Chapter X

The suffocating scent of dust and rock filled Watters' bloodied nostrils, a heavy blanket of stale air. It was pitch black, and a pounding headache split his skull. Watters forced his eyes open, the darkness pressing down like a tomb. He was bound, immobile, his torso pulled taut by rough ropes, a brutal embrace. A wave of panic crashed over him, cold and paralyzing. Mikkelson… what depraved purpose did he have in store? Watters' struggle became a choked cry for release, confusion and terror twisting his insides into knots. "Help! Is anyone there?" His legs kicked in frantic futility, a trapped animal's desperate motion, his body lurching against the restraints, sending a small wooden bucket tipping over with a soft clatter, its contents – urine and excrement – spilling across the cold, packed dirt floor. 

Suddenly, a narrow shaft of light cut through the oppressive blackness, dust motes swirling within the illuminated cylinder. It was a peephole, crudely bored through the thick oak door, revealing two eyes – yellow, blood-streaked, and unsettlingly close. A deep-throated GROWL, vibrating with primal menace, resonated from the other side, filling the confined space with a suffocating pressure. 

"'Scuse me," a rough voice murmured from the far side of the chamber, tinged with sardonic humor. Watters stiffened, his gaze snapping to the sound, a flicker of disbelief in his fear-widened eyes. "Didn't I mention… werewolves, Doctor?" The voice, undeniably familiar, prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. "Show yourself!" Watters barked, his voice tight with trepidation and a desperate yearning for answers. From the inky abyss of the shadows, the form of Police Chief Daniels uncoiled, emerging into the faint light, haggard and bloodied, his face a map of fresh wounds and dried blood. 

"Daniels—!" Watters choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears, a painful knot constricting his throat. "How… how in God's name did you survive?" Daniels stepped fully into the meager light, a ghost emerging from the shadows, his uniform, once crisp blue, now torn and stained, crusted with grime and dried blood, a testament to some brutal ordeal. "Guess you could ask me the same thing, Doctor," Daniels replied, his voice gravelly and flat, devoid of inflection, a bleak acceptance in his tone. 

"I— I was in my office…" Watters began, his voice trembling, memories flashing behind his eyes – the explosion, Grimm, the creatures. He paused, swallowing hard, the weight of everything pressing down on him, "I… I heard the explosion in town, and then… a man in black… he saved me," he trailed off, his gaze distant, lost in the recent horrors. After a moment of heavy silence, he continued, quieter, "a-and… we were attacked. Those things… those horrible creatures—" 

"Werewolves," Daniels interrupted, the word flat, devoid of surprise, a weariness etched into the single syllable. 

"Lycans," Watters corrected automatically, then faltered, his academic precision feeling absurdly out of place, adjusting his glasses as if to refocus on a reality that had shattered beyond repair. "Yes… Lycans. We… we barely escaped the town. And… coming here… we realized… The Order… they aren't coming." 

"Yeah," Daniels acknowledged, the single word heavy with grim understanding, "Seems the Order sent us a new mayor… but we got a Warlock instead." 

"But, how did you know all of this? How long have you been in here? Watter inquired. 

"Still hazy as a cryptid in fog," Daniels chuckled, though the sound was dry and humorless, more a cough than a laugh. "But, yeah, Doc, after you and Mikkelson bolted from the Jaspert scene this mornin', somethin' just… tickled my gut wrong. Went back to those kids, see? Hilda's...discoverers." He shrugged, a weary, dismissive gesture. "Mikkelson playin' cool about the werewolves… it was bullshit, Doc. Pure and simple. We ain't fresh off the farm, are we? Cryptid duty… you remember the drill. East Sector Vampyre culls? You were elbow deep in that bloodbath. Me? Puca patrol, up in the Highlands sector. Nightmare fuel, those little bastards." He paused, letting out a short, bitter sigh. "So, Lycans? Nah, wasn't the werewolves themselves that bugged me. It was Mikkelson's act. Those kids though… they were shittin' bricks, Doc. And their stories, dead straight. So, figured I'd pop up to the Manor, have a friendly word with our Mayor. Walked in the door, and somethin' hit me like a train. Woke up here. But…I overheard whispers. Something about a ritual, or somethin'? And… someone named 'Grimm' kept comin' up, really pissin' off Mikkelson." 

