Apostle of Lust

In the depths of the dungeon, five figures stood amidst the crushing dark. The air hung thick and unmoving, as if the shadows sought to choke the life from them. Every breath, rustle of cloth, and shift of boot against stone echoed unnaturally loud, swallowed instantly by the suffocating silence.

Before them loomed an imposing gate, its towering frame etched with shimmering runes—glowing deep crimson with hints of black. Its eerie radiance pulsed, as if yearning to consume the darkness with something far more sinister.

Its surface bore murals depicting a woman of pure innocence, her delicate hand raised in prayer. The image might have been ethereal—divine, even—if not for the grotesque abominations surrounding her. Twisted figures clung to her form, their writhing bodies lost in a profane orgy, defiling her sanctity.

The five figures stood motionless, hearts tightening with unspoken dread. Merely witnessing the mural felt like an act of blasphemy—an intrusion upon something forbidden.

At the front, Ishar finally broke the silence, his voice dry and low.

"That isn't the virtue of purity, is it?"

No one answered.

Ishar's gaze lingered on the gate's intricate carvings, his mind wandering through strange thoughts. The Virtue of Purity, whispered among the faithful, held up as the pinnacle of grace. Yet here, it was twisted, perverted. Was it truly the virtue of purity that existed in the world, or had the very concept been corrupted from the start? The idea of purity itself—unattainable, perhaps even nonexistent—felt foreign, unreal, as though the world had never known such ideals.

He glanced to his side, searching the faces of his companions. They all stood in uneasy silence, eyes drawn to the gate's grotesque depictions.

Kael shifted, clearing his throat. "Don't let this get to you. If the zealots hear we've seen this, they'll have us hanged for blasphemers."

A shudder ran through the group, a silent understanding settling. None of them needed to say it aloud, but the warning was clear. They'd seen something forbidden. Something dangerous.

Lysia, the white-haired mage, stepped forward hesitantly. Her finger trembled before steadying as she began tracing the runes, searching for a way through.

Ishar, standing slightly apart, pulled out a bottle from his bag. Tilting it back, he took a slow, deliberate gulp. The sound echoed unnaturally loud—an intrusion, sharp and jarring, like a crack in unbroken silence.

"Yeah, this place is a mess," Ishar muttered, breaking the silence with a dry chuckle, his voice too loud against the stillness. He tipped the bottle toward his lips, then lowered it, almost as if to himself. "When we're done here, we should drink 'til we forget any of this happened."

Lysia flinched, her fingers pausing mid-trace over the runes. Kael stiffened, his exhale a beat too slow. Rudrik forced a chuckle—a dry, awkward sound that fell flat. Vael, the party's cold and calculating rogue, suddenly seemed too focused on adjusting her gloves, her fingers moving with restless precision.

Ishar let the bottle dangle loosely from his fingers, eyes flicking between them. Why did that land like a funeral toast? Why were they acting like this? Lysia flinched. Kael hesitated. Rudrik's smile didn't reach his eyes. And Vael—of all people—was fidgeting.

Something was off. He'd known them long enough to tell when the air was thick with tension. And now, it felt suffocating. They were always tight-knit, always quick to laugh at his crude humor or grumble over his quirks. But today... this felt different. They were acting like they were trying to avoid something.

It gnawed at him.

He thought back to their journey here—how Kael had grown more distant, his eyes flicking nervously in his direction at odd moments. Lysia's whispered conversations with him, her worried glances that had grown more frequent as they pressed deeper into the dungeon. And Vael—Vael, who had always been steady, unreadable, was now twitching with an almost visible unease. He'd dismissed it at first, blaming the stress of their mission, but now the pieces were falling into place.

And now... they were acting like they were waiting for something. Or dreading something. It gnawed at him.

It wasn't just tension. Something was wrong.

He took another sip, letting the burn sit on his tongue, trying to shake the feeling crawling at the back of his mind. He almost laughed at himself. Paranoia? Maybe. But if there was one thing he'd learned, it was that unease had a way of proving itself right.

