The cold in the lower sanctum was suffocating.
Marcus had no way of measuring the exact time remaining before dawn, but the subtle shift in the air told his instincts that the horizon was drawing near.
Marcus remained propped against the damp stone wall, his body still as a corpse, but his mind operating at full capacity.
The brutal realignment of his ankle bone had reduced his excruciating pain to a dull, throbbing ache he could compartmentalize.
Every minute, the ocean storm outside grew more violent.
Heavy impacts reverberated through the stone floor as massive waves slammed into the temple’s foundation.
Dust and pebble-sized fragments rained down from the cracked ceiling at regular intervals.
‘This place is going to collapse soon…’
Despite his brief time in this living hell, Marcus could assess structural integrity with expert precision.
In its current state, battered by the unrelenting tempest, this temple might not survive another major storm.
But long-term collapse mattered little to him right now; his immediate circumstances suggested that he would likely be dead within hours.
Yet, he refused to sit passively and await his fate.
Survival was step one.
Escape was step two.
However, being stranded on an unstable island structure in the middle of a roaring ocean meant his only route to safety would be securing a boat.
“Shit…
the pain is clouding my thoughts,”
Marcus muttered through gritted teeth, forcing his mind to focus through the fog of exhaustion.
He extended his hands, carefully sweeping his fingers across the stone floor around him.
He didn’t need a weapon forged from iron; a tactical mind could turn the environment itself into a weapon.
His fingertips caught on a sharp edge near the corner of his cell.
A heavy chunk of masonry, roughly the size of a brick, with a jagged, pointed edge had fallen from the deteriorating ceiling during the earlier tremors.
Marcus quietly wrapped his thin fingers around the stone.
It was heavy, rough, and perfectly weighted to become a lethal weapon if driven with sufficient force into a vulnerable target.
He pulled it closer, hiding it beneath the ragged folds of his tunic.
‘Primitive, but effective.’
Although he was acutely aware that his broken frame was in no condition for prolonged combat, a sliver of hope remained.
After all, arrogance was a fatal flaw, and the enemy was drenched in it.
When the executioners returned, their guard would be at its lowest.
They viewed him as a paralyzed, half-dead vessel whose organs were currently absorbing the corrupt black elixir.
They would unlock the door, step inside without drawing their weapons, and reach down to grab him by his hair or tunic, just as they had done twice before.
That single moment of arrogance would be their last.
It was a narrow, high-risk window with zero margin for error.
In his current malnourished state, he would only have enough physical stamina for one violent burst of action.
If he failed to kill the first man instantly, the second would crush his skull with the spiked sledgehammer.
As Marcus sat motionlessly on the dark cell floor, his eyes adjusted to a sudden, subtle change in the gloom.
A pale beam of light cut through the dark, filtering in through a narrow gap high on the cell wall. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Seconds later, faint traces of morning light began to seep through the cracks in the masonry.
Dawn had arrived.
It was time.
CLANG!
The heavy iron door at the end of the corridor groaned open, its echo cutting sharply through the roar of the storm.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The heavy, rhythmic thuds of leather boots echoed down the passage.
The executioners had arrived.
Marcus didn’t waste a fraction of a second.
He immediately slumped against the stone wall, letting his limbs hang limp and loose.
He positioned his right leg at a twisted, unnatural angle, perfectly feigning the appearance of a completely paralyzed, broken shell who couldn’t offer a shred of resistance.
His left hand remained hidden beneath the ragged folds of his tunic, his fingers locked around the jagged stone like a vice.
He slowed his breathing into shallow, labored hitches.
Clack.
The heavy iron bolt slid back, and the cell door creaked open.
The two cultists stepped inside, their postures relaxed and utterly devoid of caution.
“Look at him,” the taller executioner muttered, resting the heavy, spiked sledgehammer over his shoulder.
“The elixir has completely broken him.
He can barely hold his head up.”
“Good,” the second cultist grunted, stepping forward alone while the hammer-wielder stayed near the doorway.
“Less trouble for us.”
The cultist approached Marcus, reaching out a calloused hand to grab him by the hair and haul him off the floor.
Just inches before those filthy fingers could reach him, Marcus struck.
With a sudden burst of suppressed rage, Marcus’s eyes snapped open, blazing with lethal intent.
Defying the agony in his body, he lunged forward, bringing his left hand whipping out from beneath his tunic.
He drove the razor-sharp point of the masonry stone straight into the cultist’s throat with every ounce of momentum he could muster.
CRUNCH!
The jagged stone tore through flesh, crushing the man’s trachea with a sickening wet impact.
“Gagh—!”
Blood erupted from the cultist’s throat as he stumbled backward, clutching his ruined neck in sheer, violent horror.
Marcus didn’t pause for a single breath.
The executioner at the door froze in shock, his eyes widening behind his deep cowl.
The heavy spiked sledgehammer in his hands was a brutal weapon, but its massive weight made it slow.
He was caught completely off guard, struggling to lower the heavy iron head into a defensive stance.
Marcus sprinted forward, ignoring the white-hot agony radiating from his broken right ankle.
He closed the distance before the man could react, raising the bloody stone to drive it directly into the second cultist’s skull before the hammer could even swing—
BOOM!
Out of nowhere, an invisible, crushing force slammed directly into Marcus’s chest.
It wasn’t a physical blow.
It felt as though a wall of compressed air had exploded against his ribs.
The violent impact lifted his emaciated body off his feet, launching him backward through the air like a ragdoll.
THUD!
Marcus crashed heavily against the back stone wall of the cell, the breath exploding from his lungs in a sharp, agonized gasp.
The sharp stone slipped from his numb fingers, clattering uselessly onto the floor.
Dazed, his vision swimming with dark spots, Marcus forced his head up to see what had just hit him.
Standing in the doorway, stepping past the frozen executioner, was a third figure clad in high-ranking cultist robes.
The man’s right hand was extended toward Marcus, the palm open.
Whirling currents of distorted wind spiraled around his bare palm like a miniature cyclone, humming with an unnatural, oppressive pressure.
Marcus gritted his teeth, his military mind reeling in absolute shock as he spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
‘What the hell was that?!’ he panicked inwardly, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stared at the cultist’s glowing hand.
‘No contact…
No solid weapon…
He hit me with the air itself?!’
Before he could process the impossible force that had just launched him across the room or attempt to crawl toward his fallen weapon, the two remaining cultists rushed into the cell.
Rough, heavy hands pinned his bleeding, battered frame to the stone, forcing his arms behind his back and binding his wrists in heavy iron once more.
The cultist with the swirling wind lowered his hand, looking down at Marcus with cold, detached contempt.
“Impudent flesh,” the man rasped, his voice echoing with an eerie resonance.
“Drag the vessel to the Altar.
The High Priest is waiting.”
Bla Bla
Guys .
Supreme Commander is The one who have the highest authorty in The Military .
and no .
its not Kim jon on or Hitler .
Marcus have his own story and also his world its not particly the Same as ours .