"Grimm…" Watters murmured, the name a ghost on his tongue. 

"'Grimm'?" Daniels repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion, "Who is Grimm?" 

"Honestly?" Watters sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I barely know the man myself. He saved me after the blast. And then… well, one of those things," he gestured vaguely, "mutated… sprang like a damn cat, three stories high, easy. And Grimm? He just… killed it with a letter opener." 

"A… letter opener?" Daniels repeated, his jaw slack, eyes wide with incredulous shock. "You're shitting me, Doctor." 

"I wish I was," Watters managed a thin, humorless smirk. "It seems these Lycans have a… weakness for silver, apparently." 

"Silver?" Daniels repeated, the word hanging in the air, still grappling with the image of a letter opener versus a monster. "But… weren't the old tales all about… a flower? Wolfsbane, or somethin' that stuff growing up in the mountains?" 

"Wolfsbane, yes, the legends," Watters conceded, "but Grimm seemed to think Mikkelson… re-engineered these beasts using transmutation. Some parasite, he said. Twisted their DNA. Shifted the weakness to silver." He paused, the earlier smirk fading, replaced by a somber weight in his voice. "And… and the experiments, Daniels…." 

"Experiments?" Daniels echoed, his own voice now laced with a creeping dread, the initial shock giving way to a colder fear. 

"Mikkelson…" Watters began, his voice dropping to a chillingly clinical tone, "he's been abducting villagers. Transforming them. Into those...monsters. His method… concentrated Lycan essence, combined with… parasites. He's been injecting it, Daniels. Pumping that unholy cocktail directly into their bodies. Hard to say how long it's been going on… weeks, at least, I'd wager. Since he arrived." 

Daniels cut in sharply, the realization landing like a physical blow. "And Hilda… Hilda was the 'test run' for his sick little experiment. A child..." 

A crushing silence descended, heavy and absolute. The air itself seemed to thicken with the unspoken horror of Hilda's brutalized image, the stark reality of Mikkelson's calculated cruelty hanging between them like a shroud. 

"And now…" Watters sighed, a breath of dry resignation, "here we are. Trapped in a damn dungeon." 

"Yep," Daniels chuckled, a rough, mirthless sound, a cough more than a laugh, nodding his head towards the sodden patch on the dirt floor. "And you did kick over my shit bucket, Doc. Least you coulda done was ask for a drink first." 

A broken laugh sputtered from Watters, quickly joined by Daniels' rumble, a brief, brittle sound that cracked the heavy silence, a shared moment of dark levity against the crushing despair. But the humor faded fast, dissolving into the grim air as Watters' voice turned sharp, laced with genuine, pressing urgency. "But why, Daniels? Why keep us alive? We're… we're nothing but gnats to Mikkelson, a speedbump on his...road to hell. So why not just be done with us?" 

Daniels shrugged again, a weary, almost defeated gesture, but a flicker of grim understanding in his eyes. "Hell, Doc, Mikkelson's got a screw loose the size of that bucket you kicked. Somethin' tells me, whatever he's got planned… it ain't gonna be a goddamn picnic." 

Watters gave a curt nod. "Agreed." 

