Mangowo

  Didn’t take long before I tore him apart. Literally.

  What was left of him? A mess of shredded limbs and glistening entrails. Took me a while to adjust to my high strength stat—unless my opponent had the durability of a fortress, I didn’t even need magic to turn them into a violent smear. Just impatience.

  Iron had been an exception. I struggled, because, well, he was durable. Metal Pathway plus those draconic scales made him a bastard to crack. Nearly losing to him left a itch between my ribs—the kind that only a rematch (and his femur as a toothpick) could scratch.

  [You have sin an Elf - Level 25 Intermediate Fire Mage (III)/Level 3 Butcher (I)]

  [You have sin an Elf - Level 22 Arcanist (III)/Level 4 Armorer (I)]

  [Experience Points acquired]

  [Alignment activities detected! Additional Experience Points acquired!]

  Curious. Still no quest. The system remained silent, uncharacteristically so.

  Maybe I wasn’t in my own body? That could expin the discrepancy. My physical form usually dictated how the system interacted with me—monsters got quests, non-monsters didn’t. But if I wasn’t in my draconic body, what did that mean?

  Whatever. Not the time to dwell.

  The second thing that tugged at my mind was the extra experience. Judgment-based. But how did it work?

  Did it function based on my concept of right and wrong? If so, that was concerning—my morality was flexible, pragmatic. Did it take into account my beliefs, weighing actions by how I justified them? Or was it something external, determined by some universal scale? A preordained, cosmic w that decreed this is righteous, this is evil—and simply let me py executioner?

  And if it was based on my own perception, did that mean my morality would start feeding into itself? A feedback loop where every act of judgment reinforced my role? Like sharpening a bde on the whetstone of my own convictions, honing myself into something cold and absolute.

  …Was that dangerous?

  Or was that just power?

  I shook my head.

  No answers yet. Just more questions.

  I spat blood (not mine) and surveyed the carnage.

  The real centerpiece of this little house of horrors was the cluster of coffins. Bck metal. Tough. Their lids gleamed with an oily sheen, etched with runes that hinted at… processing. Air Sense still sharp, I pried one open. Then another. Counted ten bodies inside, all preserved in unnatural ways—marked skin, missing eyes, surgical incisions carved with cruel precision.

  Mostly beastkin, but elves and humans were in the mix too. No one had been spared. A few were warped past recognition, limbs bent in impossible angles, flesh twisted like something had tried to reshape them and failed.

  Against the far wall, their little toolbox of torment: scalpels, hooks, vials of liquid. I plucked one up and sniffed. Another. A few more. Paralytics, healing potions, something meant to force a person awake as they bled out. That st one had my mind drawing conclusions it would’ve rather avoided.

  Yeah. This was a goddamn experiment b if there ever was one. And judging by the architecture, this wasn’t some temporary sughterhouse—it had been built with the sewers. Which meant this had been going on for a long, long time.

  A sick feeling curled in my gut.

  If we were inside Varkaigrad, then something truly fucked was festering down here.

  I couldn’t afford to linger. Needed to move. But before stepping out, I scrutinized the runes on the entrance—one st check for arms or nasty surprises. Nothing. Just a high-quality illusion veiling the chamber.

  Satisfied, I stepped forward, bare feet meeting the cold, grimy stone. This body was small. Scrawny. By any standard, this little Drakkari couldn’t have been older than twelve. Small hands. Fragile frame. Bruises yered over her like a second skin, remnants of a beating she had no chance to fight against.

  The pain hummed beneath my awareness—not sharp, not crippling, just a dull, constant whisper. I’d endured worse. Limbs severed, bones twisted, the agonizing rebirth of mutation. This? This was nothing more than a background melody, a gentle reminder that the body still lived.

  The tunnel split the moment I stepped out—two paths, left and right.

