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Chapter 383: 383
"The goddess believes that only through combat can the strongest and most worthy emerge," the priest explained. "While the Chief has long been respected, perhaps he is not the one chosen by the divine."
Though hesitant, the priests were gradually swayed by his passionate conviction. The idea of a grand challenge, a test of strength and destiny, was intoxicating.
News of the impending battle spread like wildfire through the ratmen’s tunnels. Their once-peaceful society, now fraying under the strain of ambition and deceit, was gripped by equal measures of fear and excitement. The Chief, alerted to the unrest, summoned the priest, his tone brimming with barely restrained fury.
"A divine test?" the Chief scoffed, his voice heavy with disdain. "What nonsense is this? It’s nothing more than a blatant power grab."
The priest maintained his air of piety, his voice calm yet resolute. "The goddess has commanded it, Chief. We must honor her will."
Realizing the futility of arguing with a zealot, the Chief sighed. "Very well. Let the battle commence. But if this chaos leads to our ruin, you’ll bear the blame."
As he stormed out, the Chief caught whispers of his people’s excitement. Their voices buzzed with anticipation for the combat. A pang of sorrow filled his heart as he reflected on the state of their society.
"How far we’ve fallen," the Chief muttered to himself. "Perhaps we should have accepted the Empire’s offer when we had the chance. This madness could have been avoided."
He shook his head, banishing the regret. "No use dwelling on the past. This battle could be the turning point I’ve been waiting for."
The Chief knew all too well how he was perceived by his people. If he could prove himself worthy in combat—against Sknull, the priests, and even the goddess herself—they would have no choice but to follow his lead. His victory would leave them no room for doubt.
With a grim resolve, the Chief prepared himself. He would become a living nightmare to his people, a reminder of their folly. If they truly had no fear left, he would give them reason to reconsider their deranged path.
Meanwhile, deep within the Abyss, Vorenza observed the unfolding drama with growing interest. Her gaze lingered on Sknull, a smirk playing on her lips. His type was always a favorite among demons like herself—those who believed they were in control, unaware of how deeply entangled they were in her web.
Vorenza chuckled, her voice a mix of amusement and malice. "Sknull believes himself the master, but he dances to my tune without even realizing it. How delicious."
She turned her thoughts to the priests. On one point, she and Sknull agreed: the ratmen needed convincing. But Vorenza knew exactly how to deliver it. Her laughter echoed through the Abyss, a sound of wicked glee.
"The hybrids," she mused, "are proving to be far more entertaining than I ever expected. Let’s see how far they’ll climb before they inevitably fall."
The day before the decisive battle, the ratman priests knelt in solemn reverence before a vague, crude statue of their goddess, Vorenza. Their whiskers trembled as they chanted fervent prayers, desperate to gain her favor. The dimly lit chamber was heavy with the scent of incense and damp earth, but no divine sign came.
As their voices faltered and hope wavered, the lead priest stood, his eyes narrowing in resolve. "Our devotion must be proven," he declared, motioning to the bound ratmen trembling in the shadows.
The captives, fellow ratmen, whimpered in terror, their eyes darting to the priests who now approached with ceremonial blades. The priests, their faces alight with fanatical determination, were unshaken. In one swift, practiced motion, the lead priest’s blade cut clean through the first captive’s neck. Blood spattered across the statue, pooling at its base, and the other priests followed suit with similar zeal.
The room grew silent, save for the steady drip of blood. Then, the statue began to glow faintly, an ominous light pulsating from its base. The air thickened, vibrating with an unholy energy. The priests froze as a whisper slithered into their minds, each word dripping with malice and dark amusement.
"The sacrifice is complete. The hybrids are yours to command," Vorenza’s voice echoed, chilling yet intoxicating.
The lead priest’s eyes widened in awe, but his reverie was abruptly broken by a strange sensation—a wet drop falling onto his face. He instinctively reached up, wiping away what felt like... drool?