Jangling keys echoed abruptly from the corridor beyond their door, the sound cutting through the tense silence. Daniels' eyes snapped to Watters, widening, pupils shrinking to pinpricks of fear. "Someone's coming," he hissed, barely a whisper. The metallic jingle ceased inches from the oak, the unlocking mechanism clicking with agonizing slowness. They were here. The heavy door creaked inward, revealing not one, but two of the towering Lycans from before, filling the doorway with their monstrous bulk. One unleashed a skull-splitting ROAR, the sound wave slamming into Daniels, igniting a primal fury in his bloodshot eyes. With a wordless bellow of rage, Daniels launched himself at the Lycan, a desperate, futile charge. The creature barely registered his approach, a massive paw swiping out with contemptuous ease, sending Daniels hurtling through the air, a ragdoll tossed against the stone wall. He crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud. The second Lycan turned its predatory gaze on Watters, yellow eyes narrowed to slits, lips peeled back in a silent, chilling SNARL. Watters dropped his gaze, his body going rigid, a cold dread paralyzing him. The Lycan approached Daniels' prone form, hoisting him onto its shoulder with effortless strength, while the other gestured sharply with a clawed hand, a silent, brutal command, towards the open doorway. "Where are you taking us?!" Watters cried, his voice cracking with fear, the question swallowed by the unresponsive silence of the brutes as they propelled him into the dimly lit hallway and towards the looming darkness of a stairwell. 

Watters shuffled down the seemingly infinite hallway, each dragging step echoing his grim resignation. His head hung heavy, not just with pain, but with the crushing weight of acceptance. Daniels, a broken doll discarded moments ago, stood no chance. Grimm, a legend, felled. What game was Mikkelson playing, and why were they spared? The questions clawed at Watters' mind, a relentless internal torment, as the oppressive darkness of the corridor yielded abruptly to a cavernous chamber bathed in flickering torchlight. 

The space unfolded before him, a colossal amphitheater of stone and shadow. Tiered levels, like a nightmarish colosseum, ringed the vast chamber, each row teeming with a living tapestry of snarling Lycans. Their eyes gleamed like embers in the torchlight, reflecting a predatory hunger. At the far end, a daunting platform, hewn from raw rock, jutted out, crowned by a gleaming chalice perched atop a crude stone pedestal. A narrow, serpentine path, carved precariously into the rock face, spiraled down from the platform to the floor, finally disappearing into a shadowed exit. Above, a vast aperture ripped through the mountain's peak, framing the luminous disc of the full moon, bathing the grotesque spectacle in its cold, spectral glow. 

A deafening wave of Lycan roars crashed over Watters and Daniels as they were shoved roughly onto their knees at the chamber's center. With brutal efficiency, the Lycans' claws sliced through their bonds, releasing them to the cold stone floor. Then, as if summoned by the final echo of the roar, a figure materialized atop the platform, an apparition in sweeping velvet. Cloaked and hooded, draped in rich, dark fabric that flowed like liquid shadow, he raised a hand, a silent, imperious gesture that commanded absolute stillness. The cacophony of Lycan voices fractured, the roars collapsing into a low, simmering chorus of snarls and guttural growls, grudgingly obedient. Slowly, dramatically, the figure drew back the hood, revealing Mikkelson, his face emerging into the soft torchlight like a carefully crafted mask of power and control. 

"Mikkelson!" Watters spat, his voice raw with fury, his eyes blazing. Daniels, despite his injuries, hauled himself upright, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Watters, a silent bulwark of defiance. 

Mikkelson threw his arms wide, a melodramatic flourish to the vast, expectant arena. "Tonight, gentlemen," he boomed, his voice ringing with operatic fervor, "we stand upon the cusp of a new world order! Our sovereign in crimson, Gorr-ath, shall finally be liberated from his undeserved imprisonment! A reign of glorious shadow is at hand!" A tempest of Lycan roars erupted, shaking the chamber, a mindless, echoing affirmation of Mikkelson's grandiose pronouncements. He raised a hand again, a conductor silencing his monstrous orchestra, and the din subsided into a restless, expectant murmur. 

"Mikkelson!" Watters roared, his voice laced with contemptuous disbelief. "What in God's name have you done? And where is Grimm?" 