A low hum suddenly filled the chamber. The runes beneath Lysia's fingertips pulsed, bleeding crimson light into the gate's cracks. Stone groaned as unseen mechanisms rumbled to life, dust spilling from the frame.

Ishar straightened, capping the bottle.

"Let's just get this over with," Ishar muttered under his breath, pushing the unease away.

The gate parted, inch by inch, with a low, grinding protest. A wave of heat spilled out, thick and stifling—like the breath of something buried alive.

The heat thickened as the gate groaned open, the passage yawning wide. Beyond it, a single torch sputtered to life in the dark corridor, its crimson flame cutting through the suffocating blackness.

Ishar hesitated at the threshold. It was just another dungeon, just another ruin. He trusted their years of camaraderie, their shared battles, the unspoken understanding between them. They had faced worse—together. This, whatever it was, didn't seem any different.

With a quick, almost impatient step, Ishar moved forward.

Behind him, Kael followed, his presence steady but distant. In the center, Lysia walked with careful steps, flanked by Vael, the ever-watchful rogue, and Rudrik, their brute force and sniper.

It was their usual formation—except for the single extra step between Ishar and Kael. Just one step.

A small shift, barely worth noting—yet it gnawed at the edges of his mind, creeping in like slow-working poison, like a devil's whisper.

His eyes sharpened, narrowing ever so slightly.

As they stepped forward, torches along the walls flickered to life one by one, their crimson flames unfurling like waking eyes. Each burst of fire cast twisting shadows across the stone, revealing the chamber inch by inch.

As the light gave salvation to darkness, the horror struck.

Heads.

Dozens of heads lined the chamber in grotesque display. Their mouths gaped in silent screams, eyes bulging, frozen in final moments of terror. Some were fresh, skin still slick with the last traces of warmth, while others had decayed into leering skulls, grinning through peeling remnants of flesh.

From beyond the flickering torchlight, something stirred.

It stepped forward with the deliberate grace of a king, its presence pressing down like the weight of an unspoken truth. The torches quivered in its wake, their crimson flames bending toward it in tribute.

Its form was a paradox of beauty and terror—tall and statuesque, wrapped in a body sculpted from obsidian and dusk. Muscles coiled beneath a surface both like flesh and something far more unearthly, shifting between silk-smooth darkness and glistening reflections of crimson light. Its limbs were long, elegant, too perfect to be human, yet far too dreadful to be divine.

A mantle of shadow clung to its back, unfurling like great wings of liquid night. Golden veins traced intricate patterns across its chest, pulsing like the slow beat of a heart too vast for mortal comprehension.

And then, there was its face.

No fangs, no monstrous maw—only the unsettling symmetry of beauty, marred by something that did not belong. A mouth that did not move, yet whispered into the mind. Eyes like smoldering embers, holding no malice, no cruelty—only the quiet weight of something that had seen eternity and found it lacking.

The heads that lined the chamber, once the pinnacle of horror, now seemed like mere ornaments in its presence. The air itself bowed to it, thick with reverence and fear.

It raised a hand—long fingers ending in obsidian-tipped claws. The motion was fluid, almost gentle. The gesture was neither a threat nor a greeting. It was simply an inevitability.

The air shifted

A flicker of movement—too fast, too close.

Ishar barely had time to register it before his instincts screamed.

Vael.

The dagger flashed as she lunged—low, swift, like a predator striking without warning. Her blade gleamed with something slick, something green.

[Skill: Sneak B]

Ishar twisted, his hand already moving for his weapon. Instead of dodging, he moved straight into her attack. The dagger buried itself in his forearm, stopping inches from his ribs. His body lurched from the impact, but his gaze never wavered. Not this time.

For just a fraction of a second, she faltered. Her lips parted—not to curse, not to beg—but to... what? Regret? Relief?

Then Ishar's sword flashed. It was faster than thought, colder than his emotions. The blade sank through her in a single, clean strike.

Her eyes widened. For a fleeting moment, disbelief crossed her face, but then her head fell, hitting the ground with a wet thud.