The Failed Disciple
The stairs spiraled downward.
Twisting. Narrow. Endless.
Mephisto moved in silence, one hand trailing against the cold wall, the other gripping Hollowfang. The further he descended, the tighter everything became—space, air, thought.
This place didn't just descend into darkness.
It spiraled into madness.
The walls changed.
Stone gave way to something rawer. Cracked, scraped, screamed into. Scratch marks littered the surface—deep, erratic gouges, desperate and directionless. And scrawled between them, etched in blood or something worse, were fragments of dying thoughts:
He Lied.I saw the stars. There was nothing.I still hear him…MAKE HIM STOP.
Each word dug deeper into the marrow of the Spire's soul.
They weren't warnings.
They were confessions.
And they were still fresh.
The staircase ended without fanfare.
Just a final, weary step into a circular chamber beneath the world.
The walls here pulsed with faint veins of Voidlight—black tendrils that moved just out of sight, always flickering, always watching. Candles circled the room, but none flickered. Their flames hung impossibly still, casting no shadows, as though afraid to disturb what slept within.
Chains hung from the ceiling, dozens of them, gently swaying despite the still air—each one etched with sigils that bled black ichor. Some ended in hooks. Some in shackles.
And in the center knelt a figure.
Slouched.
Skeletal.
Dripping in the torn remains of ceremonial robes, now rotted and soaked through with dried blood. A once-golden mask lay broken at his feet—its surface cracked down the center, like a symbol of broken faith.
Mephisto stepped forward.
Hollowfang hummed low in his grip, reacting to the overwhelming saturation of Void around them. His breath clouded in the air. Cold. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The figure stirred.
Slow. Painfully slow.
[Mini-Boss Discovered: Ithkar, The Failed Disciple]
[Class: Voidbound Martyr]
[Threat Level: High]
[Abilities: Echo Chains, Bleed of Belief, Maddening Revelation]
[Warning: High Corruption Signature Detected]
It raised its head.
Where eyes should have been—only hollow pits. Eyes carved out, willingly or not. The remnants of tears stained his cheeks like ink spilled from a broken pen.
And when he spoke, it was a whisper of ash.
"He promised me peace… He gave me the Void."
The chains answered his voice.
They shrieked as they moved—not like objects, but like serpents, slithering into life. Dozens shot from the ceiling like vipers, zeroing in on Mephisto.
He moved before they landed.
A blink-step forward.
Chains slammed into the stone behind him, erupting in an explosion of dust and cracked tile. Hollowfang gleamed in his grip as he slashed through a sweeping arc, severing one of the incoming chains mid-lash.
Sparks danced.
Metal howled.
But Ithkar was already on him.
Faster than he should've been. His body cracked unnaturally as he rose—arms spreading wide, bones creaking, mouth opening far too wide as he screamed a verse into the chamber.
It wasn't in a language Mephisto knew.
But he felt it.
A wave of force erupted outward—raw psychic pressure slamming into his chest and flinging him into the far wall. His ribs cracked, the breath torn from his lungs.
And then—
The voices came.
Inside his head.
Not echoes. Accusations.
"Why did you kneel? You were the strong one.""You could have stopped him.""They followed you. You led them to ruin."
Images burned through his mind—priests ablaze, children sobbing, blood pooling at his feet.
His hands—
Covered in it.
His voice—
Chanting along with the Prophet.
No.
[Status Effect: Maddening Revelation – Doubt Applied. Combat Efficiency Temporarily Reduced.]
Mephisto snarled through gritted teeth.
"None of this is real."
His hand clenched tighter around Hollowfang as Void energy surged into his limbs—muscles twitching with raw, searing power.
He activated Phantom Cleave.
Reality bent around him.
With a burst of speed and afterimage, he split into three briefly overlapping silhouettes—blinking through the hallucination and severing an incoming chain mid-air. His real form appeared directly in front of Ithkar.
First slash—
Diagonal.
It broke Ithkar's arm at the elbow, the limb twisting the wrong way. No blood—just a burst of black mist.
Second slash—
Vertical.
It shattered the remnants of the mask.
Fragments scattered across the stone like golden tears.
The third—
A lunge.
Hollowfang drove straight through Ithkar's chest, pinning the wailing disciple to the stone floor. The room vibrated. Chains spasmed above like dying nerves.
Ithkar gasped.
Not in pain—but in… release.
"He still… speaks…" the broken priest choked. "We are never alone…"
His hand reached out—toward nothing.
Then dropped.
[Mini-Boss Defeated: Ithkar, The Failed Disciple]
[Void Essence Acquired: +38]
[EXP Gained: +900]
[Memory Fragment Unlocked: "Echoes of the Forsaken – II"]
And then—
And then—
Light.
But not real.
The room blurred.
Shifted.
Reality cracked.
The chamber faded, replaced by something else.
Mephisto stood, once again, among the congregation.
The same robed crowd he'd seen before, kneeling in solemn silence. A church—not like the Void temples—but real. Alive. Gold banners swayed gently in a holy breeze. A light poured in from stained glass above, painting the white marble floors in color.
At the altar stood the Prophet.
Morven.
But younger. Whole. Beautiful in his own way—radiating calm, draped in gold and white, arms raised in rapture. He was preaching.
His words were soft.
"To forget is mercy… but I remember everything…"
And behind him—
A child.
Standing in the altar's shadow.
Covered in blood.
Watching the Prophet.
Watching Mephisto.
His face—
The same.
Himself.
Eyes wide.
Mouth stitched shut.
The child lifted a finger and pointed at him.
A pulse of pain ripped through Mephisto's skull—
And the illusion shattered.
Back in the chamber.
Candles still unmoving. Chains still dripping. Ithkar's corpse lay in a perfect sprawl, his body curled like he was still praying.
[Passive Bonus: +1% Void Resistance when fighting enemies of the Prophet's Faith]
Mephisto stood.
Breathing heavy.
Not from exhaustion.
But from pressure. From weight.
From something ancient clawing its way through his soul.
He looked down at Ithkar's body—at the fragments of the golden mask that once signified purpose, rank, belief.
He reached down.
Picked one up.
It crumbled between his fingers.
Like ash.
"What the hell were you to him?" he muttered.
No answer.
Only silence.
The Spire offered no comfort. No clarity. Only deeper questions. Deeper descent.
Mephisto stepped away.
Beyond the chamber, an ancient doorway waited—its arch inscribed with scripture long since blackened and worn away. The passage ahead pulsed with Voidlight, veins stretching like roots from the walls, as if the Spire itself was bleeding toward something darker.
He didn't hesitate.
He turned.
And pressed deeper into the Spire's hollow heart.