Chapter 7: The Daemon Cult 3
The red-robed man stared at Ciel in silence.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Wouldn't it be fun to tear his limbs off one by one?"
Then his gaze slid to Nafees.
"And how about… we feed his flesh to that boy?"
He grinned wider.
"Make him eat his friend."
Nafees's heart slammed in his chest. His breath caught. Trapped somewhere between fear and revulsion.
This was no ordinary madman. This was the Vice-Leader of the Windmere Daemon Cult's branch...
Shakil Van Sevices
---
The red-robed man's grin deepened, stretching far too wide to be natural.
He walked slowly toward Nafees, each step echoing in the shattered silence. His boots made soft, wet sounds on the blood-slicked floor.
He turned his full attention to Nafees.
"You heard me, boy." The man's eyes gleamed with something cold and ancient.
He knelt, level with Nafees, fingers brushing under his chin like a lover's touch. But the warmth wasn't there—only mockery, laced with sadistic delight.
"You'll just eat what's left."
Nafees stared, unblinking. "W-What…?"
"You heard me." The Vice-leader's voice was calm, almost soothing.
"When I'm done with him....when he's twitching, gurgling, bleeding out...I want you to feast."
A slow chuckle escaped his throat.
"Chew. Swallow. Taste him. That's all I ask."
Nafees recoiled, his stomach twisting in violent knots. "You're… sick—"
Slap !!!
A slap cut the words short. Not hard enough to knock him over, but enough to sting, to humiliate. The cultists chuckled.
"You think this is about sickness?" the man said softly.
"...."
"This is about truth. Hunger is the truest thing in this world. And you..." he grabbed Nafees by the jaw, squeezing until his teeth ached..
"you're going to learn what kind of beast lives inside you."
"!!!!"
He released him with a shove, standing tall again.
"I'll make sure the meat's tender. Still warm. Still alive when you take the first bite."
A cold bolt shot down Nafees's spine.
Shiver
His fingers twitched involuntarily, his breath caught in his throat.
Shiver Shiver
It wasn't just fear anymore. It was something primal. The body reacting to a presence that didn't belong in the world of the sane
He didn't just hear malice in that voice....
He felt it. Crawling across his skin like insects. Pressing into his ribs like invisible fingers.
True malice.
Pure, unfiltered. The kind that didn't want to kill you....
It wanted to ruin you first.
'What kind of twisted nightmare is this?' Nafees thought, the words echoing inside him like a scream underwater.
Murmur... murmur...
The cultists began to stir.
Low voices rippled through the ruined lobby. Some laughed under their breath...short, wheezing sounds like broken windpipes. Others simply stared, eyes glassy and wide, twitching with anticipation.
One man licked the length of a rusted dagger, his eyes never leaving Ciel's bruised body. Another tapped a hammer slowly against his palm—tap... tap... tap—as if testing the weight before the execution.
Nafees's stomach turned.
He wanted to scream.but his voice was frozen in the same place the warmth in his body used to be.
Because this wasn't just a room.
It was a slaughterhouse.
And the knives were smiling.
The tension grew thick...wet and suffocating like bloodied fog.
Behind him, Ciel let out a soft cough.
He could barely lift his head. His face was swollen and bruised. Tears ran down his cheeks, mixing with blood and dirt. His nose was running, but he didn't wipe it. Couldn't.
His eyes were wide with fear. Real fear. The kind that comes when you know there's no way out.
He didn't say anything. Just looked at Nafees with shaking eyes.
Then, a voice broke the tension.
"Why don't we take them back to the base?"
Everyone turned.
A man stepped forward from the shadows. His presence alone silenced the room.
He was tall, fox-eyed, dressed in fine black robes lined with silver threads. His name was Makaram. His tone was calm, but held weight. Like someone used to being obeyed.
The vice leader of the cult, the man in the crimson robe, twitched slightly. His smile faded. His jaw tightened.
He didn't say anything, but it was clear he didn't like being overruled.
He glared at Makaram from the corner of his eye. There was jealousy in his stare. He was the vice leader, yet it was this fox eyed man the branch leader favored. this man Makaram was also stronger than him.
Makaram didn't even look at him
Makaram stepped forward, his tone calm but warning
"The leader won't be pleased if we make a mess here. He wants them alive , isn't that right Vice-leader"
The vice leader's jaw tightened. His eye twitched with irritation.
tsk
"… Fine. Put them all to sleep."
The masked cultists obeyed at once.
In an instant, masked figures moved like shadows.
Silent. Precise.
They appeared behind the bound hostages, pressing fingers to pressure points on their necks and backs.
One by one, people collapsed.
No screams. No struggle.
Just soft thuds. bodies dropping to the cold floor, swallowed by sleep.
Even those who were whimpering or sobbing fell silent, their eyes rolling back as their minds were shut off like candles snuffed in a storm.
One walked up behind Nafees. No weapon. No strike. Just two fingers pressed swiftly against a point on his neck.
Nafees felt hands grip his neck and then, darkness took him too.
To be continued....