The Cult's Failed Summoning

Chapter 1: Failed Summoning

That fateful night…

Mike clearly remembered standing in a narrow, filthy alley, his white lab coat stained a deep, vivid red. Blood—some of it his victims', most of it his own—flowed steadily into the drainage grate at the end of the street. Bodies lay scattered around him like broken dolls. Mike stood there, scarcely out of breath, his chest rising slowly as more men marched into the alley with guns drawn and torches held high.

The flickering torchlight illuminated the gruesome scene, landing squarely on him.

The leader of the group stepped forward, his voice rough with barely contained rage. "Looks like you pissed off a lot of people, Doc."

Mike looked at the man calmly. "Remind me—which organisation do you work for again?"

The leader's jaw tightened, anger flashing at being so easily forgotten. "You forgot me already? But you can't forget what you did. You put a lizard's heart inside our boss!"

Mike put on a thoughtful expression, running a bloody hand through his hair and pushing it back. "Ahh… it was a crocodile's heart. And your boss is fine, isn't he? So what are you guys doing chasing me?"

The leader was visibly taken aback. He took a longer look at the doctor standing before him. "You're insane. But what else would I expect from a psycho like you? What kind of man takes so many bullets and loses so much blood, yet still remains standing?"

The rest of the group focused their torches fully on Mike. Just as the leader said, the blood soaking his lab coat was primarily his own. Multiple bullet holes riddled his torso and limbs, dark and wet.

"Enough talk," the leader snapped. "Everyone into position."

His men spread out quickly, surrounding Mike in a tight circle.

"Ready… and—"

The leader suddenly paused. Mike had pulled a small trigger from his jacket pocket, waving it casually in front of them.

"If you value your boss's life, you'll let me go."

The leader made a sharp hand sign. "Stand down."

Mike smiled and began cautiously climbing the metal stairs along the side of the building. But just as he reached the top landing, a helicopter roared into view, its spotlight locking onto him. He prepared to press the trigger when the crack of a high-caliber rifle split the air.

Mike's wrist exploded in a spray of blood. His hand was severed instantly, and the trigger clattered down the iron stairs.

*Sniper.*

Automatic fire erupted below. His body jerked violently from the impacts, taking several stumbling steps backward before he pitched over the railing, crashing hard onto the alley floor.

The squad closed in around his broken form. Mike looked up at the leader, blood trickling from his lips. "Since when?"

"From the very beginning," the leader replied coldly.

*Kekekeke…*

A short, ragged laugh escaped Mike's throat. He coughed up a clot of blood before his eyes rolled back and everything went dark.

—

Instead of death or whatever judgement awaited in the clouds, he opened his eyes to an infinite, dazzling expanse. Stars, nebulae, and entire galaxies swirled in cosmic splendour. As his vision focused, he made out the colossal, faint outline of a giant dragon eating its own tail—an eternal ouroboros stretching across the void.

"I guess even hell wasn't open to someone like me," Mike muttered.

A powerful voice resonated directly inside his mind.

*You can jest even now? It seems you are just as much a fool as I thought.*

Mike frowned, looking around the endless expanse. "It's not polite to speak inside someone's head without permission."

The voice replied smoothly, *I believe it is also impolite to put an animal's heart inside a man without his permission.*

Mike allowed a small smirk. "Well played. Can I at least know who I'm talking to?"

*You have been looking at me for some time now.*

"No, no, no—you're not gonna tell me I'm speaking with the fuckin' multiverse or sea of stars right now. Me? An underground doctor with zero credentials."

*You had better believe it and adapt. You may refer to me as Ouro.*

"That still doesn't explain what you are."

*You could not comprehend it even if I explained. All you need to know now is that I am giving you a second chance to reach what you desire.*

Mike crossed his arms in the void. "Why help me? There's no such thing as a free lunch. But since you're offering, I'll bite. As for what I desire…"

*A life of your own creation. Yet you have no idea what form or shape you wish this creation to take.*

"Hey—don't go reading my mind."

*I have heard your desire and made my choice. I bestow upon you the name Boros. Go forth and acquire what you seek.*

"Hey, don't just go deciding—"

His train of thought shattered.

