Ashwalker

The shrine throbbed.

The deeper they moved, the louder it became—not in sound, but in sensation. A pressure that gripped the skull, pressed behind the eyes, and twisted in the gut. Kaiell could feel it in the ridges of Nightfell's hilt, in the tremble of his fingertips, in the slow hum of the Viora interface bleeding static across his vision.

Theta-9 advanced through the spiraling descent, their boots crunching over gravel and ash. Behind them, the preacher—Halen—walked with both palms lit in faint Viora runes, murmuring syllables in an old Earth dialect no one fully understood. His two guards flanked him, silent and focused.

The shrine's central chamber opened before them like a wound in stone—arched ceilings made from black bone, walls carved with faceless statues. The scent of burnt oil and iron curled through the air.

And the cultists were waiting.

Dozens of them. Shrouded in cloth stitched with Rift-script. Eyes glowing faintly with Void exposure. Their bodies twisted by unclean Viora.

Some knelt, others stood—arms open, chanting softly toward a jagged altar pulsating with blue flame.

Conzro raised a fist.

Theta-9 halted.

"Permission to cleanse?" he asked through comms.

Halen stepped forward, his voice calm. "Begin the rite. I will sever the shrine's memory. Buy me time."

The team spread out—guns humming, Viora blades crackling, drones activating above.

Then one of the cultists looked up.

A woman.

Smiling.

And she screamed.

The shrine answered.

The Void surged forward.

Cultists charged—not like soldiers, but like worshippers possessed. Arms blazing with raw, unrefined Viora. Some exploded mid-run. Others clawed at the Krugers with sharpened fingers and teeth made of crystal. Theta-9 met them with calculated violence.

Re'mber's drone unleashed shock grenades that dropped three at once. Conzro activated his arm-spear, driving it through a shield-wielder's chest. Kaiell stepped into the chaos, Nightfell in hand.

He didn't think. He flowed.

The blade cut with no resistance, the same voice inside it murmuring with satisfaction.

"See? You are still alive."

He twisted. Blocked. Parried. His body moved faster than fear, his senses tuned not to panic but to possibility.

Until—

A sound cut through it all.

Not a scream.

Not a voice.

A hum.

Kaiell turned too late.

The altar cracked.

Black light spilled upward.

A hole opened mid-air, not a portal, but a tear in dimensional law. From within it slithered something immense—a serpent of glass and muscle, covered in writhing scripture, its face an eyeless maw, its body half-ethereal.

A Void worm.

An emissary of something greater.

It roared, and the chamber cracked.

One of Theta-9 was pulled screaming into its jaws.

"FIRE EVERYTHING!" Conzro roared.

Railguns. Rifles. Explosives. Viora lances.

The room lit up in searing death.

The worm screamed—not in pain, but in awareness. Like it was laughing.

Kaiell stumbled, his vision fracturing.

And then—

The shrine spoke to him.

No words.

Just images.

A world consumed. Gods rising from oceans. Cities turned upside-down and sewn into the stars. Joran, floating in the Void, whispering something with no sound.

Kaiell hit his knees, gasping.

Halen reached him.

"You're inside it," the preacher said. "You have to break it."

"How—"

"Name it."

Kaiell clenched his eyes. Focused. Pushed back.

The visions cracked.

Nightfell pulsed.

"Not yet, Kaiell. Not like this."

And then the worm lunged again.

Halen stood firm, hands raised, voice rising into a cleansing chant.

"By blood. By silence. By fracture and flame. Memory be unmade."

His palms burst with white Viora.

The worm reared—and howled as its body began to unravel. Threads of it tore apart midair, dissolving like salt in wind. It buckled, shrieked, and collapsed into a black mist that evaporated into the ceiling.

The remaining cultists dropped, convulsing. Some tried to flee. None made it past Theta-9's perimeter.

Silence fell.

Ash drifted.

The shrine's core stopped pulsing.

Kaiell stood on shaking legs. Blood in his mouth. His heart roaring.

They had won.

But something still felt wrong.

A Kruger scout called from a far tunnel. "Sir! We found something!"

Theta-9 moved fast, weapons up.

They reached the passage.

Three women.

Barefoot. Thin. Covered in white shrouds and ritual tattoos.

Each of them sat against the wall—bellies swollen.

Pregnant.

Kaiell froze.

One of them looked up. Smiled.

A symbol burned on her neck—an inverted Rift spiral.

His mouth opened, horror blooming in his chest.

"What the f—"