Chapter 6 - Things in the Dark

"Not again."

The first thing I saw was the sky, the clouds drifting lazily oblivious to the chaos below. I was on my back, fingers clenched around the war god's helm. Slowly, I flexed my hands, tested my arms, then my legs. My body felt like mine again.

But I still didn't dare to move.

The smell of death lingered around me, heavy and inescapable. I didn't need to stand to know what I would see. Even without looking, the memory remained—gods, unnatural power, and that thing that had taken control of me.

My body shivered with the thought. Was it really gone? That thing that had controlled my body, that had possessed me. 

I can still remember the feeling that things control —the disorientation, the helplessness, watching my own body move without being the one to command it. It's something that I wouldn't recommend.

Was it an ally? It did help me. An enemy? It had stolen my body. Too strong… beyond anything I had imagined. I thought that nothing would surprise me anymore these past few days, but that thing… that was different.

I stood up, and dozens of bodies surrounded me—lifeless. It had all been a waste. My effort to keep them alive… and yet, in the end, they still died. The helm felt cold in my hands. Its glint was haunting, menacing, as if the war god was still taunting me, trying to get in my head. I scanned my surroundings, tense. Was it truly gone? Or was it still here, waiting for another chance to attack.

But I remembered what that thing said, did the war god truly escaped? Either way I couldn't stay here.

I tried moving, expecting to feel pain from the wounds covering my body. But… it didn't hurt at all. The wounds—from earlier, from the hotel, from the ruin—were all gone, healed without a trace. Not even a scar remained.

This is bad… That thing said I mustn't tell anyone about it—no one can know what happened here. But how am I supposed to hide this? My wounds are gone, as if none of it ever happened. What will the people at the warehouse do if they find out? The thought scares me. I need to… pretend I'm hurt. No one can see this. If they start asking questions, I can't afford to give them answers.

I started heading back, trying to cover as much skin as possible to keep them from seeing my healed body. I was too busy worrying about that to notice it immediately.

I wasn't getting tired at all.

Earlier, I thought my body was just adjusting well to everything that had happened. But now, it felt different. I felt lighter, stronger, faster—not how I used to be. And that scared me.

Am I similar to those locals? Am I still human? I look human. There's nothing different about me. But how do I explain this?

No. There's nothing to explain. I am still me. 

But… what if I'm not?

I couldn't breathe. My breath became shallow and uneven, as if my own body was rejecting air. My hands shook as I pressed them against my chest, searching for something, anything—pain, exhaustion—anything familiar, anything that kept me human. But there was nothing.

The fear was already sinking deep. I closed my eyes, trying to push away every thought.

"I need to move. I can't be stuck feeling like this right now."

I pushed through the anxiety and confusion. It was already dark when I got back. It was still hard to believe that it hadn't even been a day since I started.

"What the fuck? Holy shit, you're back," Nixie exclaimed when she saw me—or rather, when she saw the helm. She rushed towards me and immediately grabbed the helm from me.

"This is insane. Do you even realize what you're holding? The craftsmanship alone—gods, the history! This is—wait, how did you even get this?"

I barely had the energy to answer, but Nixie was already too deep; she was too excited. She then looked at me. "What the hell happened to you? What happened to the clothes I gave you?" she asked, noticing me for the first time.

I told her most of the things that happened—the horde of locals, the war god and his overpowered strength, the war god magic that made zombie-like individuals. Of course, I didn't tell her about that thing that controlled me and how I almost killed the war god.

"War god, huh?" Nixie asked, but her gaze was still fixed on the helm. "How did you even defeat him?"

"I got lucky." Technically, I did get lucky. "Good thing he underestimated me, and when he did, I just shot him multiple times," I lied.

"That's cool," Nixie was clearly not paying attention. "Good thing I gave you that gun, huh?" she added.

"Yeah," I replied.

"So, did you kill him? Where's his other stuff? He's a war god, right? Must've been carrying other cool stuff, right?" she asked, more like interrogating me.

"I didn't. He managed to escape," I said, which was the actual truth.

"Hmmm, good thing he dropped the helm before he escaped, huh?" I could feel Nixie's suspicion growing.

"Yes, it's quite lucky," I nonchalantly replied.

"Hmmm. Well, anyway, at least you came back alive. I'd look like a big fool if I helped you just to die immediately," she said. She gave me this weird look before shifting her focus back to the helm.

To be honest, Nixie was being a bitch right now.

And to be even more honest, dark thoughts did cross my mind—what would she do if I broke her nose with my newly acquired strength? But I was pretty sure Nixie could still take me, even with my enhancement.

So, I pushed the thoughts away and left.

I just wanted to rest. My body wasn't tired, but my mind—that was a different story. I felt like I was on the verge of breaking down again. But I had to keep it together. The last thing I needed was anyone getting suspicious.

