The cultists put out my fire right away. I wasn’t sure how much of Pollina’s supplies they saved, and I couldn’t see what they were up to because I was facing the wrong direction. From all the grunting and complaining they made, I had to believe most of it survived.

“Two barrels are ruined. What should we do with ‘em?” one cultist asked.

“Toss it down the hole to the Ossuary. Leave the rest of the supplies alone. It’s more important that we finish the ritual before the corpse worshipers come back with reinforcements. We are going to be down here a while, so we’ll have time to fix it up later,” the leader said.

The three lackeys walked past me again, carrying a bunch of burnt crap with Pollina’s tent as a stretcher.

“I still can’t believe we found Oran Farrow down here,” said one of them, looking down at me again.

“Why? Graham said he was going to kill him.”

“What? Really? Last I heard, Graham was trying to bring him into the cult.”

“He was. Or he tried. Oran was too chicken to make a pact. It’s a shame too, with his money and influence…” the speaker trailed off the thought.

Now that’s a revelation.

I searched back through Oran’s memories to find conversations about demons with Graham. The other boy had said nothing outright, but ‌he had definitely tried to steer Oran to look into demonic pacts. He’d even framed subsequent conversations like it had been Oran’s idea. Stuff like, “Hey, you check out your alternative we spoke about?” and “I’d do anything if I didn’t have a core. Our families are depending on us; any sacrifice is worth it.”

Oran had looked into a demonic pact. But like everything in this world, having one was significantly better for you if you already had a manacore. A demon could grant a class to a follower by giving them a demoncore. Like the manacore, the demoncore used absorbed mana, but converted it into demonic mana. However, the major difference between the two cores was soul stain. Demoncores were not natural, in fact, they were inimical to life. And, as the core grew in strength, it began warping the soul of the user until they suffered demonic physical mutations. Those who already possessed a manacore suffered mildly from the growth, but a coreless person who took on a demoncore would get soul stain at a prodigious rate.

If Oran went through with the ritual, he would only turn his eventual exile into a death sentence. Now, with the advantage of hindsight, I could see that his telling Graham he wasn’t “that much of an idiot to go and turn into a monster” might have hit a sore spot. Especially considering that I was almost certain that Graham had made such a pact.

The mystery for me was what Graham had been trying to do with Oran’s soul. Whatever he and the two others that summoned me had been doing, it was not demonic. Soul manipulation was solely the domain of necromancy.

Holy shit Oran. How could you misjudge one dude that badly? Human sacrifice, demon cultist AND death cultist. I’d bet my life savings that Graham wouldn’t return his shopping cart, and would like Imagine Dragons.

A loud crash from the direction of the hole pulled my attention back to the cultists. All four were working to set up a ritual. The leader pulled out a foul, blood smelling concoction out of a flask and began pouring it in a circle, while the others sectioned off to complete their own tasks. One of them, dressed in black leather armor over his red robe, left to scout the only entrance to the area besides the hole. The other two lit candles and did other menial tasks to clean up the area.

Too afraid to be caught moving, I waited until they all looked occupied before lolling my head at a better angle to watch them. The result of the leader's hard work was a strange-looking diagram with three circles on the north, east, and west, with an arrow pointing down toward the south. He’d started drawing mystical writing in each of the directional quadrants. Though the “words” all faced opposite the center.

Maybe half an hour later, they’d finished their preparations, and the leader spoke to them, “Alright, each of you take up your spot at your gate. When I begin, you will feel a pull. It is important that you do not move until I am through with the chant. You will give up some mana, but not nearly as much as I am. I will hear no complaining, understand?”

The three lackeys bowed their heads in acknowledgment, then took up a position at a respective sub-circle. With practiced solemnity, the leader of the group slashed open his hand to drip blood over the center of the ritual circle, then took up his place at the south facing arrow.

As soon as his chanting began, I felt a change in the air. An eerie coldness crept down my spine, making me feel a thermic sensation for the first time in this new world.

