Chapter 7: Blades Beneath Skin

They didn't make it far.

Less than a league past the bone pit, the mist thickened like clotting blood. It pressed in like a lungful of rot, heavy and metallic, dead air tasting of rust and ancient breath. The trees twisted in on themselves, their black bark curling like burned flesh, limbs arching unnaturally inward like they were trying to strangle the path itself. Roots jutted from the earth like gnarled fingers, some with bone caught in their grip.

The path narrowed into a corridor of silent roots. No wind. No insects. Just silence—so absolute it buzzed.

And in that silence, Cid felt it first.

A pressure. A presence. Not the weight of something nearby, but something watching. Something pressing through him, like invisible fingers dragging across the inside of his skull.

"Stop," he said, his voice cutting the quiet like a blade.

The others froze instantly, instincts sharpened by too many nights surviving things that didn't play by natural rules.

Then came the sound.

Not a monster's roar. Not a spell cracking open reality.

Applause.

Slow. Mocking. Echoing from nowhere and everywhere.

A man stepped from the fog. No, not a man. Not anymore. His robe was stitched from strips of red silk and bone, skull fragments sewn into his shoulders, spinal cords hanging like ornaments. His skin was alive with symbols—glyphs that pulsed and shifted like veins trying to crawl free. His eyes gleamed like wet obsidian, burning with a gleeful kind of blasphemy.

Behind him came more. Six. No, seven. No—more. The fog seemed to breed them, birthing cloaked shapes etched in scars and dripping with Hollow glyphs. All of them smiling. Too wide. Too still.

"The rupture walks," the cultist said, bowing deeply, arms open like a priest addressing an altar. "Praise be the Hollow King."

Cid didn't blink. His chains stirred behind him, not in alarm—but in anticipation. They swayed like the tails of hungry predators.

"You want to die that badly?" he said, voice calm, almost curious.

The cultist's grin widened. "We want to serve," he whispered, as his body ignited—not with fire, but with magic. Raw. Undiluted. Blinding.

It poured from his cipher like sideways lightning—ribbons of screaming light, runes screaming across his chest, skin splitting open and sealing again with every pulse.

Vaelra staggered back, eyes wide. "Impossible… He shouldn't be able to handle that kind of overload—"

But he did. They all did.

These weren't failed summoners or half-starved scavengers hoping for scraps of forbidden lore. These were cultists who had carved away their humanity willingly, who had perfected their Ciphers through rites that demanded blood, madness, and worse. These were true believers. And they weren't here to watch.

They were here for Cid.

The first blow came from the left—a spear made of lightless fire, howling like it had a mouth and memory. Leon swung up to block, his fireblade clashing against it in a burst of black sparks. The impact spun him sideways and numbed his sword arm instantly. He screamed through clenched teeth.

Another cultist darted around the flank—robes billowing, mouth chanting—summoning a serpent made of liquid void, its eyes hollow, its fangs dripping mist. It coiled through the air, shrieking toward Iris.

She rolled beneath it, vanished mid-motion, reappeared above the caster. Her dagger plunged into his shoulder, slicing through bone.

He laughed, even as blood jetted from the wound. "Bleed with us!" he howled.

Cid stepped forward.

The chains snapped. They intercepted a barrage of cursed projectiles—shards of bone inscribed with hollow prayers, flame-javelins of soulfire, blades that sang despair. They dissolved mid-air against his power.

He raised a single hand.

Spoke a phrase.

Not in any language known to man.

Reality shivered.

Air bent. Color bled.

One cultist vanished—not in death, but in reversal. Time snapped backward like a snapped bone. He screamed as his body regressed—becoming younger, smaller, incomplete. Then less than that. His scream faded into silence as he unraveled into pre-life. Nothingness.

Another cultist charged, his ribs splitting open mid-sprint. A blade of jagged bone jutted from his chest like a horn, his mouth spewing blood and tongues.

Cid didn't flinch.

He met him with a bare hand.

Flesh to bone.

The cultist hit like stone—and shattered like glass. Pieces rained down, sharp and twitching.

"Hold formation!" Leon roared, spitting blood, blade trembling in his grip. "They're using body-bound amplification sigils!"

"Then break their bodies!" Iris snarled, eyes glowing violet.

A wave of unseen force slammed into Vaelra. She hit a tree hard enough to snap the bark. Blood sprayed from her lips as she collapsed.

But she didn't stop.

She bit into her thumb, drew blood, and carved a glyph midair.

Chains of crimson light erupted from the ground, wrapping around one cultist—squeezing. Bones popped. Flesh bulged. His scream turned wet, then cut off completely as his body imploded.

Cid's vision narrowed.

These weren't monsters.

They were worse.

They were human.

Twisted by belief. Broken by truth. By the whispers that came from the Hollow King's prison—the promise that if they just gave enough, carved deep enough, killed enough… they could be more.

A voice slithered into Cid's mind.

"Consume them."

He smiled.

"With pleasure."

The ground cracked.

Power surged through him like a curse made whole. His shadow lengthened. The skeletal form behind him grew massive—bones wrapped in chains, ash forming wings that blotted the trees.

The cultists hesitated.

Too late.

Chains erupted. From the earth, from the sky, from Cid's back. They moved like vipers, too fast to see, too loud to hear.

One cultist was yanked screaming into the air—and peeled. Skin unzipped from muscle. Muscle sloughed from bone. Bone screamed as it cracked open.

Another cast a glyph to turn into smoke.

Cid raised his hand—and drank it. The smoke spiraled into his palm, where it hissed and died.

Through it all, the cult leader kept clapping.

"Magnificent," he said, watching the slaughter like it was an opera. "You've already begun to Awaken."

Cid advanced, slow and hungry. "Who the hell are you?"

The cultist bowed again. "We are the Thirteenth Breath. Servants of the Hollow King. And you… you are our herald."

Cid's chains struck.

But they stopped mid-air.

Not from force.

From command.

The cultist's Cipher burned—gold, then black, then void. The chains froze, vibrating in fury.

Cid's eyes narrowed. This one was different. Stronger. Older.

"You will see soon," the cultist whispered. "Your role in the undoing. Your birthright. The world cannot contain you, Cid. Not forever."

Something in the tone.

In the truth of that voice.

Cid flinched.

Not from fear.

From recognition.

Then the cultist smiled—far too wide—and vanished in a spiral of living glyphs.

The remaining cultists retreated, dragging what was left of their comrades. One left behind a hand. Another—half a face.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Blood steamed on the ruined ground. Trees wept black sap.

The team stood in the aftermath—battered, bloodied, breathing hard.

Cid didn't move.

He stared at the spot where the leader had vanished. His hands were still clenched. His chains still hissed.

He didn't speak.

Not yet.

But inside, something stirred.

Whatever this was…

It wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.