—

The subterranean chamber had no windows.

Torchlight flickered erratically along the damp stone walls. Deep grooves, both large and small, were carved across the floor, forming a colossal magic circle. Crimson blood filled every line, glistening under the firelight.

Sixty figures stood in precise formation around the perimeter, clad in heavy black hooded vestments, goat-skull necklaces resting against their robes, hands clasped tightly over them. Their voices rose and fell in unison, a low, rhythmic chant vibrating through the bedrock.

At the head of the ritual stood a single figure set apart from the rest. His robe was a deep ceremonial plum-purple, the fabric inscribed with fresh crimson runes drawn in blood.

As the chant peaked, High Priest Alistair raised his arms, his voice echoing like grinding stones:

"O wrath that devours the weak,

O fury unbound by mortal chains,

I call thee from the abyss of rage!

Rise and grant me power to break the world!

By blood, by bone, by unyielding hate—

Devil of Wrath, heed my command and come forth!"

The circle flared violently. The blood within the grooves began to recede, sinking into the stone as if the floor itself were drinking it dry.

One of the hooded acolytes stepped forward nervously. "High Priest, the sacrificial blood isn't holding. Our reserves of ogre tears and skeleton mage bone dust are nearly exhausted!"

Alistair von Vaneford turned his hooded head slightly beneath his hood. "Bring forth the living sacrifices."

Several cultists broke formation and hurried out. Alistair turned to the acolyte beside him. "Head to my laboratory. Retrieve the troll sudor and dullahan bone. Use them as substitutes, and ensure the dullahan bone is finely ground."

The subordinate bowed deeply. "As you command, High Priest."

Alistair's gaze returned to the glowing centre of the array.

*Three decades of research… and the moment is finally here.*

*Once I succeed, I will lay waste to the Vaneford household. Those arrogant fools who branded my life's work forbidden and cast me out… I will repay them tenfold.*

*I have licked the boots of fools to survive. I crawled into this lawless city, founded my own organisation, spent vast fortunes to build this base, and bled over ancient texts. And in the end, I realised… The answer to my research was demons.*

A low chuckle escaped his lips.

*And now, with this summoning circle…*

Ten robed figures re-entered the chamber, dragging heavy iron chains. Ten bound prisoners in rags were dragged into the centre ring. The chanting reached a fever pitch.

The robed enforcers drew ritual daggers in unison and slit the prisoners' throats. Blood gushed out, racing along the carved channels toward the centre as if drawn by a magnetic pull.

For nearly an hour, the ritual churned. Then, the circle blazed blindingly bright. Thick red vapour billowed from the stone.

"High Priest! The blood is drying up again!" a cultist cried out.

Alistair didn't flinch. *There is no time to fetch more specimens. I am at the critical threshold.*

He raised his hand, his voice cold and absolute. "We are at the precipice. Offer your lives for the grand design."

Thirty violet robed cultists drew their daggers without hesitation and drove the steel deep into their own throats. One after another, their bodies dropped to the stone floor. A fresh tidal wave of blood spilled out, rushing into the empty grooves.

The torches flared wildly, their flames draining of warmth until they burned with a cold, ghostly monochrome—blinding white at the core, surrounded by pitch-black flame. The red vapour turned dark as ink. The magic circle erupted with a blinding pillar of light.

Alistair trembled as an overwhelming pressure bore down on the room—a vast, incomprehensible gaze looking down upon him.

Then, darkness.

When the torches reignited, the flames had returned to a normal, flickering orange. A dense, dark mist filled the centre of the hall.

"Clear the fog!" Alistair commanded.

Four wind-element cultists stepped forward at once, raising their hands in unison.

"O wind, heed our command—disperse!"

A smaller magic circle appeared before each of their outstretched hands, glowing faintly as the synchronized spell took hold. A torrent of wind roared out, sweeping the fog away to reveal the centre of the circle.

It stood there.

Something hollow. Incomplete. Unmoving.

Yet, as Alistair stared into its hollow depressions which seemed to represent eyes, he felt something far beyond him staring back.

That… was not what he had summoned.