By the following evening, the midnight quiet was only broken by Julius departing the village, taking the four controlled individuals with him. Before leaving, he presented the villagers with the decapitated body and head of Pastor Abahram Cronus, confirming the cult leader's demise.
Meanwhile, Cassian remained unconscious throughout the day, recovering from his ordeal. Cassandra, along with the remaining city guards, took charge of clearing out the remnants of the cultists scattered across the jungles and nearby villages. As they systematically eradicated the cult's presence, they uncovered a chilling revelation: the cult's ultimate plan was a large-scale attack on Magisteria itself.
This news alone sent shockwaves through the people of Magisteria. However, an even more terrifying revelation emerged—a high-ranking member of a evil cult was residing dangerously close to the Magisterian jungles. Unlike the pastor, who was already infamous for his brutal murders of entire families, this individual bore the nightmarish moniker of the
Feared even among seasoned circle warriors, the Artistic Butcher was notorious for targeting warriors exclusively. He butchered them and repurposed their body parts to create grotesque works of "art," horrifying sculptures referred to as
This discovery left the region on edge, knowing that such a sadistic and formidable enemy lurked nearby.
The city's leadership immediately began fortifying defenses, preparing for potential unforeseen attacks, and rooting out any remaining cultists within their ranks. During these tense preparations, Katherine uncovered a chilling truth: the Artistic Butcher was responsible for the attack she had endured. His mastery extended to creating
—a twisted form of chimera designed for assassination.
This revelation spread quickly, causing widespread alarm. It became clear that the cult had been orchestrating something massive. Katherine wasn't the only target; numerous assassination attempts had been carried out using these grotesque creations. While some of these attacks succeeded, many failed, and the survivors now knew who was behind them. The recognition of the Artistic Butcher's involvement in these heinous acts ignited a ripple effect, setting off a chain of events akin to the fall of the first domino.
What had started in one of the Free Cities as a single incident—the failed assassination attempt on Katherine—grew into a movement against the cult. This old, shadowy organization now faced mounting resistance as its carefully laid plans began to unravel.
Ironically, at the heart of it all was Cassian. His kidnapping, seemingly just another cog in the cult's larger scheme, had unexpectedly become the spark that triggered the slow but inevitable downfall of their ancient order.
The details surrounding Cassian's rescue and the events it set in motion remained shrouded in secrecy. Even the cult's higher-ups were unaware of the true spark behind the chaos, dismissing it as inconsequential—just like the individual who had originally ordered his abduction.
"Why did battle started at base? And why did Abahram step into it?," an old man questioned in a calm, almost indifferent tone. If Johnny had been present, he would have immediately recognized this man as the
—the very name that sent shivers down the spines of the city's people with its mere mention.
One of the butcher's subordinates, cloaked in black shrouds, spoke from within a swirling fog of darkness that obscured his form. "My lord, the exact details remain unclear. Those wretched bastards have cut off all escape routes for our brothers and sisters in the jungle. However, what we do know is that someone besides Julius Raseac began slaughtering our members. The killings were so relentless, so filled with murderous intent, that it forced Sir Abahram to intervene. That same presence ultimately drew Julius Raseac to the scene as well."
The older man rose from the chair in the center of what appeared to be his macabre workshop. He moved toward several individuals suspended in chains, their bare bodies marked with intricate, colorful circular tattoos etched into various parts—on their chests, arms, or elsewhere—signifying their status as Circle Warriors.
"That overweight brat named Johnny... did he die as well?" he asked casually, his gaze shifting to a body laid out on the table before him. This one bore seven circular tattoos prominently carved into its chest. The man appeared unconscious, the sight was grotesque. The eye sockets were empty, filled with raw, bloodied tissue, and the mouth was secured shut with a gag ball—a restraint unnecessary if the person were truly unconscious. Yet the faint, almost imperceptible movements revealed the horrifying truth: the individual was very much awake.
