The second cultist made a noise like a trapped rat.
He realized I wasn't going to stop. He realized his prayers weren't working. Desperation replaced his fear.
He screamed, raising the wooden holy symbol high above his head like a club. He lunged at me.
It was a clumsy attack. He swung wide, putting all his strength into a blow that was easy to see coming.
I didn't step back. I stepped in.
I ducked under his swinging arm. The movement pulled at the open wound in my shoulder, sending a fresh spike of fire down my left side. I ignored it.
I drove the rusty dagger upward. It entered the soft hollow beneath his jaw and went straight up.
He stiffened. The wooden symbol clattered to the floor. He tried to draw a breath, but only a wet gurgling sound came out. He grabbed my tunic with weak, trembling hands, then slid down to the cold stones.
I pulled the blade out and wiped it on his sleeve.
The room was silent again, save for the sputtering of the candles and the dripping of blood.
I stood over the two bodies. My heart rate was steady. My mind was clear.
Now, I had work to do.
I turned my attention to my own body first. The wound in my shoulder was deep, but it hadn't hit an artery. The bleeding was steady but not spraying. I needed pressure.
I looked at the first cultist—Brother Garret. He was wearing a heavy black robe made of coarse wool.
I knelt beside him. To most people, stripping a corpse is a taboo, a desecration. To me, it was simply resource acquisition.
I checked his pockets first.
I found three items:
A small pouch containing five copper coins.
A heavy iron key.
A small, jagged stone that felt warm to the touch. It pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
I pocketed the items. Then, I removed his robe.
The body was still warm. The smell of unwashed skin and stale sweat was strong, but the wool was thick. It would offer protection against the cold.
I took his tunic—the shirt he wore underneath the robe—and ripped it into long strips using the dagger.
I used the strips to bind my shoulder. I pulled the knots tight, tight enough to make the edges of the wound grind together. The pain was sharp and nauseating. I gritted my teeth and finished the knot. The pressure would stop the bleeding.
I put on the dead man's black robe. It was too big for me, dragging on the floor, but the hood would hide my face.
Next, I checked the second cultist. He had nothing of value, just lint and a piece of stale bread. I took the bread and ate it. It was dry and hard, but my body needed calories to repair the tissue damage.
I looked around the cellar one last time.
This was a "Spawn Point." In the novel, the protagonist usually finds a secret manual or a powerful weapon here after surviving.
I scanned the corners. Nothing but damp straw and rat droppings. The cultists were low-level grunts. They didn't have treasure.
The only thing of interest was the book on the crate—the ritual guide they had been using.
I picked it up. The leather cover was damp. I flipped through the pages. It was written in a script I shouldn't have been able to read, but my brain translated it instantly. A side effect of the transmigration, perhaps.
"Ritual of the Lesser Call."
"Cost: One fresh soul."
"Reward: One Ghoul Servant."
Inefficient. A one-to-one trade for a low-tier monster was a bad investment.
I tore the page out and folded it into my pocket. Knowledge was leverage. Then I dropped the rest of the book onto the floor and kicked it into a puddle.
I walked to the heavy wooden door at the top of the short staircase.
I held the iron key I had taken from Garret. It fit the lock perfectly.
Click.
I pushed the door open.
Fresh air hit me. But it wasn't the fresh air of Earth.
It was heavy. It tasted metallic, like ozone before a thunderstorm, mixed with the scent of old ashes.
I stepped out of the cellar and into the night.
I was in a graveyard. Twisted, black trees clawed at the sky. The moon hung above, but it wasn't white. It was a bruised, sickly purple, surrounded by a halo of mist.
The mist wasn't just weather. It clung to the ground, swirling around the tombstones like it was alive.
The Gloom.
In the novel, this was the ambient energy of the world. It drove normal men mad. It mutated animals into monsters. To Cultivators, it was fuel.
I took a deep breath.
My lungs burned. A whisper echoed in the back of my mind—a faint, scratching sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard. It was the beginning of the madness corruption.
Most people would feel fear. They would feel the urge to run, to hide, to scream.
I felt nothing but a mild curiosity.
The whisper tried to find a crack in my mind. It looked for trauma, for guilt, for love to twist into horror.
It found nothing. My mind was a smooth, cold wall.
The scratching sound faded, unable to find a grip.
I looked at the purple moon. I adjusted the stolen robe around my shoulders.
"Chapter One is finished," I whispered to the empty graveyard.
I started walking. I needed to find a settlement before the things in the mist realized I was here.