I barely acknowledged it, like a gnat flying as I passed it by on the sidewalk.

Existential dread drove a spike of fear into my non-beating heart as I felt the forces of oblivion exert their will into this reality. I knew with a sickening certainty that the demonic realm was antithetical to unlife as much as life. I was no hero, but there was no way I could let these degenerates accomplish their goal.

But what could I, a mere lurching corpse, do?

For now, I’ll do what the dead do best. I’ll wait.

For fifteen minutes, I watched them like an unmoving hawk, and came up with a plan. Oran knew little about magic rituals, but there had been stories throughout history about what happened to people when they went wrong. Interference at an opportune moment could cause a massive backlash. Like spells and class abilities, rituals required a sacrifice of mana. However, the cost, called “the draw”, was substantially higher. I just needed time for an attack when that moment came. Since I’d never seen one performed, it was all guesswork.

The leader reached a chanting crescendo, and red chains sprung from each of the sub-circles to wrap around his subordinates. I could physically see the ghastly chains draining mana from each of them in red waves. The men moaned in agony, and between that and the ever louder chanting, it sounded like a fiendish choir. Maybe it was.

With all four distracted, I made my move. Lurching upward, I grabbed my dagger from the alcove above me and stumbled in their direction, doing my best to ignore the slimy demon mana that fogged up the area.

The man directly opposite of me, on the north side of the ritual, noticed me first. His eyes opened wide with fear and he tried to scream out a warning, but it only came out as a gasp. When I was only ten feet away, the other two noticed me and began shaking back and forth in alarm. Despite their best efforts, the leader ignored me and continued chanting.

For his faith, I stood behind his kneeling form, and breathed my poisonous blessing on to the center of the circle. Putrid green gas flowed out of my mouth and nostrils, gliding downward in a thick roll. The three chained cultists began thrashing all the harder as the unavoidable chemical assailed their faces. Yet the leader continued his chant, stumbling only a little to let out a light cough.

The poison isn’t strong enough!

Afraid that the blade wouldn’t be strong enough to penetrate his magically reinforced skull, I yanked his head back and thrust the blade of my knife at his outstretched neck. His hand reached up, faster than I could see, and stopped the blade mere inches from his skin. Shocked at his power, I did the one move I promised I’d never do. The one thing that I absolutely forbid against all others.

I bit his ear.

The man’s chanting turned from a collected rhythmic refrain to an indignant yell. He threw me off his back with an almost casual gesture, but I triumphantly took a piece of his ear with me.

“Your suffering will be legendary!” He screamed, turning to face me. The cultist took two steps in my direction before a red chain, bigger than the others, shot out from the center of the circle to wrap around his chest.

“What! No! I’m not the sacrifice, they are!” He pleaded.

I looked at his three men to see how they felt about that, but they were all still. White foam coated their lips and their faces were stuck in a rictus of horror.

Rolling over on to my hands and knees, I crawled in his direction with the enchanted dagger still stuck in my death grip. The cult leader clawed at the ground, doing all that he could to slow the chain dragging him back to the grave he’d dug for himself.

I still refused to let the ritual finish.

With a burst of speed from my Spring Forward ability, I shot to his side and stuck the dagger deep into his neck. Blood poured down my hand, chugging like a tipped over milk jug, but the chain kept dragging him. He was already halfway into the circle!

My efforts had come too late. I could still feel the ritual building.

I’m out!

I scrambled to my feet, preparing to return to the hole that led to the Ossuary, when an echoing voice spoke.

“I ACCEPT YOUR SACRIFICE. WHAT DO YOU DESIRE?”

Slowly, I turned back to the blood covered rite to see a vast eye looking at me from a tear within reality.

I pretended I heard nothing and took another step toward the hole.

“THE LAW REQUIRES THAT YOU ARE GIVEN RECOMPENSE. YOU WILL NOT LEAVE UNTIL THE MATTER IS CONCLUDED.”

All my limbs froze.