Mikkelson chuckled, a theatrical, echoing sound that bounced off the stone walls. "Grimm," he repeated, savoring the name, a devilish smirk twisting his lips into a sneer. "You've formed a rather touching attachment, haven't you, Doctor?" Watters' face hardened into a mask of disgust. "Do you even begin to comprehend who he truly is, Watters?" 

"What in the hell are you babbling about, Mikkelson?" Watters demanded, his brow furrowing in bewildered anger. 

Mikkelson threw back his head and laughed, a peal of manic glee. "Grimm, dear Doctor," he declared, his voice dripping with mocking revelation, "is an agent… of the Old Gods!" 

"What?" Watters gasped, reeling from the absurd pronouncement. 

"Oh, dear, did no one tell you?" Mikkelson feigned a gasp of mock surprise, his voice laced with malicious delight. "Allow me to enlighten you, Doctor. Let me paint you a little history, shall we?" He swept his arm out dramatically, preparing to launch into his tale. "Long ago, in a time swallowed by the mists of antiquity, before your precious Order even dreamt of its current power, there lived a child. A forsaken orphan, abandoned upon the rain-slicked steps of the Order's High Priests' Monastery. A babe, weeping for a mother who had vanished into the night. The Priest who answered the door… he believed he was answering a call of charity. The mother… she foolishly believed she was gifting her son a better life, shielding him from her own sorrows. But neither of them understood the true nature of that monastery. For it was no mere sanctuary, Doctor. It was the fortress of the legendary Knights of the Order! And so, the boy was taken in, not to gentle piety, but to a brutal crucible of battle, war, and bloodlust. He thrived, Doctor. He ascended. And in time, that forsaken child… became the most legendary High Bishop the Order has ever known!" 

Daniels swung his gaze to Watters, his expression a mask of strained disbelief. "That legend?" he scoffed, a harsh laugh escaping him. "Doctor, that's campfire tales. Thousands of years gone. Mythology, Mikkelson! Pure mythology!" 

Mikkelson chuckled, a pitying sound, laced with condescending amusement. "Ah, but myths, dear Daniels," he countered, spreading his hands in a sweeping, pedagogical gesture, "often cradle the most profound truths! And this High Bishop," he declared, his voice rising with renewed theatrical fervor, "was no mere myth! He was the flesh and blood architect of your precious Crusader Battalion! And a founder to be revered! He unleashed atrocity upon atrocity, a whirlwind of 'holy wrath,' as they so quaintly termed it! None were spared his… divine judgment! Men, women, babes in arms, beasts of the field—all fell before his righteous crusade! But alas," Mikkelson's voice dipped suddenly, taking on a tone of melodramatic lament, "even the mightiest of warriors… are vulnerable to the insidious rot of sentimentality. As the years bled into decades, the High Bishop… softened. A most… unforeseen impediment to the divine plan! And so it was, upon a certain evening, following a particularly… spirited crusade in a local tavern, our legendary warrior stumbled upon a new and altogether more… tender crusade to champion: love! Oh, the irony!" Mikkelson concluded with a peal of mocking laughter that echoed through the chamber. 

"And so it was," Mikkelson resumed, his voice dropping to a confidential, conspiratorial tone, "this… awakening, this new crusade… illuminated a most uncomfortable truth: not all the Order sanctified was, in fact, holy." He paused, allowing the weight of the statement to hang in the air. "Imagine, the audacity! The High Bishop, questioning the very foundations of the Order! Insolence on a cosmic scale! Years spun by, each one a testament to his growing… disenchantment. But these… troubling inquiries, these seeds of doubt… began to blossom into something far more… dangerous. They grew… too close to the festering heart of the Order's hypocrisy. And the High Priests, those venerable vipers, sensed the shift. They stripped him bare! His rank, his honor, everything… vanished! Banished! Excommunicated! branded a heretic for daring to seek truth! But love, you see," Mikkelson's voice swelled with mock sentimentality, "love gives wings! The High Bishop, with his… illicit paramour clinging to his arm, fled! They ran! Years they evaded their 'holy' pursuers, a thrilling chase across continents! And finally…" Mikkelson leaned forward conspiratorially, "they hid. Seeking oblivion in some insignificant village, far from the righteous gaze of the Order. They settled down. Can you fathom it? Settled. Like… common mortals! And, most pathetically of all… they multiplied! Imagine," Mikkelson repeated, a chuckle bubbling up, "the High Bishop, reduced to… domesticity!" 

