The Hollow Faithful

Elliot's vision flickered as he hit the ground. Cold stone pressed against his palms, the air thick with dampness and something rotten. His body ached from the fall, but adrenaline dulled the pain.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, blinking against the darkness. Shadows stretched along rough walls, the scent of earth and decay clinging to the air. He was underground. Somewhere deep. Somewhere wrong.

"Where the hell am I?"

[System Notification: Unknown Location Detected. Warning—High Threat Level.]

"Great," Elliot muttered. "Like I needed you to tell me that."

He kept his breathing steady, scanning his surroundings. The walls were carved stone, old and uneven, lined with symbols that pulsed faintly, as if alive. His fingers traced one absentmindedly—it was warm, almost like touching skin.

The sensation made his stomach twist.

He needed to move.

He crept forward, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the oppressive silence. Faint torchlight flickered ahead, casting jagged shadows against the walls. The deeper he went, the more the space opened up—narrow tunnels giving way to a cavernous chamber.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

Low, rhythmic, almost like… chanting.

Elliot flattened himself against the wall, edging closer. The tunnel led to a grated opening, overlooking a vast underground hall. The sight below sent ice through his veins.

Dozens of figures knelt in formation, their heads bowed, bodies draped in deep red robes. A single figure stood at the center, arms raised toward a towering stone carving—a grotesque, twisting mass of limbs and hollowed-out faces.

Elliot's throat tightened. He had seen idols before. Offerings to gods, tributes to spirits. But this thing—this wasn't worship. It was something else.

"This is a cult."

The realization settled over him like a weight. These people—whoever they were—weren't just kidnapping townsfolk. They were offering them.

The chanting grew louder. The air grew thicker.

Elliot swallowed hard, forcing himself to take in the details. He needed information. Needed to find a way out. But more than that, he needed to know how deep this went.

He turned away from the grate, slipping back into the tunnels. If they were performing a ritual, that meant there were victims. Prisoners. Survivors.

He had to find them.

Moving carefully, he followed the tunnels deeper. The air turned colder, the scent of damp stone giving way to something worse—iron. Blood.

The corridor opened into another chamber, this one smaller, lined with rusted cages. Inside, slumped figures barely moved, their wrists shackled, their faces sunken.

Elliot's hands clenched.

Before he could step forward, something dripped onto his shoulder. Warm. Thick.

Slowly, he looked up.

His breath caught.

Hanging above him, strung from the ceiling by chains and hooks, were bodies. Torn open. Hollowed out. The remnants of those who had been taken before.

And at the center of it all—an altar. Drenched in red.

Elliot took a slow step back, his pulse roaring in his ears.

Then—behind him—a breath.

A hand shot out of the darkness.

Elliot took a slow step back, his pulse roaring in his ears. The air inside the chamber was suffocating, thick with the metallic tang of blood and something deeper, more rancid—like flesh left to rot.

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering between the hanging bodies and the rusted cages. Some of the prisoners inside still breathed—barely. Their sunken faces and lifeless eyes sent a shiver down his spine.

"How long have they been here?"

[System Notification: Detected Signs of Extreme Malnutrition. Survivability Rate: 12%]

Elliot exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay calm. There were survivors, yes—but in this condition, even if he freed them, how many would actually make it out alive?

His fists clenched. He didn't have time to hesitate.

Moving quickly, he approached one of the cages. The lock was old, rusted over, but still intact. No way to break it by hand. His gaze darted around the room. Keys. There had to be keys somewhere—

A faint sound echoed through the chamber. The scrape of footsteps.

Elliot froze, body tensing.

He pressed himself into the shadows, heart hammering against his ribs as the footsteps drew closer. A figure entered—a robed cultist, hood drawn low, carrying a lantern. They moved methodically, pausing at each cage to observe the captives.

Elliot barely breathed. If they saw him, if they called for help—

The cultist stopped in front of the cage closest to him. Slowly, they reached for something inside their robes.

Keys.

Elliot didn't think. He moved.

One quick, silent step forward—then another—then he lunged. His hand clamped over the cultist's mouth as he yanked them backward, twisting their arm to keep them from struggling. They thrashed, body jerking wildly, but Elliot was fast. He drove an elbow into their ribs, knocking the air from their lungs.

They crumpled, going limp. Elliot kept his grip firm for a few seconds longer, making sure they were unconscious. Then, carefully, he pried the keys from their grasp.

[System Notification: Stealth Attack Successful. +1 Dexterity]

"Not the time, system."

His fingers shook as he moved back to the cage. The first key didn't fit. Neither did the second. On the third try—click.

The lock snapped open.

Elliot pulled the door wide, stepping inside. The figure inside barely reacted. A woman, maybe in her early twenties, with hollowed-out cheeks and sunken eyes. Dried blood crusted her arms where shackles had rubbed her raw.

He crouched, carefully reaching for her. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

She didn't respond.

[System Notification: Subject is unresponsive. Cognitive function compromised.]

Elliot gritted his teeth. He didn't have time for this.

Shifting his grip, he hooked one of her arms over his shoulder and lifted her. She was far too light—skin and bones, barely more than dead weight. He steadied her, glancing toward the remaining captives.

"I can't get them all out on my own."

But if he left and came back with help… would there even be anyone left to save?

His jaw tightened. He didn't have a choice. He'd get this girl out first—then he'd return for the others.

Adjusting his hold, Elliot started toward the exit. Each step felt heavier, the air thickening as if the walls themselves were pressing in. He passed by the altar again, its dark stains seeping into the stone like something alive.

He didn't want to look at it. But he couldn't stop himself.

A cold sensation crawled up his spine.

He knew blood. He'd seen it, smelled it, even spilled it. But this—this wasn't just blood.

It was something else.

[System Notification: Warning—Corruption Detected.]

Elliot's breath hitched.

Then, from somewhere deep within the chamber—

A low, guttural laugh.

Elliot whipped around.

There was no one there.

The torches flickered, casting shifting shadows against the walls. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"I need to get out of here. Now."

Tightening his grip on the girl, Elliot moved faster. But as he neared the exit, the air around him changed. It grew colder, heavier—almost liquid.

The shadows stretched.

And then—

A voice. Soft. Sickly sweet. Right by his ear.

"Found you."