CH: 18: The Shadow of Sacrifice

{Chapter: 18: The Shadow of Sacrifice}

A bad feeling.

Something was wrong.

The sensation wasn't just a thief's instinct—it was an overwhelming, gut-wrenching certainty that made Hank Manan's skin crawl. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his fingers twitched, itching for the reassuring weight of a lockpick or a hidden dagger.

But he had neither.

The only thing keeping the basement from being completely swallowed by darkness was the sporadic flicker of candlelight. Shadows danced across the cold stone walls, their movements eerie, stretching unnaturally long, like grasping fingers eager to seize anything that moved.

Hank sat on the hard, unyielding floor, surrounded by towering iron bars that caged him in. The entire room was lined with identical enclosures, an array of prison cells made from thick metal railings that gleamed in the dim light. It was a cage, a massive iron prison, meant to hold something—or someone—far more dangerous than common criminals.

He had been in countless prisons before, from the rat-infested dungeons of the Sable Kingdom to the rotting wooden cages of desert slavers. He had escaped them all.

But this place? This was different.

There was no filth. No stench of decay, no scattered bones, no signs of past suffering. The floor was clean, the air unnervingly fresh. There were even functional toilets and trays of food set out in the corners.

A prison designed for comfort.

And that terrified Hank more than any bloodstained torture chamber ever could.

This was not meant to be a punishment. This was preparation.

Among the dozens of captives inside the iron cages, several had already picked up on the same unsettling realization. They exchanged tense glances, their expressions grim, their bodies rigid with unease.

One man stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the stone. He was middle-aged, heavily built, with several old scars crisscrossing his face—testaments to battles hard-won. His posture was disciplined, his eyes sharp, analyzing everything with the trained instinct of a warrior who had survived far too many wars.

Stopping before Hank, he spoke in a low, controlled voice, as if any loud noise might trigger some unseen horror.

"I know who you are."

Hank remained still, watching the man cautiously.

"Hank Manan," the warrior continued. "The infamous thief who slipped through the cracks of a dozen kingdoms, stealing from nobles, churches, and even the Arcane Vault of the Magus Order. They say you pulled off a thousand heists before you finally got caught—stealing jewels from the princess of the Principality of Marton."

Hank's lips twitched, but he didn't confirm or deny it.

The warrior held out his hand. "I am Heto Yasar, captain of the second battalion of the Wolf Hunting Mercenaries. I hold the rank of Grand Knight."

At those words, Hank's eyes narrowed.

A Grand Knight—a warrior who had broken past human limitations, someone who could cut through a platoon of soldiers like a scythe through wheat.

Hank wasn't easily intimidated, but he had spent enough time in the underworld to know that men like Heto were not to be underestimated.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he grasped Heto's hand and shook it. The grip was firm, unyielding, but without the crushing pressure of someone trying to exert dominance.

Heto's shoulders relaxed slightly. He turned and gestured to the other captives.

"I believe you've noticed it too," he murmured. "This place is wrong. This isn't a prison meant to hold criminals. It's a holding pen."

Hank exhaled slowly. "You have a theory?"

Heto's jaw tightened. "More than a theory. I know."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I saw a familiar face among the men who escorted us here. He was disguised, but I never forget a face once I've seen it in battle. His name is Salt. Sorcerer Salt."

The name sent a ripple of unease through Hank's gut.

The sorcerers—spellcasters unbound by ethics, practitioners of magic that delved into the unnatural and the forbidden—were infamous.

And Salt was one of the worst of them.

"He's wanted by the church," Heto continued, his expression grim. "The bounty on his head is high enough to make even kings take notice. They say he's slaughtered thousands in his experiments. Entire villages have vanished in places he's passed through."

Hank clenched his jaw. He didn't know Salt personally, but he didn't need to.

Among magic users, sorcerers had the worst reputation. Mages were scholars. But sorcerers? Sorcerers were pure madness incarnate.