Daniels' eyes snapped back to Watters, widening in genuine bewilderment. "Never heard of this," he insisted, his voice rising in protest. "Clergy stories… they always said the Founding High Bishop fell in glorious battle!" 

Then the world shifted. A low tremor shuddered through the stone, escalating into a violent, theatrical earthquake. From the very center of the chamber, the ground split, groaning open to reveal a massive, ornate round table, ascending from the depths like a stage prop from hell. Strapped to its cold, metallic surface, crucified against the rising platform, was Grimm, his body arching and contorting against thick iron restraints. 

"He's alive!" Watters shrieked, his voice cracking with a mixture of terror and manic elation. "But how?" 

Mikkelson scoffed, "Nothing escapes the Order, dear Watters. Especially not a heretic of his… magnitude!" He leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "Imagine the fury of the Order! To be so betrayed by their most celebrated son! No… leniency could be considered. No escape permitted. The errant High Bishop learned that lesson in blood and fire. One moonless night, he awoke to a cacophony of terror echoing through his sanctuary village. The Order had arrived! A 'holy inquisition' they proclaimed! Every dwelling violated, every stone overturned! Under the guise of a 'witch hunt,' they methodically hunted their true prey. And with grim inevitability… they descended upon the Heretic's refuge. His fragile haven was shattered, his sanctuary desecrated! His… family…" Mikkelson's voice took on a tone of melodramatic sorrow, "ripped from his grasp, torn from his very soul! Bound, Doctor! Bound and condemned to the pyre! In the heart of the village square… they were lashed to the stake! And then…" A horrid smile tore across his face, "Burned at the stake!" 

A bloodcurdling shriek tore from Grimm, a sound designed to rend the very fabric of sanity, a prima donna's aria of agony for the damned. 

Watters recoiled, his face crumpling in theatrical dismay, his breath catching in a horrified gasp. His hand flew to his mouth, a gesture of overwrought shock, more performance than genuine distress. "Dear God in Heaven…" he breathed, a whispered prayer tinged with morbid fascination. 

Grimm's operatic torment continued, a sustained, soaring lament that vibrated through the chamber, each note a hammer blow against the soul. 

"Ah, yes, Doctor," Mikkelson purred, a smirk of pure, unadulterated villainous delight curling his lip. "But tragedy, you see, is rarely so… conveniently conclusive! For after witnessing his precious flickering family consumed by flames, the Order, in their boundless mercy," he chuckled with heavy sarcasm, "granted the Heretic release! A swift stroke to the throat, a clean dispatch into the murky depths of the river! Problem solved, wouldn't you think?" Mikkelson paused for dramatic effect, gesturing expansively. "Alas, for the Order and their pedestrian theology… death is not always the end!" For even as that mortal coil unwound, as his precious lifeblood stained the river crimson, his… essence, his soul, if you will indulge the poetic phrasing, abandoned its earthly vessel. And yet!" Mikkelson's voice rose to a crescendo of mock wonder, "Instead of ascending to some cloying, saccharine paradise, instead of embracing the 'heavenly reward' so diligently preached by the Order… he was met… by the Abyss! Oh, Doctor, the irony is simply delicious! For his roars for justice, his agonized cries for vengeance, did not vanish into the void! They echoed! They resonated! They plagued not merely his departed soul, but burrowed deep… into the very fabric of the Abyss itself! And where most mundane mortals would encounter only eternal silence, the abyss… responded in kind!" 

"Grimm…" Watters breathed, the name a mournful sigh, laden with tragic understanding. 

