The Blood Altar of the Evil God: Great Lord Xel-Morgon

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Far beneath the cheering crowds, glowing holographic banners, and luxury VIP lounges of the upper coliseum, a completely different world existed.

Deep underground, buried past the reinforced security checkpoints and stone corridors, lay the deepest root of the Windrake family's private dungeon.

The air down here was freezing, damp, and suffocatingly heavy.

In the center of the huge dark stone chamber was a massive, circular pool carved directly into the black rock.

The pool was filled to the brim with thick, bubbling crimson blood, draining from narrow channels carved into the floor of the upper fighting pits.

A sickening, humid heat radiated from the crimson liquid, sending wisps of foul, copper-scented steam drifting up toward the vaulted ceiling.

Surrounding the blood pool were dozens of heavy, rusted iron cages suspended from thick alloy chains.

Inside the cages, slaves, captured awakeners, and kidnapped civilians huddled together in the damp darkness.

Each cage has at least five to six people locked inside.

Among them were many young men and women stripped down to dirty rags, their skin covered in bruises and visible marks of slave brands on their chests and necks.

Soft, hopeless weeping and ragged breathing echoed off the cold stone walls, but none of the prisoners dared to scream.

They were staring in terror at the far end of the huge chamber.

Rising above the bubbling blood pool was an ancient, jagged altar crafted from polished obsidian.

On top of the dark stone was a life-like statue of the Evil God, sitting in a dominant, relaxed, yet menacing pose upon a dark stone throne.

His broad, muscular upper body is bare, displaying defined structure with a glowing red veins and a searing core at his chest.

In the center of its chest was a clear crimson crystal the size of a goose egg.

The statue was wearing low-slung, tattered dark trousers or robes held by a thick, ornate belt or waist wrap.

Its hands end in sharp claws, resting on the armrests, and his bare feet have prominent talons.

Its face has a sinister, wide grin filled with sharp teeth and glowing red eyes. Large, curved demonic horns sweep outward and upward from his head, framing a mane of dark hair.

A massive pair of feathered, dark wings extends behind him, spanning outward to frame his figure.

A strong, suffocating evil aura leaked constantly from the statue, distorting the surrounding mana in the room and making the air feel as thick as mud.

Around the edge of the blood pool, dozens of men and women dressed in heavy, black hooded robes stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a wide circle.

Their faces were completely hidden beneath, but their hands, pale, twitching, and stained with dried blood, were raised toward the faceless statue.

They swayed back and forth in a hypnotic, disturbing rhythm, their throats vibrating as they chanted together in a raspy, guttural, ancient language.

"Kha-rosh... Mor-gath... Voh-rull..."

The chanting wasn't just sound; it carried a dark, kinetic weight that vibrated right through the iron cages, making the teeth of the trapped slaves chatter uncontrollably.

With every syllable the Evil God followers spat out, the surface of the blood pool rippled and boiled, glowing with a faint, sickly crimson light that illuminated the statue above.

Right next to the obsidian altar stood a massive, bulky man built like a meat cleaver.

His bare chest and arms were covered in thick, ropey scars and crude black surgical stitches that held patches of different skins together.

Grunting heavily, he dragged the unconscious body of a D-Rank armored earth-bear across the stone floor by its hind legs.

With a single, brutal swing of his iron machete, he sliced the beast's throat wide open, kicking the massive carcass directly over the edge.

The beast's thick blood pumped out in dark, heavy streams, mixing into the bubbling pool.

As the fresh monster blood dissolved, wisps of bright red energy parted from the liquid, rising into the air like glowing smoke.

The crimson ribbons floated upward, gathering toward the core of the statue's chest where the blood crystal was before being absorbed by it.

With every absorption, the blood crystal pulsed a fraction brighter, shedding a dark red glare over the room.

Standing on the raised platform right beside the altar, dressed in a sleek, dark crimson tight outfit that hugged her tall, curving hourglass figure, was Lady Clara.

Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, and the red light reflected in her wide, feverish eyes.

Her breathing was shallow, her mind drifting with the surrounding loud chants.

In a fervent daze, she traced her slender fingers along the cold stone wings of the statue, a cruel, breathless smile spreading across her lips.

Beside her stood, another old man wearing a black robe trimmed with silver thread, reading a long parchment scroll.

His face was sharp, pale, and completely indifferent to the groans of the dying monsters or the crying slaves in the cages.

