The Cult's Failed Summoning

Chapter 2: The Hollow

“Darkness.”

“Where am I?”

Light slowly returned to Boros’s vision, but it revealed nothing useful. Thick black fog pressed against him, heavy and cold, thick with a smell he knew all too well—the iron stench of fresh blood and scorched stone.

“What is this fog?”

Then voices drifted through the mist—harsh, guttural syllables rising and falling in eerie unison, completely alien to anything stored in his memory.

¡Kthul farrak zorn!

¡Veyra thul’nak sor!

¡Athiel keth’voss!

He could not understand a single word.

“What’s that sound? From the way it’s spoken, whatever is making that sound is intelligent.”

“It seems I really am in another world.”

The footsteps grew louder, vibrating through the stone and into his unstable form.

From outside the fog, four voices rose in perfect unison.

“Disperse.”

A sudden gust tore through the chamber. The black mist shredded apart and vanished.

Standing in the absolute center of the magic circle was a slender, inhumanly tall figure. Its frame possessed a broad chest that tapered sharply down into an unnaturally narrow waist, its entire form composed of a dense, shiftless mass of pitch-black slime. Its arms hung low, ending in elongated, needle-like fingers. Its face was entirely smooth and featureless—devoid of a nose, ears, or skin texture—save for two deep, sunken depressions where eyes should have been, and a dark, empty socket for a mouth.

The full scene revealed itself at last: dozens of figures wearing robes, some grey and others a violet purple, many now sprawled dead across the blood-slick floor, the intricate magic circle still glowing faintly beneath them. Directly ahead stood four violet-robed cultists, the magic circle fading from their outstretched hands.

“The wind—that was magic just now. It came from those four. I’m willing to bet this is some kind of fantasy world.”

Whispers broke out around him, pulling his focus.

“What is that?”

“Is that a demon?”

“An undead, perhaps?”

A loud, authoritative voice cut through the growing panic.

“Return to your senses, fools!”

Alistair von Vaneford’s command cracked like a whip. The cultists snapped back into formation.

“You three, restrain it. You lot over there, retrieve my containment vessel. The rest of you, get into position. We will activate the summoning ritual circle’s suppression and binding feature.”

“Yes, High Priest!”

Two robed figures drew swords from beneath their vestments. A third produced a pair of curved daggers. They charged.

Boros sensed the shift in the atmosphere and took a defensive stance, his incomplete body adjusting with unnatural fluidity.

The swordsmen came in fast, blades flashing in precise, trained arcs. One slashed high at his neck while the other thrust low toward his gut. Boros leaned back at an unnatural angle, the sword whistling past his hollow face. He twisted his torso sideways, letting the second blade slide through empty space where his ribs should have been. When the dagger user darted in low for a gutting strike, Boros opened a clean hole in his own abdomen. The dagger passed straight through without resistance.

“What is this form? That thing… how could it give me such a body?”

The dagger user tried to pull back, but Boros’s arm elongated, fingers hardening into razor edges as he swept low. The man stumbled, and Boros’s hand raked across his forearm, leaving only a shallow bruise. The attacker screamed.

All three paused.

Black infection bloomed from the bruise, racing up the man’s arm like living veins, twisting muscle and bone beneath the skin. The cultist dropped his daggers and collapsed, writhing in agony.

Boros smiled.

The expression came out wrong—only an awkward, sunken grin stretching across the hollow depression that served as his mouth. The remaining attackers faltered for a heartbeat, fear flashing in their eyes, before they regained their discipline and charged together.

They moved with practiced teamwork. One swordsman struck high, forcing Boros to dodge left. He searched for the second attacker and found him too late.

The second swordsman descended from above, sword wrapped in a bright red aura.

That's dangerous. Boros's instincts screamed.

“Crimson Cleave!”

The world split.

For a moment—

His perception existed in two places at once.

The blade cleaved Boros cleanly in two from shoulder to abdomen. A powerful gust of wind followed the swing.

The remaining swordsman covered his face with his sleeve. When the wind died, he lowered his arm and watched in horror, calling out to his comrade.

“Howad!”

Howad’s sword had cut deep through the hollow creature’s shoulder and chest… but the same man now stood impaled through the stomach. A spear-like protrusion of hardened biomass had erupted from Boros’s torso and driven straight through the man.

Boros let out a screeching wail that echoed off the stone walls.

The remaining swordsman stumbled backward, certain they had enraged the monster.

Boros’s voice came out low and strained.

“Aghhn… nhn… Damn. That hurts.”

He pulled the spearhead limb free from Howad’s body with a wet rip. Then, to his own surprise, the two halves of his torso simply flowed back together, cartilage-like frame knitting, flesh reshaping, until the wound vanished completely.

“It seems I really have lost my humanity,” he murmured. “I guess no more fine wine and women for me.”

His expression sharpened.

“Focus.”

He turned toward the last standing attacker. The man tried to step forward, but a sudden wave of weakness crashed over Boros. His limbs felt heavier, his form less stable.

“Figures. There had to be a drawback for such flawless regeneration.”

“That earlier attack was some kind of skill perhaps.”

His attention shifted to the rest of the chamber. The remaining cultists had formed a circle and were chanting rapidly. A group entered carrying a large cylindrical glass vessel filled with dark liquid. They stopped beside the High Priest.

The chanting stopped.

Before Boros could react, a crushing force slammed down on him, locking every joint in place. The pressure held for only a moment before it dispersed.

The cultists finished their incantation in unison. Blood rose from the dried grooves of the magic circle, condensing in mid-air into a single crimson crystal that floated before Alistair.

“What a magnificent soul stone,” the High Priest whispered. He snatched the crystal from the air and let it hover above his palm. A new incantation rolled from his lips, slow and commanding:

“By blood once spilled and lives once given,

By the cycle broken and remade,

I bind this essence, pure and driven,

To serve my will, to bend, to obey.

Soul of the summoned, sealed and claimed,

Within this stone forever tamed.”

A smaller magic circle flared beneath the crystal. It pulsed once, resonating with crimson light.

Alistair felt a gaze upon him.

He turned.

For one long second his eyes locked with the hollow depressions where Boros’s eyes should have been. In that instant he felt something ancient and calculating staring straight through him—not mindless, not beastly, but something that measured and weighed every breath he took.

Alistair aimed his will at the creature and spoke the binding command.

The hollow figure froze completely in place.

“No resistance?” he muttered, frowning. “Is it just mindless… or does it only possess base instinct?”

The Overseer stepped forward.

“The High Priest has immobilized it! Quickly, use this opening to load it into the containment vessel. Do not go near it—mages, use Levitate!”

“Right, Overseer!”

Eight mages stepped forward. Their spells lifted Boros’s rigid body and carried it through the open lid of the cylindrical tank. The heavy lid sealed shut with a metallic clang.

The chamber exhaled. Relief swept through the surviving cultists. A few voices rose in awed praise.

“Truly, the High Priest’s wisdom is unmatched!”

“The ritual succeeded beyond our greatest hopes!”

“Under your guidance, Head Priest, we shall rise above those Gomorrah dogs at last!”

Alistair stepped closer to the containment vessel. The dark solvent inside rippled around the motionless hollow figure. He stared into those empty eye sockets once more.

“Take it to my lab.”

He turned to leave, but a cold sweat broke across his back. He spun around, eyes narrowing at the vessel.

*Did it just smile?*

The Overseer approached.

“Did something happen, High Priest?”

Alistair forced his expression back to calm.

“No. Nothing at all. Just get all preparations for further experiments ready.”

He turned and exited the chamber, but his mind kept repeating the same uneasy thought.

*It couldn’t have moved… could it?*