"Indeed, Doctor," Mikkelson purred, his voice taking on a tone of hushed reverence, as if speaking of a sacred pact. "The Abyss, in its infinite, inscrutable wisdom, recognized potential. It offered… a bargain. Justice, long denied, vengeance, fiercely yearned for, against the odious Order, in exchange for… service." Mikkelson paused for dramatic effect, letting the word hang in the air. "Service most… peculiar, you see, Doctor. The Abyss, it has… appetites. Unique cravings that transcend the mundane hungers of this realm. And souls, you see," Mikkelson's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "souls are the currency of the void! So, naturally, the desperate spirit of the High Bishop… accepted without hesitation! A Faustian pact for the ages! But alas, as with all such grandiose bargains, the devil is in the details!" Mikkelson winked, a conspiratorial gesture to his Lycan audience. "Immortality, my dear Doctor, in this… prosaic plane of existence… requires extradimensional… mechanisms. Hence," Mikkelson flourished the green vial, presenting it like a magical artifact on display, "these! These… vessels of essence! For every wicked soul Grimm reaps," Mikkelson's voice deepened with grim satisfaction, "a portion of its… vitality, its… unholy life-force… crystallizes within these vials! Ingenious, wouldn't you agree? And should our vengeful specter succumb to… temporal inconveniences, a mere draught from these phials of souls… and poof! Resurrection! Immortality rendered… mundane!" Mikkelson chuckled, then his tone shifted to mock solemnity. "But every boon extracts a price, Doctor. With each… necromantic draught, with each sip of borrowed life… our Grimm pays a steep tariff. He forfeits… time itself. Precious memories… fade and fray… like ancient tapestries exposed to relentless sunlight. And so, he slumbers, Doctor. He hibernates in the interstices of reality, awakened only by the lure… the call of truly depraved souls… souls ripe for reaping… for the unfathomable appetites… of the Abyss!" 

"So," Watters hissed, his voice dripping with venomous contempt, "you—you, with your infected soul—unleashed him! You violated the very sanctity of death, reanimating those Lycan carcasses with your despicable alchemy and polluting their empty shells with those… abominable parasites!" He paused, his breath ragged, then hurled the question with theatrical desperation: "But why, Mikkelson? Why awaken Grimm? Why risk being obliterated by his 'unholy wrath'?" 

Mikkelson threw back his head and bellowed with laughter, a sound that ignited the Lycan ranks into a frenzied symphony of snarls and ravenous howls, a monstrous orchestra tuning to its conductor's will. "Because, dear Doctor!" Mikkelson declared, his voice ringing with triumphant, operatic fervor, "my Master… Gorr-ath… craves precisely what Grimm possesses! Souls! Oh, but not just any souls, Doctor! Exquisite souls! Damned souls! Souls steeped in sin!" 

"Grimm's soul…" Watters interrupted, his voice a gasp of dawning horror. 

"Precisely! Bravo, Doctor! You grasp the magnitude of the moment!" Mikkelson exclaimed, his voice brimming with manic glee. "Grimm's soul… tainted! Corrupted by the ancient abyss itself! Grimm's essence alone, Doctor, is the key! The linchpin! The sacrificial offering that will shatter Gorr-ath's eternal prison! And unleash, upon this trembling world, a New World Order of glorious shadow!" A tidal wave of Lycan howls and deafening snarls erupted, shaking the very foundations of the chamber, a feral chorus of anticipation and bloodlust. 

"You speak of a 'new world order', Mikkelson, where does that put you? How do you know you're not just some pawn in a God's game? And why keep us alive? What are you playing at?" Watters screamed, his voice barely carrying to Mikkelson. 

Mikkelson raised his hand, silencing the creatures with a flick of his wrist. "Once Gorr-ath, our king in crimson, is unleashed," Mikkelson declared, "I shall stand at his right hand, his Grand Vizier, ruling this world in his glorious shadow! As master of his earthly legions, I shall command forces beyond your comprehension, remaking this world in his abyssal image, and basking in the unfathomable power he bestows!" 

