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Chapter 20 - Chapter Twenty: Altar of Blood

The hum of the vending machine filled the break room, masking the quiet clink of Marc's spoon against porcelain. He stirred his tea absently, eyes fixed on the swirling liquid, mind elsewhere.

Once, the city had called him a savior. The hood of the moon was a beacon of hope, and his crescents painted in alleys felt like promises. Now, the same symbol was treated as graffiti. Fire at the port, whispers of arson, accusations of phoniness. London's faith was a fickle thing, and it was slipping through his fingers.

Maybe they're right, Marc thought bitterly. Maybe I am a phony. A soldier playing dress-up in a god's rags.

His eyes closed. The memories played in flashes—his first rescue, the scream of a girl in the dark, the thugs bound beneath a crescent moon. The cheers, the hope, the gratitude. That was real. It had to be.

Then Tecciztecatl's voice stirred in the hollow of his chest, low and resonant like stone grinding on stone. You are what you choose to be remembered for, Champion. They loved you once. They can again. But tonight—tonight you will see the truth of your enemy.

Marc's grip tightened around the mug. "Where?"

One of William's dens. A warehouse, dressed as commerce but defiled with worship. Go, and you will see the cost of his ambition.

---

The night cloaked him once more. Moonveil moved through South London's industrial maze, rooftops bowing beneath his steps, cloak whispering with each deliberate movement. Tecciztecatl's guidance tugged at him, subtle as moonlight on water, drawing him toward the husk of an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the docks.

The air was wrong even before he entered. Heavy. Metallic. The scent of rust and old iron—but beneath it, a sweetness that clung to the back of his throat. Blood.

Moonveil slipped through a cracked side door, boots silent on the concrete floor. Inside, the space opened wide: a cavern of shadows, lit only by pale shafts of moonlight piercing broken skylights. And in the center, an altar.

Stone, cracked and blackened, carved with symbols Marc couldn't read but felt in his bones. Blood pooled across its surface, sticky and dark, dripping down in rivulets that painted trails across the concrete.

Marc's breath caught. His hand clenched at his side. "He has returned," he whispered. His voice rasped like gravel. Then louder, a growl aimed at the silence: "William. Count your days."

He circled the altar slowly, eyes scanning the patterns. They weren't random. Lines carved in circles, stars broken into jagged angles, symbols that seemed to shift when he looked too long. And the body—no, not even a body anymore. Only remnants. Skin slack, chest cavity hollow, the heart gone.

Marc turned away, bile rising in his throat. "Jesus Christ…"

Tecciztecatl's voice rumbled, grave and certain. Not Christ. This is not his work. This is the hand of Tzitzimimeh, the Devourer of Suns. Your William has bound himself to that darkness. He offers flesh and innocence, and in return the Tzitzimimeh grant him servants.

Marc's stomach twisted. "Servants? You mean those things—the demon I fought in Hackney? That mindless thing with a weapon fused to its body?"

Yes, the god replied. Tzitzimimeh sends his brood through the cracks William opens. They are called Tzitzimimeh demons, though mortals once knew them as star demons. Once, they were feared in my own age—the skeletal women of the night sky, descending to devour the living when the sun faltered. They hunger for sacrifice. William feeds them, and they grant him power.

Marc ran a hand across the altar's edge, the stone sticky beneath his glove. "So he's making doors. Every time he sacrifices someone, he lets one of those bastards through?"

Yes. Each ritual is a wound in the veil between worlds. Each heart offered is a key turned in the lock of shadow. And when the door opens wide enough…

The god's voice trailed off. Marc swallowed hard. "When it opens wide enough, London won't just have drug dealers and cartels to worry about. It'll be crawling with demons."

The silence pressed heavy. The reality of it clawed at him. William wasn't just poisoning the city with Sangre de Luna—he was inviting something worse, something ancient and hungry, into the heart of England.

Marc looked down at his gloved hand. Blood smeared the fingertips where he had touched the altar. He wiped it on his cloak, violet eyes burning brighter.

"Then I'll stop him. However many doors he opens, I'll slam them shut."

You cannot simply destroy the altar, Tecciztecatl cautioned. The blood fuels the wound. It will open again, elsewhere, until William is ended.

Marc clenched his jaw. "Then William dies."

Perhaps. But remember—he is not just a man. He is tethered to Tzitzimimeh now. He can call the demons, shape them, command them. His wealth, his empire, his influence—they shield him. If you go to him now, you go to your death.

Marc paced in the shadows, breath sharp. He wanted to smash the altar, burn the warehouse, scream his rage into the night. But he forced himself still. The soldier in him demanded discipline. The phantom he was becoming demanded patience.

"Then I get closer," he said finally. "Step by step. This—" he gestured to the altar, the blood, the hollow body—"this proves everything. He's the one. Now I just need to make the city see it too."

Be careful, Champion. Shadows are slippery. In their eyes, you are already phony. If you push too far, you will look like the monster and he the savior.

Marc's fists tightened. "Then I'll become the monster they need. Better that than letting him drown this city in blood."

---

Outside, the warehouse loomed silent against the night sky. From a distance, it looked abandoned, another relic of London's industrial past. But Moonveil knew better. Within, the altar whispered still, blood cooling on stone, a promise of more horrors to come.

He scaled the wall, cloak wrapping tight, and vanished into the city.

Behind him, unseen, the blood on the altar stirred. For a moment, in the shifting moonlight, it formed the shape of a crescent—then dripped away, leaving the stone thirsty for more.

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