I almost walked straight into the clinic by mistake. Good thing I didn't. I had no idea how I'd explain myself if they saw me without a single wound. Instead, I grabbed a few rolls of bandages from the supply bag Nixie gave me and went to take a bath.

And gods, that bath was amazing. Probably the best one I'd had in a long time. Took me a while, though—the smell of blood and decay wasn't easy to scrub off. Afterward, I wrapped some bandages around the parts of my skin that would show through my clothes, just to sell the idea that I was actually injured. I didn't even know why I was bothering to keep up this act. But better safe than sorry.

People around here might kill me if they saw even the slightest resemblance between me and the locals.

I walked around the warehouse to keep my mind off things. And there were a few new faces—Nixie must've been busy.

There was a woman, probably a little older than me, with a scowl that could rival the war god's. Arms crossed, back against the wall, she was just… looking around, I guess. But her expression made it seem like she was analyzing the area, maybe even calculating if she could take us all out. Or maybe that was just my imagination.

There was a boy, probably around ten years old. He looked calm—suspiciously calm. Definitely not how a kid his age should be acting in a situation like this. And to be honest, this was the first time I'd seen a kid in days.

There was also a pregnant woman, sitting on one of the makeshift beds. I was honestly relieved to see her here—I couldn't even imagine how someone like her would survive outside. She seemed friendly. When I got near her, she smiled at me, so I smiled back.

But the most noteworthy one was this guy—his head wrapped in bandages. He felt familiar, like I knew him from somewhere.

Then it clicked.

This was the same guy from my dream—the one whose girlfriend was sacrificed at that temple.

I... felt drawn to him. Maybe because I had relived that girl's memories? Maybe it was affecting me somehow? I could still vividly remember it all—the stroll along the beach, the dinner, the romantic conversation (even if it was just gibberish to me), and the kiss.

The moment that memory resurfaced, my face burned red. It was way too embarrassing, even if it was just a dream. But I ignored the weird attraction and just went to sleep.

And once again, I was dreaming.

To be honest, these dreams were getting old. But somehow, I was still curious. Maybe if I kept going through them, I could finally piece together a proper context for what was happening on the island.

This room again… I'd been here before. Last time I dreamed, it was the same—the office of that cult leader guy. But this time, it wasn't from the point of view of the one being interrogated. It wasn't the one in the chair. I was just a bystander. Maybe even one of the cultists.

This was the moment when they were threatening Chef Dominique. The scene from last time played out, but this time, I was just watching, observing.

The cult leader came to me and asked me to take care of the chef. For some reason, I could feel a little hesitation from the person whose memory I was reliving as he dragged the chef toward somewhere dark—somewhere that made my skin crawl. I could tell he didn't want to do these things at all, but something was making him, like he was being forced.

As he dragged the chef, I could hear at least two voices from inside the sealed rooms. One was familiar—a woman's voice, desperately calling for help. The other was an elderly voice, weak and frail.

I could feel his body tense, his heartbeat rise, and his doubt grow every time he heard the voices coming from the rooms. But he just kept going, doing what he was told to do.

He managed to take the chef to his room. The chef wasn't struggling at all. He just looked at him, his face full of worry—maybe even a hint of regret. The chef asked him for help. It was gibberish, but I could tell what he was saying. The man chose to ignore it, but I could feel his guilt.

The guy wandered aimlessly around the building. I tried to take in the details—maybe I'd need them later. Everything he saw, everything he touched, anything that might be useful.

But everything looked familiar—the interior design, the furniture, the view outside the window, even some of the paintings and decorations on the walls. Then it hit me. This was the same hotel I had been staying in last week.

How? Why? That hotel sponsored my trip to this island. Am I part of their plans? Or am I just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The thought sent a chill down my spine. If this wasn't a coincidence, then what exactly had I walked into?

More questions were forming than being answered. I was still drowning in thought when I heard a familiar voice—the receptionist, talking to this guy. Her expression was tense, her smile forced, like she was trying to stay polite but couldn't quite hide her unease.

Even though I couldn't understand what they were saying, I could feel the tension in the receptionist's tone—sharp, almost condescending. Her polite smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and the way she leaned in slightly, voice lowered, made it seem like she was issuing a warning. Maybe even a threat.

Then, she handed him an envelope and walked away, her posture stiff.

I could feel his anxiety as he held it, his fingers tightening around the edges.

He left soon after, heading to what I assumed was his room. Once inside, he dropped the envelope onto the bed, then turned to the mirror.

Holy shit.

That face…

This was the War God.

But he looked normal. His body wasn't built like a warrior's, his height was unremarkable, and even his face—if anything—looked kind.

He shifted his focus to the envelope. I could feel his hesitation, his hands trembling as he opened it. Inside were two photos.

