The Demon’s Hunger

Deep within the shadows of the Zemura jungle, the surviving cultists gathered again—shaken, bloodied, and filled with rage.

Their bodies trembled, not just from fear… but from humiliation.

"They disrupted the ritual," one spat, voice hoarse with fury. "They defiled the circle."

"They've angered our Lord…" another whispered, eyes wide with terror.

"No," the leader growled, voice like gravel. "We have angered him. And now… we must beg for forgiveness."

With trembling hands, the cultists began their atonement.

In the center of the woods, they carved a massive occult sigil using blood, bones, and torn flesh—an offering made from animals they had hunted and slaughtered mercilessly.

The scent of iron and rot filled the air.

Then came the chant—a bone-deep murmur, rising into the sky like a cursed prayer.

> The air grew heavy. The trees around them began to tremble. The flames from their torches bent unnaturally. And then… he came.

From within the blood-drenched sigil, a twisted creature emerged—its form a writhing mass of shadows, bone, and decaying flesh. Its eyes glowed like dying embers.

The Demon God.

"You dare summon me," it hissed, its voice sounding like a thousand whispers layered over screams. "After your disgrace… after your failure."

The cultists fell to their knees, sobbing and pleading. "Forgive us, Lord! We will make it right! We will destroy them!"

But the Demon's face contorted into something wicked—a grin that cracked across its skull.

> "No one escapes my wrath."

It laughed—a horrible, unearthly sound that echoed through the jungle like a dying howl.

"I hunger," it snarled. "I thirst for blood. I crave it fresh…"

One desperate cultist stepped forward, holding out a large clay bowl of blood and a heap of raw animal flesh.

"Take this, my Lord!" he begged. "Spare us!"

But the Demon God's eyes narrowed.

> "You dare offer me scraps?"

Without hesitation, it lunged forward, tearing into the man's chest with blackened claws. Blood sprayed into the air like a fountain.

The cultist screamed—but only for a second.

The Demon bit down into his throat and ripped it clean, chewing as flesh and veins dangled from its teeth.

The remaining cultists screamed in horror, stumbling back, their faces ghost-pale. Some tried to run. Others begged for mercy.

The Demon only laughed harder, blood dripping from its chin.

"You want my forgiveness?" it growled. "Then destroy the village. Burn Zemura to the ground. Spill every drop of blood in my name."

The cultists collapsed in panic, sobbing, nodding, swearing allegiance.

The Demon began to fade—its twisted figure melting into the night wind.

> "Prove yourselves… or become my next meal."

And then—silence.

But the jungle no longer felt alive.

Only cursed.

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