The black platform loomed beneath Song's trembling feet, its obsidian surface gleaming like a frozen abyss.
The crushing energy that had nearly drowned him moments ago had vanished, but the slave collar around his neck tightened sharply, a cruel leash snapping him back to reality.
His throat burned, each breath a struggle against the collar's unyielding grip.
The vast palace hall stretched before him, its towering walls etched with glowing runes that pulsed with an eerie blue light.
The air was thick, heavy with the scent of ancient stone and something sharper—fear, raw and palpable.
Song's Tattoo of Dominion, a single stripe etched on his forearm, flickered faintly, a whisper of warmth in his veins.
What is this place? he thought, his heart hammering.
The collar choked any hope of resistance, leaving him a prisoner in his own body.
Below the platform, the sea of black-robed practitioners stirred, their voices rising into a low, rhythmic hum.
The sound grew, weaving into a chant in a tongue Song couldn't decipher—a melody both haunting and oppressive.
With each passing moment, the voices gained strength, infused with a primal, almost tangible power.
The runes flared brighter, their light casting jagged shadows across the hall, twisting the faces of the crowd into grotesque masks.
Song's tattoo pulsed in rhythm, a strange connection he couldn't explain.
It's reacting to the chant, he realized, his mind racing.
But why?
The slaves around him trembled, their faces pale with dread.
Kael, the Fourth Lord who had tormented Song in the cavern, stood a few steps away, his once-arrogant demeanor shattered.
His eyes were wide, his body shaking, his four-striped tattoo a mocking contrast to his cowardice.
"You," Kael hissed, his voice low but venomous.
"This is your fault, weakling."
Song's jaw clenched, anger flaring despite the collar's grip.
"My fault?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
"You're the one who can't stop shaking."
Kael's eyes narrowed, but before he could retort, a warrior in black armor shot him a glance, silencing him.
The warriors flanked the platform, their faceless visors glinting like beetle shells.
Their presence was a constant threat, their power far beyond anything Song could fathom.
The crowd parted below, revealing a new group approaching the platform.
Unlike the others, their hoods were thrown back, and Song's breath caught as he saw their faces—or lack thereof.
Fox-like muzzles protruded from their robes, their dark fur blending with the platform's sheen.
Their eyes burned a vivid crimson, like coals plucked from a furnace, radiating a malevolent intensity.
Even from twenty meters away, Song felt their aura—a suffocating wave of terror that clawed at his soul.
They're not human, he thought, his stomach churning.
What kind of creatures are they?
The fox-beings moved with predatory grace, their clawed feet silent on the obsidian steps.
Their robes billowed slightly, revealing glimpses of sinewy limbs and tails that flicked with eerie precision.
Song's gaze locked onto one of them, its crimson eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment.
A chill ran through him, as if the creature had seen something in him—something he didn't yet understand.
The fox-beings ascended the platform, forming a pentagon around the slaves.
Their formation was precise, a cage of dark intent.
The warriors retreated swiftly, descending the steps and vanishing into the crowd, as if unwilling to linger in the creatures' presence.
Song's heart pounded, his mind scrambling for answers.
This is no ordinary ritual, he thought.
They're preparing something… something terrible.
The chant below grew deafening, shaking the hall's walls like a storm.
The foreign words burrowed into Song's mind, each syllable a hammer against his thoughts.
He blinked, fighting to stay anchored, but reality wavered, his vision blurring at the edges.
Focus, he urged himself, clinging to the spark of defiance that had kept him alive through the slave pens, Grue's cruelty, and Kael's taunts.
I won't break.
The chant reached a fever pitch, the runes blazing so brightly they seared his eyes.
One of the fox-beings raised a clawed hand, its crimson eyes narrowing.
The voices cut off abruptly, ending on a piercing note that echoed like a scream.
Silence crashed over the hall, heavier than the chant, amplifying the oppressive energy.
Song's legs buckled, the collar tightening as if to remind him of his place.
A slave beside him—a gaunt woman with hollow eyes—collapsed, her body crumpling to the platform.
Kael let out a choked sob, his trembling worsening.
"This… this can't be happening," he whimpered.
Song shot him a glance, contempt rising.
Where's your bravado now? he thought, though the fear in Kael's eyes mirrored his own.
Then, the platform stirred.
The obsidian floor beneath the slaves began to melt, its surface turning liquid, like a bog swallowing its prey.
Screams erupted as the slaves sank, the black stone creeping up their legs, cold and unyielding.
Song's heart raced, his instincts screaming to fight.
He tried to summon his First Lord energy, to coax even a flicker of power from his tattoo, but the collar choked his efforts, its grip like a vice.
