"You, my child," the sweet voice proclaimed, resonating with terrifying certainty,
"were born to be a Martyr."
"The Hero who bleeds so the world lives."
"Our Savior…"
The knife point lowered, aimed at Jack's heart.
"...awaits his crown of thorns."
Jack stared.
The words martyr, hero hung in the air like smoke.
They made no sense.
None.
This masked figure was cracked, lost in some delusion.
Hero? Him?
The idea was a sick joke.
He wasn't some paragon. Not evil, sure.
But miles from good.
He just… did what needed doing.
For himself.
That was the only compass he had.
"Madmen," Jack spat, the word thick with contempt.
A glob of saliva hit the damp ground between them.
"Always need a reason. Some grand fucking story to excuse the shit you pull."
He locked eyes with the dark slits of the mask.
"Save your breath. Spin whatever tale you want. I won't swallow it."
A chilling calm emanated from behind the mask.
"Perhaps you're right," the voice conceded, unnervingly level.
"Perhaps madness is the price."
A beat of silence stretched.
"But what if the cost buys survival?
What if this… ugliness… becomes the reason humanity endures?"
The mask tilted slightly.
"Should I not use every scrap of power?
Every dark option?"
The intensity in the still voice grew.
"To make certain we do survive?
To ensure my children…
my friends' children…
all those who follow…"
The final words hung, heavy and cold.
"...never have to drown in this suffering?"
The cabin door groaned open once more.
Three figures slipped inside, each clutching heavy cloth sacks. Dark, wet stains bloomed across the coarse fabric.
Drip...
Drip...
Crimson droplets fell onto the worn wooden planks, each impact a tiny, morbid drumbeat.
Jack's stomach clenched.
"It begins," the masked man intoned, his voice resonating in the suddenly colder air.
The newcomers moved with grim purpose.
Reaching into the sacks, they withdrew their offerings:
one stark white goat's head,
eyes clouded and tongue lolling; two severed black pig heads,
snouts wrinkled in eternal grimaces; and finally,
several human skulls – aged yellow, some still clinging to scraps of dried flesh and dark hair.
With chilling reverence, they arranged the ghastly trophies in a rough circle on the floor.
The masked man turned his unseen gaze upon the assembled followers.
The air hummed with fanatical expectation.
"My faithful," he began, his voice a low thrum that vibrated in Jack's bones.
"You stand on the precipice. Witnesses to the crucible where our broken world is reforged.
Where the future of your bloodline is secured."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink into the silence broken only by the relentless drip of blood.
"Have my footsteps carved the true path?" His demand was sharp.
"You are the Path!" the followers cried as one, fervent.
"Has my hand guided you with care?"
"Your hand is Mercy!" Their voices were edged with ecstatic devotion.
"When my final hour descends... will you stand as testament?"
"Our voices will echo your glory!" A promise bordering on a scream.
"Have I walked the steps laid before me by Destiny?"
"Your destiny is fulfilled in us!" Absolute conviction.
"Are you prepared?"
The masked man's voice dropped to a near whisper, yet it cut through the room.
"To etch your names in fire as Heroes? To become the sacred Martyrs whose sacrifice births the Dawn?"
"WE ARE READY!" The roar was primal, shaking dust from the rafters.
"Will you surrender flesh, breath, soul... all... unto your Lord?"
"EVERYTHING FOR THE LORD!" The cry was a single, terrifying entity.
The masked man inclined his head slowly, a gesture of profound, chilling acceptance.
"Then," he vowed,
his voice dropping to a bone-deep murmur that promised oblivion,
"I shall be the Witness who remembers your ending."
The masked man lifted a hand. A silent command.
Five figures peeled away from the newcomers and stepped forward, forming a tight ring around Jack and the grisly circle.
Their movements were unnervingly synchronized.
Without a word, they shed their rough robes, letting the fabric pool at their feet.
Jack's breath hitched, sharp and painful in his chest.
Children. They were barely more than children.
Smooth faces, wide eyes holding a terrifying mix of fervor and fear.
Dread, cold and heavy, settled like a stone in Jack's gut.
The masked man glided soundlessly behind the nearest one – a boy whose cheeks still held the softness of youth, nineteen at most.
A large, calloused hand settled firmly on the crown of the boy's head, fingers splayed possessively.
Tears instantly welled, spilling over and tracing glistening paths down the boy's cheeks. His chin trembled.
"Be my witness," the masked man breathed, the words barely a whisper yet slicing through the thick silence.
"We are your witnesses!" the other four responded instantly, their voices a unified, fervent hiss.
"You have served your purpose. Served it well."
The masked man's voice held a perverse tenderness.
"Now rest, my child. Wait for us... beyond the veil."
The boy swallowed convulsively, a wet, desperate sound.
"I... I will be your witness," he choked out, the promise thick with tears and terror.
The blade appeared as if conjured – long, wickedly sharp, catching the dim light. It flashed once, a silver arc.
Shhk-tht.
A thick, wet sound.
The boy's body jerked violently, a puppet with severed strings.
A bright arterial fountain erupted, splashing hot crimson onto the skulls, the goat's head, the wooden floor.
The masked man held the boy's head steady, a macabre embrace, until the violent spasms ceased and the body slumped, lifeless, to the blood-slicked planks with a heavy, final thud.
No pause.
No hesitation.
The masked man simply moved to the next in line – a girl with braided hair, her eyes squeezed shut.
Shhk-tht.
Another wet gasp.
Another violent shudder.
Another slick slide to the floor.
Then the next.
A boy biting his lip bloody.
Shhk-tht.
Then another. Silent tears streaming.
Shhk-tht.
The last one, trembling uncontrollably.
Shhk-tht.
A beat.
Two.
Five bodies now lay crumpled within the circle, adding their steaming, coppery lifeblood to the macabre altar.
The air reeked of iron and voided bowels.
The circle wasn't just drenched; it was a shallow, glistening pool, reflecting the dim light like dark oil.
Jack knelt, frozen.
His entire frame vibrated with tremors he couldn't control.
Every hair stood rigid on his arms and neck.
His breath came in shallow, useless gasps, unable to fill his lungs.
His throat was sealed shut, choked by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the horror.
Words were impossible.
There was only the sight, the smell, the sound echoing in his skull, and the creeping warmth of the blood slowly spreading towards his knees.