Confused, the priest glanced up, only to stagger back in alarm. Clinging to the ceiling above them, a hybrid—a grotesque fusion of rat and demon—stared down with cold, unblinking eyes. Its sharp claws glinted in the flickering torchlight, and its elongated, sinewy body exuded a menacing power.
With a sudden, fluid motion, the hybrid dropped to the ground, landing silently before the priests. Its towering figure loomed over them for a moment before it began to shift. Its muscles shrank, and its body folded into a mockery of a bow, its head lowering in submission.
The lead priest swallowed hard, his fear warring with exhilaration. "What... what are you?" he asked, voice trembling yet filled with dark curiosity.
The hybrid’s voice, a low and hollow rasp, answered, "I am yours to command, priest. The goddess has spoken."
A stunned silence gripped the chamber as the priests exchanged glances, their disbelief quickly replaced by an intoxicating sense of power. The lead priest stepped forward, his expression hardening into one of resolute authority.
"The goddess has blessed us," he proclaimed, his voice rising with fervor. "She has delivered unto us a weapon—proof of her dominion and favor! With this hybrid, none can stand against us. Let the world know the goddess’s will!"
The other priests nodded, their mechanical limbs clicking softly as they moved. A sudden, collective understanding washed over them, an unseen force guiding their thoughts. They turned as one toward the tunnels leading deeper into their lair. The lead priest, sensing this shared purpose, gave a sharp nod of approval.
"Go," he commanded. "Claim the gifts the goddess has left for us. Bring her favor to the battlefield."
Without hesitation, the priests, now filled with unshakable zeal, sprinted into the tunnels. Their mechanical legs clicked and whirred as they descended into the depths, eager to seize the power Vorenza had promised.
Behind them, the hybrid remained, a silent sentinel radiating lethal potential. The chamber echoed with the fading sounds of the priests’ departure, leaving only the flickering torchlight and the faint, malevolent glow of Vorenza’s statue.
The day of the battle arrived. In a slightly vast clearing undeground, the ratmen gathered in silent anticipation. Thousands of glowing eyes dotted the crowd, their gazes filled with eager tension. There were no cheers, no screams of encouragement—only the low hum of murmurs rippling through the horde like an ominous tide.
They waited. The clearing felt alive with their restlessness, their whispers silencing each time a shadow moved. All eyes were fixed on the center, where the two figures who would decide their fate were about to face off.
The first to appear was the Chief. He stepped into view, his mechanical armor hissing with steam as he moved. His face was set in stoic determination, but the reaction from the crowd was far from welcoming. Scornful glares and muted sneers greeted him, their disdain evident.
The Chief’s armor, though reliable and time-tested, symbolized a past the ratmen had long abandoned. The old steampunk design of gears, pistons, and valves was a glaring contrast to the grotesque fusion of hybrid flesh and corrupted technology that the ratmen now revered. The sleek, biomechanical implants of the new era gleamed menacingly in the faint light, a testament to their superiority over the Chief’s outdated ideals.
He bore the weight of their judgment silently, the hiss and click of his gauntlet punctuating the stillness as he moved to his position in the center of the clearing. The Chief stood tall, scanning the crowd, his gaze hardening with resolve as he waited.
Then, a hush fell over the clearing, heavier than before. A collective shudder rippled through the ratmen as a figure emerged from the opposite side.
Sknull.
The abomination’s appearance drew audible gasps from the crowd. Ratmen scrambled back, tripping over one another in terror as their murmurs turned to panicked cries. Claws pointed, trembling, at the monstrous figure advancing toward the Chief.
The Chief’s usually unshakable expression faltered. His eyes narrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he instinctively took a step back. This was no longer the Sknull he had faced before. The figure before him was something wholly unnatural.
The rumors had spoken of Sknull dragging a live hybrid back to the colony weeks ago, boasting that he would tame it, turn it into a servant. Whispers in the tunnels claimed the experiment had failed—but the sight before them told another story entirely.
"How far have you gone, Sknull?" the Chief muttered, his voice lost beneath the murmurs of the crowd. His gauntleted hand tightened into a fist, steam hissing from its joints as he braced himself.