They twisted the laws of reality with reckless abandon, wielding magic without discipline, often at the cost of innocent lives. The most notorious among them were known to sacrifice people in elaborate rituals, draining the life and essence from their victims to fuel dark spells.

And now, Salt was here.

"That's not the worst of it," Heto added. "Look around."

Hank's gaze swept the room.

Every single person locked inside these cages…

Their builds. Their postures. The way they moved, even in their weakened states.

Warriors. Fighters. Killers.

Not a single ordinary civilian among them.

Heto nodded grimly. "This isn't random. These people—we—have all been handpicked. Every one of us is trained for combat, capable of killing a fully armed soldier with our bare hands." He paused. "And do you know what kind of sacrifices work best for a cult ritual?"

Hank didn't need to answer. The sick realization was already forming in his mind.

Sorcerers didn't just perform any blood sacrifice.

The more powerful the soul, the greater the effect.

A street beggar? Worthless. A merchant? Useless.

But a trained warrior? A battle-hardened knight?

That was a feast.

A slow chill spread down Hank's spine.

This wasn't just a sacrifice. This was a mass execution disguised as a ritual—a way to harvest power on an unprecedented scale.

And the worst part?

Hank had overheard something earlier.

Before his transfer, guards had mentioned the one who ordered his capture.

The prince of the Principality of Marton.

That meant this wasn't just some rogue sorcerer operating in secret. Salt was working with the royal family.

Which meant there would be no rescue. No chance of ransom.

No one would be coming for them.

Hank clenched his fists.

They had been gathered here to die.

Heto exhaled, then pointed at the iron bars surrounding them. "These cages are made of Saia Iron—one of the hardest known metals. Each bar is as thick as two adult fingers put together. Even if we had ten wild elephants charging at them, they wouldn't bend."

His gaze flickered back to Hank.

"But I've heard you're one of the best thieves alive."

He nodded toward the lock.

"So tell me, can you open it?"

Hank exhaled slowly, rubbing his fingers together, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Facing Heto's expectant gaze, he finally shook his head.

"There's no way." His voice was flat, but there was a trace of frustration beneath it. "I've examined it carefully. This kind of lock isn't something I can just pick open with a bent wire or a hairpin."

Heto's brows furrowed. "How bad is it?"

Hank sighed, crossing his arms. "It's not just any lock—it's a masterpiece. It was crafted by a family of locksmiths who have served the royal family of the Principality of Marton for generations. The mechanism is composed of at least a hundred interlocking parts. It's leagues above anything I've ever dealt with." He tilted his head, tapping a finger against the bars. "Even if I had my best tools, I wouldn't be confident I could crack it. And right now?" He spread his hands, showing his empty fingers. "We've got nothing."

A heavy silence followed.

Heto exhaled through his nose, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he processed the information. Around them, the other prisoners had started forming small groups. More than twenty factions had emerged among the captives, most banding together instinctively, drawn to the promise of strength in numbers.

But alliances built in desperation were fragile.

Before long, tension crackled in the air like dry kindling near an open flame.

A few of the prisoners had already begun squabbling, their voices rising, echoing off the cold stone walls. Accusations were thrown, curses spat. Shoulders bumped, fists clenched.

It was only a matter of time before things escalated.

If they weren't trapped in an unfamiliar place, unnerved by the strangeness of their captivity, the first real fight would have already broken out. Blood would have been spilled.

Hank had seen it before—prisoners testing dominance, alphas trying to establish their place at the top of the hierarchy. And in a place like this, the weak wouldn't last long.

Then—

Crunch.

The unmistakable sound of an iron door grinding against stone silenced the room in an instant.

Every prisoner froze mid-motion. The tension from before dissipated like a candle snuffed out by the wind.

The sound had come from the far end of the corridor. A heavy iron door creaked open, the scraping noise sending an unpleasant shiver through the air.

Hank's heartbeat quickened.

All eyes turned toward the dark passageway beyond the cage, the flickering candlelight barely illuminating the shadows.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Unhurried.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

The first thing Hank noticed was the color—deep, fiery red.

*****

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