  I gnced back. Where the chamber had been, an illusory wall now stood, seamlessly blending with the sewer’s stonework. Invisible to the eye, but the smell lingered—rot, chemicals, the unmistakable stink of suffering. Someone sharp enough would notice something was off.

  No visible markings to indicate how the elven cultists kept track of this pce. No symbols, no hidden carvings. Which meant they had a different way of finding it. Tools? Magic? Either way, it didn’t matter.

  What did matter was my next move.

  The tunnel stretched before me. Walls slick with dampness, its air thick with the smell of stagnant filth. The ground sloped ever so slightly downward, moisture pooling in uneven dips, reflecting the dim, sickly glow of bioluminescent fungi clinging to the ceiling. Thick pipes lined the walls, some rusted, some leaking a viscous sludge that slithered into the rivulets of wastewater snaking along the floor.

  Soooo… Left or right?

  Logic hissed forward. Peek behind the sewer’s filthy curtain. What’s the worst that could happen? This flesh-suit wasn’t mine. Snip the tether, ghost out, let the girl’s corpse become someone else’s problem.

  My other self recoiled.

  She was alive. A kid who’d clutched that pendant like it was the st raft in a shitstorm. I’d skin my enemies alive and nap in their ribs, but this? Leaving her here to choke on dread? Felt like swallowing broken gss.

  Guilt? Nah. Guilt’s for people who apologize.

  This was… worse. A feral, gnawing refusal. I wouldn’t be the kind of rot that uses a soul as toilet paper and flushes. Survival’s one thing; cowardice reeks louder than a goblin’s underpants.

  Priority one: haul this kid’s ass to sunlight.

  I reached out, feeling the surrounding air currents.

  Wherever their base was, it had to be deeper in—likely sealed off or underground—meaning it would disturb the airflow less. So, I focused on the right side. A few breathing signatures flickered at the edge of my senses, distant but present. The air here felt more stagnant.

  I frowned, analyzing further. The air to my right was slightly cooler, suggesting an exit leading to the surface. A pressure difference between the sewer and the open air above meant fresh air would naturally trickle down through atmospheric mixing. A faint, outward-moving breeze carried that coolness—likely my way out.

  Without hesitation, distortion flickered around me as I moved. Exploring could come ter; first, I needed to confirm the exit. A few signatures stirred in the tunnels around me, but none were immediate threats.

  Then, something new caught my attention. Mana mps—here, in the sewers?!? The first one came into view, metallic and embedded into the wall. It struck me that, despite being underground, I’d never truly experienced darkness down here. Some kind of sickly light had always been present, whether from bioluminescent fungi or something else.

  I pressed a small hand against the engravings. Metal. Sturdy. Old.

  "Light that keeps encroaching darkness at bay…." I muttered, reading the inscription.

  Every mp bore the same message. And somehow, I doubted those cultists had put in the effort to install them. No, these had been part of Varkaigrad’s sewers since their construction. But what kind of darkness had they been meant to hold back?

  Baffling. But only slightly.

  I crept toward the source of the fresh air, cautious and deliberate, only to freeze as a ripple of breathing signatures prickled at the edges of my Air Sense. A step closer, and they multiplied like weeds after rain. My frown deepened. Cold wind—yes, unmistakably from this direction—but why a crowd at what should be the exit?

  I could still retreat, but a stubborn thought coiled around my resolve. A peek wouldn’t hurt. Just a gnce. No meddling. Absolutely none.

  With Phantom Dragon Dance cloaking me, I edged closer. The air was so thick with overpping signatures that my Air Sense blurred, a cacophony of life muddling the edges of perception. Ahead, an archway yawned open, revealing a single elf stationed there, hands csped in a mockery of prayer.

  Dark mana hummed through my veins as I wove a matrix, each strand of the hex carefully, silently spun. The elf didn’t notice. He didn’t notice my approach either.

  Sleep.

