The Cult's Failed Summoning

Chapter 6: The Hollow's Counterattack

Alistair scanned the room, his gaze darting from face to face. Most of his attention lingered on Stone—the old man still held his rapier with the same deadly precision he had always shown. He was well into his eighties, his head bald across the top but framed by a ring of thinning grey hair. A short beard covered his jaw, but there was no moustache beneath his nose. Despite his age, his lean, wiry frame remained steady beneath his robes, every movement controlled and deliberate.

When he turned to look at the young man who had hurled the fireball moments earlier, something was already wrong.

The initiate stood perfectly still. Blood began to pour from every orifice—eyes, nose, mouth, ears—streaming down his face in thick, steady rivulets. His body swayed once. His knees buckled. He collapsed forward and hit the stone floor face-first with a wet, final thud.

The other controlled cultists paid their fallen comrade no mind whatsoever.

Alistair’s voice was cold and clinical.

“Casting a fireball of that force without a chant or any prior experience… it must have destroyed his mana pathways and fried his brain from the inside.”

His examination of the situation was cut short.

The hooded cultists lunged at him in eerie silence.

Alistair reacted instantly, hands weaving a rapid spell.

“Repulsion Shell!”

A nearly invisible film of high gravitational force snapped into place around him. Every blade and fist that struck it rebounded with violent force, the weapons sliding off the barrier as if the air itself had turned to steel.

—

Meanwhile, far down the torch-lit corridor leading away from the chamber, two High Acolytes carried the corpse of the first volunteer who had died. One supported the body under the armpits while the other held the legs.

Unbeknownst to either of them, the moment their skin pressed against the flesh, Boros’s microscopic cells had already migrated across the boundary, burrowing deep into their pores.

The one carrying the legs spoke casually, completely unaware of the invisible threat invading her body.

“Hey, how many of those guys do you think are gonna survive?”

The other let out a low chuckle.

“I don’t know, but what kind of fools sign up for the very first test?”

Both figures started laughing.

Farther along the corridor, the plague quietly multiplied, damaging their mana channels and beginning to break down their internal organs.

Boros deliberately held back, letting the infection fester and spread just long enough to suppress their consciousness before making a physical move.

*I’d much prefer to take over living hosts intact,* Boros calculated from afar, *but human minds are far too prone to resisting. Destroying them from the inside out to prevent any backlash or counter-spells is simply cleaner.*

The corpse twitched.

The figure holding the upper body frowned.

“Did you feel that?”

“Feel what?”

“Nothing… forget it.”

They kept walking, but their strides were already faltering.

Suddenly, the dead body moved with violent, unnatural force. Its arms shot upward and clamped around the neck of the figure holding the torso, while its legs broke free and wrapped around the second carrier’s throat. Both figures dropped the body, gasping for air, and began clawing desperately at the limbs crushing their windpipes.

The one holding the torso drew a short blade from his robes and stabbed frantically at the restraining arms, but the edge skittered uselessly over the flesh—the blade only sliced through the dead man’s robes. The second acolyte tried to chant as fire began to gather at her fingertips, but her lungs suddenly failed. She choked on her own blood, the spell vanishing instantly.

Even as they resisted, their strength was already gone, drained by the cellular infection eating them away.

Slowly, inexorably, both figures were strangled to death.

Boros, now fully piloting the initiate's corpse, stood over the two fresh bodies.

*That took longer than expected. Spreading a plague through direct contact is surprisingly slow—or perhaps the anatomy of the humans of this world is simply more resilient. Either way, this needs further testing... The thought is so exciting.*

He quickly searched the two corpses, rifling through their robes until he found a ring of keys. Lifting the hood of one revealed a surprisingly beautiful woman. He paused for a moment, then lifted the second hood and immediately squeezed his face in disgust, covering it again.

*What a shame. God truly favours women.*

He snatched the keys and broke into a run down the corridor using the male High Acolyte's body.

Meanwhile, the female High Acolyte and the original volunteer corpse turned on their heels, dashing back toward the main testing chamber.

—

Back in Alistair’s laboratory, Boros’s main body remained trapped inside the sealed containment vessel.

*Even after carefully analysing the solvent and absorbing it, I still can’t break out of this container. What exactly was this thing built to hold?*

He stayed perfectly still, conserving energy and focusing on his other tasks.

*Well… let’s focus on the main problem until my ticket out of here arrives.*

—

Back in the main chamber, Alistair took two steps back after blocking the latest attack with his Repulsion Shell. He turned—only to see Stone already behind him, rapier thrusting toward his spine.

Alistair cast Feather Walk and leapt upward, avoiding the thrust. He reached the ceiling, executed a swift turn, and landed lightly, instantly pushing himself off to keep moving and refusing to stay still even for a second.

One of the transformed test subjects' arms stretched, launching two hands at him from a distance. Alistair dodged, but the hand changed direction mid-air and clamped onto his waist and one arm. Two more test subjects rushed forward—one now a hulking mass of muscle, the other with hands reshaped into spear-like tips.

Seeing death closing in, Alistair cast Vector Flip, twisting both of his attackers' spatial perception, then followed with Anchor Field using himself as the core. Gravity in the immediate area surrounding him multiplied violently.

He pointed his hand at the figure restraining him and condensed three small spheres of dense gravitational mass before casting.

“Singularity Bolt!”

Two spheres struck the test subject’s shoulders, ripping the arms clean off as the sudden weight dragged them to the ground. The third hit the torso. The man’s legs shattered instantly under the impossible force, his body slamming downward, clothes shredding as flesh tore.

Alistair scanned the room. Two other cultists were still charging alongside Stone.

“What is this madness,” he muttered. “I can't have this draw out.”

He cancelled the Anchor Field, then cast Repulsion Shell and Feather Walk once more.

His voice rose into a cold, precise chant as he prepared his next high-tier spell…