The sensation of burning liquid flooding his body had faded into a dull, throbbing ache, but the nightmare was far from over.
Marcus lay collapsed on the cold, blood-slicked stone of the altar.
His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he struggled for air.
His right ankle was completely shattered, throbbing with a sickening, rhythmic agony that made his vision flicker with dark spots.
Blood, mixed with traces of the vile black elixir, trickled continuously from the corners of his mouth.
His left arm was free the chain sheared off during the violent convulsions of his soul, but the rest of his limbs remained tightly anchored to the stone.
He was broken.
Malnourished.
Unarmed.
This was unlike anything Marcus had ever endured in his past life.
Even in this wrecked state, his mind struggled to comprehend how he had survived the sheer, soul-tearing torture he had endured only moments earlier.
“Look at him…” The High Priest stepped closer, the base of his skull-topped staff tapping heavily against the stone floor.
He looked down at Marcus, his eyes shining with unholy delight behind the porcelain mask.
“The corrupt seed has taken root.
His body bled, his bones cracked, yet his soul did not shatter.
He truly is the chosen vessel.”
Marcus glared up at the High Priest, his dark eyes burning with pure, unadulterated venom.
All he wanted was to tear the bastard’s throat out with his bare hands.
Two cultists stepped forward, their faces hidden beneath deep crimson cowls.
One held a heavy iron rod, while the other carried a wooden bucket filled with foul, icy saltwater.
Without a word, the cultist splashed the freezing saltwater directly over Marcus’s face and chest.
“Agh!” Marcus gasped, the salt stinging the raw welts, open wounds, and chemical burns across his skin like hundreds of fiery needles.
He forced his eyelids open, staring up through matted hair at the figures surrounding him.
Every instinct in his military mind scrambled for a counter-strategy, but the reality of his physical condition was merciless.
A shattered joint, torn muscles, and an overwhelming wave of internal toxicity left him completely incapable of fighting.
He couldn’t fight them.
Not like this.
“Unbind his remaining chains,” the High Priest commanded, turning toward the archway leading out of the chamber.
“Drag him to the lower sanctum.
Let the elixir take effect overnight.
At dawn, we begin the final binding ritual.”
The executioners moved quickly.
The iron locks clicked, and the heavy chains dropped away from his right wrist and ankles with a dull clang.
The moment the weight was lifted, Marcus tried to pull his leg beneath him and establish a stable stance.
But the instant his weight shifted onto his shattered right foot, a bolt of blinding agony shot straight up his spine.
His leg collapsed instantly.
Marcus slammed hard onto his stomach, his chin scraping painfully against the rough stone.
‘Damn it…
move!’ Marcus screamed in his mind, his fingers digging into the narrow gaps between the floor tiles until his fingernails cracked and bled.
‘Stand up, Marcus!
Move!’
His body refused.
The sheer exhaustion and physical trauma had locked his muscles into uncontrollable tremors.
The two executioners paid no mind to his struggle.
Rough, calloused hands grabbed him by his arms and the torn collar of his tunic, lifting his limp body off the floor.
They dragged his heels through the pools of spilled blood, carrying him down a dark, descending stone staircase that led deeper into the subterranean bowels of the temple.
The air grew progressively colder, thick with the stench of mildew, decay, and stagnant seawater.
At the end of the long corridor stood a heavy wooden door reinforced with rusted iron bars.
One cultist pulled a ring of brass keys from his belt, unlocked the heavy latch, and swung the door open.
Without hesitation, they tossed Marcus inside like a sack of unwanted grain.
Marcus hit the damp stone floor hard, rolling onto his side.
The heavy door slammed shut behind him, followed by the unmistakable scrape of an iron bolt sliding into place.
Silence fell over the dark cell, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crashing of storm waves against the cliffs outside.
Marcus lay in pitch darkness, his breathing shallow and labored.
He spat out another mouthful of dark, copper-tasting residue, wiping his lips with the back of his bruised left wrist.
He slowly pushed himself up against the cold stone wall, dragging his ruined right leg along the floor until he was sitting upright.
Every tiny movement demanded an immense toll of pure willpower.
‘I am in a pathetic state,’ Marcus assessed, his dark eyes fixed on the iron bars of his prison.
‘I don’t know what the hell is happening, nor do I know what brought me to this living hell.
But I will not sit idly by and accept death.
Once I ensure my survival, I will hunt down every answer.’