. He drove the first nail through Graves' left wrist, the sound of bone cracking as the metal pierced through flesh and into the stone wall. Blood sprayed in a fine mist, coating the Nightmare's hands and dripping down his elbows like a crimson stream. Graves screamed, his body writhing in agony, but the Nightmare didn't stop.
He repeated the process with the second nail, driving it through Graves' right wrist. The man's screams grew louder, his body convulsing as the nails pinned him to the wall. Blood gushed from the wounds, splattering across the Nightmare's chest and arms.
The Nightmare moved to Graves' right elbow, driving the third nail through the joint. The sound of tendons snapping and bones splintering was sickening, and Graves' screams turned into a guttural, choking wail. Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the floor beneath him and splashing onto the Nightmare's boots.
The fourth nail went through Graves' left elbow, the Nightmare's movements methodical and precise. Graves' body jerked violently, his screams now hoarse and broken. Blood sprayed in an arc, drenching the Nightmare's mask and shoulders.
The fifth nail pierced Graves' left ankle, the Nightmare driving it deep into the stone wall. Graves' body sagged, his weight pulling against the nails, but the Nightmare wasn't done.
The sixth nail went through Graves' right ankle, completing the crucifixion. The man's body hung limply, his head lolling to the side as blood dripped from his wounds and pooled on the floor beneath him.
The Nightmare stepped back, his mask and armor now slick with blood. The dim white glow of his Obsidian Sword reflected off the crimson streaks, casting an eerie light across the scene. He turned to Lila, his movements slower now, almost gentle.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice softer than before.
Lila shook her head, her wide eyes fixed on him. "Who… who are you?"
"Someone who fights the darkness," he said. "Can you walk?"
She nodded, and he helped her to her feet. As they made their way out of the cathedral, the Nightmare glanced back at the carnage. The Obsidian Oath had been dealt a blow, but he knew this was far from over.
The Abyss was still out there, waiting.
And so was he.
Lila sat in the back of a cab, her small hands clutching a blanket the Nightmare had draped over her shoulders. She watched as he disappeared into the shadows, his form blending seamlessly with the night.
"Where to, kid?" the cab driver asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
Lila hesitated, then gave the address of a safe house Viktor had set up years ago—a place where the city's lost and forgotten could find shelter.
As the cab pulled away, she glanced out the window, her mind racing. She didn't know who the Nightmare was, but she knew one thing for certain:
Blackthorn needed him