As the High Priest of the branch, his eyes tracked only the numbers and names listed on the parchment.

"Everything is prepared, High Priest," one of the black-robed cultists stepped out of the circle, bowing deeply.

His voice sounded like two dry stones grinding together. "The qualifying matches above are about to begin. "

"The fresh bloodshed and the negative emotions of thousands of spectators in the arena tonight will feed the roots of our altar."

"As soon as the holy artifact is fully charged, we will be able to summon the consciousness of the almighty Great Lord Xel-Morgon."

He lowered his head even further, pointing toward the lower holding pens. "Once the summoning was successful, the ten strongest surviving slaves from the arena and twenty of our own chosen brothers and sisters will be brought down for the blessing ceremony."

"They will stand before the eyes of the Great Lord and be baptized in his pure energy."

Lady Clara didn't even look at the man.

She just let out a soft, breathy giggle, her finger continuing to trace the screaming faces carved into the stone wings.

The High Priest slowly rolled up the parchment scroll, his silver-trimmed sleeves rustling in the damp air.

"Good. You may proceed with the following tasks," he said, his voice cold and flat.

He kept his eyes locked onto the glowing blood crystal as he murmured to himself, "Once the blessing ceremony is complete, we will have thirty elite believers possessing the Great Lord's direct reinforcement."

"Their flesh will be impervious to blades, and their mana will break through to peak of the Expert level."

"When that happens, even the special forces from the Detectives of the Night Guard or the private soldiers of the City Lord's mansion won't be able to stand in our way."

He slowly turned his head toward Clara and the small group of wealthy Windrake family nobles standing nervously behind her on the platform.

These men wore luxury silk suits and golden rings, looking completely out of place in the blood-soaked dungeon.

"As promised," the High Priest said, his dark eyes narrowing, "after the blessing ceremony, we will gather enough sacrifices from the city, according to our previous agreement, the organization will personally assist your Windrake family's any three chosen elders in breaking through to the Master Rank."

The aristocratic men exchanged eager, greedy glances.

A Master Rank awakener was a true powerhouse, capable of ruling an entire district.

Having three would make the Windrake family untouchable.

"However," the High Priest's voice dropped an octave, the temperature on the platform plummeting to freezing, "until that day comes, I require every single one of you to obediently follow my orders without asking questions. Or else..."

He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he simply twitched the ring finger of his left hand.

"Gah...!"

Instantly, the three Windrake nobles standing behind Clara clutched their chests, their faces turning a violent, suffocating purple.

Invisible, icy claws had materialized directly inside their chests, gripping their beating hearts with crushing pressure.

Their knees hit the stone floor, their mouths opening and closing like suffocating fish as they gasped for air that wouldn't come.

Only Clara remained standing, completely unaffected by the spell.

"Hehee..." Clara giggled softly, snapping out of her daze.

She turned around, looking down at her gasping cousins with lazy amusement before stepping closer to the High Priest. "What are you so afraid of, old man?"

"Do you think our family would dare double-cross the cult?"

She smoothed down the front of her crimson jacket, her lips curling into an arrogant smirk. "Fear not. We are all in the same boat now."

"If you fall, the City lords mansion will wipe my family out within a week. We need this sacrifice just as much as you do."

The High Priest stared into her feverish eyes for a few seconds before lowering his hand.

The invisible pressure vanished.

The shivering nobles collapsed onto the wet stone, coughing violently and clutching their ribs as they scrambled backward, terrified of the old man in the silver-trimmed hood.

Waiting quietly in the shadows just a few steps behind Clara were her personal slave maids.

Among them, standing with her hands neatly folded across the front of her dark, sleeveless maid apron, was Liria.

Right beside her stood her younger sister, Sera.

Both of them were wearing slave collars around their necks, their skin pale in the dim crimson light.

Sera was trembling slightly, her small fingers gripping the edge of Liria's apron.

The heavy, suffocating evil aura leaking from the faceless statue made the slave brand on her collarbone pulse with a dull, painful throb.

Liria didn't move her head, keeping her eyes cast down toward the floor to play the part of a broken, obedient slave.

But under her calm exterior, her heart was beating fast.

She could smell the thick stench of monster blood and hear the hopeless weeping of the prisoners trapped in the suspended iron cages above them.

If not for being a bit lucky, they would have been one of those caged prisoners.

"Hold on just a little longer," Liria thought, gently pressing her heel against her sister's foot to steady her.