I didn't need to see any more details to understand the situation. These were the next targets—the people the cult had chosen as sacrifices.

A child, around ten years old.

And a baby.

How… How could someone be this evil?

An actual baby? They would kill an actual baby?

The guy's disbelief matched mine. I could feel his confusion, the way he struggled to process what he was seeing. His hesitation was clear—his mind racing, searching for any possible way to ignore this. But above all, the most prominent thing I noticed was his anger.

His hands tightened around the photos, his breath steadying as his mind settled on a decision. There was no more questioning, no more doubt. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface finally took over. He had had enough.

He stormed out of his room, rushing toward the prisoners. His mind was made up. He was going to help—the chef, the woman, and the old man. They were all going to escape.

But as if it had been predicted, the cult leader, together with at least two dozen men, was waiting for him.

He had been cornered. But he wasn't just going to give up.

He immediately reached for his gun and began firing. If he was going down, he might as well take the cult leader with him.

But it didn't work.

The cult leader simply raised his hand, and as if there were some sort of barrier, the bullets stopped midair.

I could feel his knees give out. He just knelt there as the dream began to shift.

This time, I wasn't reliving someone else's memory. This time, it was like I was a spirit floating around. Maybe I was seeing things in real time? I could hope, right?

I look around, and everything feels somewhat familiar. If I'm not mistaken, this is the ruin of the Prosperity God. It used to be my favorite—there was a homely vibe to it, the kind of place families would visit to spend time together. Campfires, wooden benches, and countless activities for visitors to enjoy. It felt like one of those summer camps kids go to.

But now, everything looks desolate and withered. Everywhere I look, I see people suffering. Some are tied to the benches where people once gathered, beaten nearly to death. Others are bound to poles in the archery range, their bodies pierced by arrows and various weapons—some already dead, others barely clinging to life.

Meat sizzles over the campfire, but I can't tell what kind of animal it came from. It doesn't look familiar… even the smell is different.

Wait—are those…? No, it can't be. Surely they wouldn't—?

The mere thought of them cooking humans here makes my stomach churn.

But in the middle of the ruin, something far worse stands—a throne. A throne made of… meat? Human remains? I can't tell. It looks fleshy, its shape unsettling, as if parts of it are warping, shifting, almost squirming. The leather appears to be stitched-together human skin… and it moves, rising and falling, like it's breathing.

Wait… no… is it actually breathing?

Are the people stitched together still alive?

My whole body tenses, a cold streak running down my spine. I don't want to look any closer, but I can't tear my eyes away.

The one sitting on the throne looks familiar—the face, the features. It's the chef from my other dream, the one who went missing, the one dragged away by the cultists. But his expression… there's something disgusting about it, something perverse.

He's wearing some kind of leather cloak, so I don't notice it at first. But when he shifts, I see his body—or rather, a grotesque patchwork of body parts stitched together. The sizes don't match. The ages don't match. He's like some twisted Frankenstein's monster.

But no, even that monster had some kindness in it. This one is pure malice.

That thing raised its hand, and the cultists dragged people toward him. The majority were tourists, but there were some locals among them as well.

The locals look dazed, their expressions blank as usual. But the tourists—most of them are barely breathing. Some wear expressions of pure terror, as if they can't believe this is real, while others have empty, hollow eyes—the look of someone already broken.

The chef stood up, and the sound—so fucking disgusting. It was like something popping… or squelching with every shift of his body.

He walks toward a woman, probably in her twenties. Her expression is a twisted mix of terror and insanity. He traces his fingers across her face, leaving a trail of slime on her cheeks.

He grinned, his mouth unnaturally wide. "Perfect for livestock," he said.

He raised his hand once again, and a local was suddenly lifted into the air. Then, their body began to twist at unnatural angles—I could hear bones breaking, muscles tearing, as if they were being crushed by some invisible force.

Then, all at once, the body exploded. But instead of splattering blood and gore everywhere, everything—the blood, the body parts, the bones—remained suspended in the air.

The chef snapped his fingers, and in an instant, everything compressed into tiny balls. There were at least several dozen.

He grabbed one, and the woman's face twisted in terror as she realized what was happening. The chef gripped her jaw, forcing her mouth open, and shoved the ball inside. She thrashed, struggling with all her strength, but he was far too powerful for her to resist.

The woman's expression went blank. The chef moved away from her and focused on the other prisoners. The woman slumped to the ground. I wanted to look away, but my gaze was stuck on her.

Then it happened.

I saw her body convulsing, shaking. I could see her limbs breaking, then fixing themselves to look inhuman. The color of her skin was changing. The woman was panting—no, she was growling.

She was changing into something.

Something terrifying.

Something like an animal.

But before she could finish transforming, I woke up from my dream, and the warehouse was shaking.