He could only watch, helpless, as the fox-beings stared with cold indifference.
Their crimson eyes gleamed, their muzzles twitching slightly, as if savoring the slaves' despair.
Song's gaze locked onto the nearest fox-being, its fur glinting under the rune-light.
They're controlling this, he realized, his mind grasping at fragments of clarity.
The platform, the runes… it's all their doing.
One slave, a burly man with a three-striped tattoo, thrashed against the obsidian, ignoring the collar's chokehold.
His face contorted in pain, his movements frantic.
"Let me out!" he roared, lunging toward the fox-beings.
His efforts were futile—the stone pulled him deeper, swallowing him to his waist.
His screams faded into gurgles, his eyes wide with terror as he sank.
Song's chest tightened, his own legs sinking past his ankles.
The obsidian was cold, yet it burned, a paradox that sent shivers through him.
He tried to move, to shift his weight, but the collar tightened, pinning him in place.
There has to be a way, he thought, desperation clawing at him.
His tattoo pulsed, a faint warmth spreading, but it was too weak to break the collar's hold.
Far below, hidden among the crowd, Lady Blu clenched her fists, her knuckles white beneath her dark robe.
The disguise of the Twilight Lord Sect felt suffocating, a lie that clashed with her loyalty to the Lunar Phoenix Clan.
She had tracked the sect since the slave market, her suspicions growing with each step.
Now, witnessing this abomination, she could no longer hold back.
"Great Leader," she whispered through mindspeech, her voice trembling with urgency.
"We must stop this!"
Her words reached the unseen leader of her clan, concealed high above the hall.
Around her, other Lunar Phoenix members stood ready, their robes hiding their true allegiance.
Representatives from two other sects—the Iron Serpent Clan and the Starlit Blade Sect—mingled in the crowd, their own leaders watching in tense silence.
The ritual had confirmed their fears: the Twilight Lord Sect had fallen to a dark, forbidden path, a threat to all of Dark Star City.
Yet, the clan leader's response never came.
Silence hung heavy, leaving Blu to watch in anguish as the slaves sank deeper.
The leaders of the other sects also held back, their motives shrouded.
Are they analyzing the ritual? Blu wondered, her stomach churning.
Or do they fear what the sect has awakened?
She scanned the crowd, noting the gleaming eyes of some practitioners.
Their hunger for power was palpable, their cultivation levels spiking as the ritual's energy surged.
They're reveling in this, she thought, disgust rising.
They want more.
On the platform, Song's legs sank to his knees, the obsidian's grip unrelenting.
The fox-beings' crimson eyes were the last thing he saw, their indifference a knife to his heart.
His tattoo pulsed weakly, a futile protest against the collar's suppression.
I won't die like this, he vowed, his defiance burning despite the hopelessness.
As the stone closed over him, a wave of energy erupted through the hall, fueled by the slaves' suffering.
The crowd gasped, their cultivation levels soaring.
"Puf-puf-puf!"
The sounds of breakthroughs echoed, practitioners advancing in an instant.
Blu felt it too—her Seventh Lord cultivation surged, breaking through two levels to reach the Ninth Lord.
At twenty, she was now a prodigy of her clan's young generation.
But the cost twisted her soul.
Their lives… their pain… it's in me, she thought, nausea clawing at her.
This tainted power could scar her cultivation forever, a chain as real as any collar.
Not all shared her revulsion.
Many in the crowd, their eyes alight with greed, embraced the surge.
Some whispered eagerly, craving another ritual, another taste of this dark power.
Their hunger was a poison, spreading through the hall like wildfire.
"Lunar Phoenix Clan, prepare!" a voice boomed through mindspeech, sharp and commanding.
The clan leader's words were echoed by the leaders of the Iron Serpent and Starlit Blade sects.
"Spare no one from the Twilight Lord Sect!"
"This cave belongs to all of Dark Star City!"
The command shattered the hall's tension, unleashing chaos.
Practitioners turned on each other, their robes a blur of black as they clashed.
Explosions of energy rocked the hall, skills of devastating power tearing through the air.
Masters unleashed techniques that obliterated dozens in a single strike, their energy illuminating the runes in bursts of light.
The four clan leaders converged on the fox-beings, their battle a storm of power that shook the platform.
Their energy was so intense, no practitioner below the Ninth Lord could approach without turning to ash.
Song, engulfed by the obsidian, felt none of this.
The world had vanished, replaced by an inky void.
His body was weightless, his senses dulled, as if he were adrift in an endless sea.
Am I dead? he wondered, fear gnawing at him.
His tattoo pulsed, a faint anchor in the darkness.
No… I'm still alive.
But for how long?
To be continued…