  He crumpled before he even had time to flinch. Quick, quiet, efficient. I stepped forward, my bare, dirt-smeared foot raised—then brought it down with unceremonious brutality. His skull caved like overripe fruit, a muffled crunch that didn’t even echo. Notification fshed, but I ignored it.

  Lightning here would’ve been fshy, sure, but too loud. Too bright.

  Noise wasn’t my concern here, though. Not with the steady hum of sound emanating from further ahead.

  Fttening myself against the wall, I slipped closer, peering past the curve of the archway. What I saw chilled the blood in my veins.

  A vast cylindrical shaft descended into darkness like the gullet of some ancient beast. Balconies jutted out from the walls at intervals, semicircles of stone that overlooked the abyss. I stood in one such alcove, my vantage perfect, if not for the scene below.

  In the center of the shaft, illuminated by an eerie, flickering glow, stood an altar. No, a statue—an enormous hexagon with a skeletal figure suspended upside down at its heart. My vision swam as I looked at it, a stabbing headache threatening to split my skull.

  Around the altar y a trench filled with bodies. Corpses, stacked like discarded refuse. Beastkin. Humans. Elves. Even dwarves, their stout forms unmistakable. Each one bore the same grotesque signature: a gaping void where their hearts should have been, edges charred in the same unnervingly perfect shape.

  From beneath the altar, little drains carried a constant trickle of blood, channeled through carved grooves that led to the statue’s base. A deliberate design. A system. The sacrificial pit never dry.

  Surrounding it, a crowd murmured in hushed reverence. Hooded robes concealed their forms, but their pointed ears betrayed them—elves. All of them.

  But what caught my eye wasn’t them. It was the child on the altar.

  A Faerin. Fox-kin. Naked. His body covered in glowing runes, resignation dulling his wide, terrified eyes. He y beside the cursed statue that gnawed at my skull. Still. Silent. He knew what came next.

  And so did I.

  An elf stood over him, dagger clutched in reverence, poised for the final cut.

  Another sacrifice. Another body for the pile.

  Beneath my skin, something stirred. An anger so deep it slithered through my bones, too familiar, too grotesque. It coiled around me like an old friend, whispering, gnashing, demanding.

  My gre locked onto the lead figure—the one with the dagger. His robes, more ornate than the rest. The leader.

  He whirled, voice rising above the murmurs.

  “Our moment is near. Lord Styn Lor has spoken His verdict. We follow the will of our Goddess—not the falsehoods whispered in the hollow halls of those pretender churches!”

  A murmur of agreement. Some clenched their fists. Others lowered their heads in fervent prayer.

  “They have strayed! They cower in their temples, preaching watered-down lies. But we know the truth. We are the bearers of Her true word. The first to heed Her will. And soon, we shall recim what was stolen from us—what these filthy beastkin dared to defile with their unworthy hands!”

  A swell of voices. Conviction. Worship.

  His gaze swept across them, fevered.

  “It has begun to stir beneath us, deep in its sacred slumber. It awakens. And when it rises, we will be the first to grasp it!”

  The crowd exhaled as one. A prayer. A promise.

  The dagger tilted, silver glinting under the sickly light. Then it caught fire.

  A sickly green fme, unnatural and writhing, crawled from the elf’s hands, wrapping around the bde like a serpent coiling around its prey.

  “Witness it, My Lord!” he cried, voice trembling with devotion.

  The fox-kin child did not move.

  But I did.

  A flicker, a twitch, a single command to thousands of neurons in the lead cultist’s hands.

  His rage, his conviction, his body—all betrayed him.

  Fingers stiffened. Refused to obey. The dagger tumbled from his grasp, fire and all.

  Be it instinct, desperation, or something rawer—the boy saw his chance.

  His small hands shed out, snatching the falling dagger mid-air, the fme licking at him, his fingers, his skin—but he did not falter.

  Before the lead cultist could even process his own rebellion—before his face could twist in confusion, in horror, in fear—

  The boy drove the burning dagger straight into his chest.