It became horrifyingly clear as the butcher worked methodically, using an exceptionally thin blade to slice the skin around the man's shoulder. The blade moved with surgical precision, cutting only the skin while leaving the muscles beneath untouched. The restrained body reacted faintly; the only parts the man could move were his fingers and feet, which twitched violently, betraying the agony he was enduring. As the older man continued his grim procedure, one of his subordinates replied, "He was also killed..."
Hearing this, the butcher's hand paused mid-cut, twitching slightly. His expression turned annoyed as he muttered, "That bitch's gonna eat my ear..." With a shake of his head, he dismissed the thought and resumed his work, the blade gliding across the skin with unsettling precision. Without looking up, he asked another question, his tone curious but detached, "And what about the gods Abahram was trying to create? I heard he succeeded in producing the first batch."
The shrouded man hesitated briefly before answering, "He did, but we don't know what happened to them..."
His hesitation was understandable, as the older man's previously relaxed expression twisted into a scowl. The precise movements of his blade ceased, and he turned his glare toward the shrouded figure. Anger radiated from him, and an unsettling illusion began to manifest around him—a nightmarish vision of macabre, living beings. The scene depicted a grotesque world composed of human body parts, stitched together with horrifying precision. Despite the chaos and disharmony, every fragment seemed to belong, their grotesque assembly disturbingly seamless.
This was no mere illusion—it was a glimpse into the older man's arcane realm, the personal dimensional construct of a mage. Fueled by his vast, corrupted knowledge, this realm was a reflection of his inner psyche, an embodiment of his twisted essence. The shrouded figure trembled slightly, fully aware of the power and madness lurking within the man before him.
The older man's scowl deepened, his voice a sharp growl that reverberated through the eerie atmosphere. "Just tell me what went wrong," he snapped, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. "Don't make me drag every detail out of you like I'm pulling teeth."
The shrouded figure stiffened, the oppressive weight of the arcane realm pressing down on him. He spoke quickly, stumbling over his words, "Th-they were completed, yes, but something unexpected must have happened. We—our people—lost track of them entirely after Abraham's death. There's no trace of them anywhere, my lord."
The older man's grip tightened on the slender blade, his knuckles whitening. The bound body on the table flinched as he carelessly nicked its skin. "You
of them?" he hissed, his anger simmering dangerously close to boiling over.
"How does one lose track of beings infused with such power?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Do you even comprehend what Abraham sacrificed for those creations? The resources, the time? If those gods are out there, uncontrolled—" He stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing. "Or worse, in someone else's hands... You realize what that would mean for us?"
The shrouded figure nodded hurriedly, his words spilling out in a desperate attempt to placate the older man. "We're working on it, my lord. We've already dispatched scouts and informants. Whoever has them will reveal themselves soon enough. I swear we'll find them."
The older man stared him down for a long, tense moment. Then, with a low, frustrated growl, he turned back to the bound figure on the table, resuming his delicate work on the skin. "You'd better," he muttered, his voice low but laced with venom. "Because if I find out you're wasting my time or covering for your failures..." He let the threat hang, unspoken but suffocatingly clear.
The shrouded figure bowed deeply, the tension in his shoulders betraying his fear. "Understood, my lord. It won't happen again."
The older man didn't respond, his focus already back on his grisly craft, but the energy in the room remained oppressive, the looming macabre figures of his arcane realm serving as a constant reminder of his wrath.
Even after the figure had left, the oppressive aura lingered, refusing to dissipate. The older man's expression shifted, his usual calm arrogance replaced by one of shock. He dropped to his knees, bowing hastily, his forehead nearly touching the bloodstained floor.
The room grew dimmer and dimmer with each passing second, as if the very light was being drained away. Soon, the space was shrouded in pitch darkness, a void that seemed to swallow everything. The infamous Artistic Butcher—feared even by higher-circle warriors—now trembled visibly, his confidence shattered.
With a voice trembling yet steeped in reverence, he spoke into the suffocating void. "This lowly human humbly greets the one from whom light itself was born, the great Lightbringer..." Each word was infused with profound deference, his tone heavy with awe for the presence now descending into the room.