Watters scoffed, a harsh laugh escaping him. "You can't be serious! Do you seriously believe that you, a human being, will be the right hand of a cosmic God? You're a pathetic fool, Mikkelson!" 

"Silence!" Mikkelson roared, his voice exploding with incandescent fury. "You dare question my destiny? Very well, since you presume to ask two questions, I shall deign to answer your second. In the new world, my new world forged in shadow, I shall require… diversions. For my exquisite amusement, you and the stalwart Daniels will serve! Perhaps I shall have you reenact your pathetic attempts at defiance for Gorr-ath's amusement! Or perhaps," Mikkelson's voice softened with sinister anticipation, "I shall dissect your feeble minds to understand such stubborn resistance! And Grimm, yes, Grimm," Mikkelson's voice became a silken purr, "he will serve my master's… infinitely more valuable needs. And so, as a tribute, as a grand inaugural gesture," Mikkelson pulled out a vial of the viscous black fluid, thick as congealed blood and shimmering with an oily sheen, raising it high in the air above the chalice. 

"What in God's name is he doing?" Daniels creaked, his voice tight with dread. 

"Dear God…" Watters muttered, his face paling. 

"Grimm will become… further… empowered! Transformed! He will become a beacon, a conduit!" Mikkelson bellowed, pouring the inky black liquid, pulsating with unnatural darkness, into the chalice. The viscous black fluid flowed deep down from the chalice, circling down the great platform on which Mikkelson stood, down to the floor, flowing into an ornate bowl. The crowd began to howl and roar, their frenzy intensifying as a Lycan seized the bowl and approached the struggling Grimm. 

Grimm thrashed against his bonds, head whipping side to side, a guttural roar escaping his strained throat. Muscles corded in his arms as he fought the restraints, iron groaning against his desperate efforts. But the Lycans were implacable. The Lycan carrying the bowl forced Grimm's jaw open and poured the viscous black ichor, that seemed to drink the light around it, into Grimm's mouth. 

Mikkelson raised his hands, a conductor commanding a symphony of damnation, chanting the infernal language once more, his voice a booming incantation that resonated through the chamber, "Lssl vegg-mhr ilgwpi hppi rpanbni imsgnznsnpa hnfn anhhnh. Lqipgvl, deanjl an, lh hebbl tped npihpa lih hnfn." An unholy emerald aura erupted around him, bathing the platform in sickly green light, as the torches around the amphitheater flickered and choked, their flames shrinking back in terror as if recoiling from a greater, more consuming fire. Suddenly, the air itself tore open, a jagged dimensional rift ripping into existence with a sound like the tearing of reality itself, sending a violent, spectral wind screaming through the chamber, whipping at robes and banners like a tempest unleashed. Grimm's body arched and spasmed, a grotesque puppet convulsing on invisible strings, as the black fluid surged through his veins, a visible tide of corruption consuming him from within. From the rift, three colossal white eyes blazed into existence, vertical and impossibly vast, like glacial moons hung in the void, peering out from the tear in reality with cold, ancient sentience that chilled the very soul. 

"MASTER!" Mikkelson thundered, his voice a triumphant roar that echoed off the cavern walls, "Behold! I present to you… The Immortal Grimm! Reborn in your abyssal glory!" 

Grimm unleashed a final, agonizing scream, a sound of utter annihilation, as his transformation reached its grotesque zenith. Where once stood a stalwart defender, noble and proud, now rose a hulking monstrosity, a Lycan sculpted from shadow and nightmare. His fur shifted and writhed, coalescing into obsidian blackness that seemed to absorb the torchlight itself, his muscles swelled to grotesque proportions, straining against unnatural bone, and his eyes burned with the same chilling, vertical luminescence as those of the entity in the rift, reflecting not life, but the cold, fathomless void itself.