Itzcamazotz watched his chosen arrange the many still-breathing bodies into their intended positions. The god twisted its neck until it was satisfied with the design. Its clawed feet clung tightly to the ceiling, one hand scratching absently at its flea-infested head.
Bloated siphonaptera tumbled into the abyss below, flailing helplessly. Their long legs kicked wildly, but nothing would allow them escape. Round bodies swollen with ichor—too slow to evade pincers and claws—were snatched from the air, feeding a few fortunate, many-legged horrors lurking beneath.
"Yes… wonderful. Just lovely," it rasped, its high-pitched voice slicing through the silence.
When Mort finished the preparations, Itzcamazotz released its hold on the ceiling. It dropped swiftly, then smoothly glided down to its chosen, carefully avoiding the open darkness beyond the ledge where the ritual would take place.
A cuauhxicalli shaped like a smiling girl drinking from a bowl of black flame stood before a growing pool of blood. Pictographs edged the pool, shaping the corruption toward its intended effects—guides for divinity alone. Ideas and concepts meant to refine the sealed, corrupt faith steeped within the blood.
"Yes, yes... wonderful, wonderful." Itzcamazotz's sharp, grating voice seemed to cause even Renata annoyance; her usually cold face showed a slight rise on the right side of her upper lip.
With a heavy stomp and the clap of wicked claws, a crushing pressure descended. Whispers—hollow, pleading—rose from the pictographs as they filled with black ichor. The blood thickened, turning viscous as a pungent stench wafted outward. Then it began to boil.
The pool shrank, revealing a bowl carved directly into the stone floor. The blood within had fully transformed, darkening to the color and consistency of tar.
Like a creature of living slime, something stretched out from the bowl and crawled toward the edge—only to be kicked back inside by Renata. She watched with an icy expression, pinching her nose tightly with her small left hand.
The thing shrieked as it agonized within the bowl, bubbling violently as it corroded the stone beneath. Then it stilled.
It was then that Itzcamazotz willed corruption into it—and just as swiftly willed it down into the abyss, which welcomed it hungrily.
The scraping of countless chitinous bodies echoed through the darkness, signaling the awakening of a growing, frenzied swarm below.
Then—silence.
Smoke drifted upward, a fetid miasma writhing through the air as though alive.
Itzcamazotz kissed the obsidian necklace hanging at its neck and spread its long, black-furred arms wide, welcoming the corruption into its relic.
Then, drawing upon the bulk of that power, it expanded its domain—laying claim to the abandoned village of Tepe.
It smiled, enjoying its divinity grow more solid.
Seeing that the bodies had begun to grow cold, Itzcamazotz used the remaining corruption—along with the aid of his chosen—to mold new spawn from the broken remnants of the lesser ones. These were the bodies too severely damaged to warrant the expenditure of divinity to heal.
The black flame within the cuauhxicalli flared with power as Mort intoned a prayer to his god.
Itzcamazotz accepted that faith and refined it into divinity. The energy was then divided and placed within the tonalli of each miner's head.
It was a process both taxing and time-consuming, one that required Renata to lend a reluctant hand.
The girl made her displeasure known through malice-filled glares—something Itzcamazotz greatly enjoyed. It hastened the ritual by drawing upon the pure corrupt faith the young girl provided. Together, they worked until dawn.
It was then that Itzcamazotz noticed the return—and failure—of the lesser spawn it had sent after the remaining villagers. Their bodies were scorched, faintly smoldering with a powerful divinity that resembled the light of the sun.
It sneered as the creatures collapsed before it. The small embers consuming them faded as Itzcamazotz smothered their burning forms in thick miasma.
So soon after its first conquest, it had already encountered an obstacle.
Frustration swelled within the corrupt god's chest—only to give way to wild laughter, echoing through the dark. A thrilling game lay ahead, and Itzcamazotz welcomed it eagerly.
-
Salutaris sensed a disturbance in the coral abyss. Waves carried the anxious movement of many, the sweet scent of blood mingling with the aftermath of conflict. The long-awaited moment had arrived.
Its scales morphed and shimmered as its body shifted into another form. Feathers still covered it, but its shape became better suited to the abyss—sleeker, more fluid—allowing it to move swiftly through the rushing schools of minor gods.
The coral structures the swarms of minor gods once occupied had been vacated. Yet this absence did not weaken the cage that held them. If anything, it grew stronger as the drowned gods were steadily drained of their divinity the more they used their power.
Coral relics flashed and burned with brilliance, their power siphoned to reinforce the prison as the swarms strained against it. The net stretched beneath the relentless assault of the drowned gods, as they tested the limits of the cage.
Massive waves crashed upon distant beaches as they fought against their confinement. Any god too weak to endure was devoured—torn apart in the blink of an eye.
The maddened gods cried out to the light gods who had trapped them within the coral garden. Revenge became their only sustenance, the sole purpose sustaining their fractured existence.
The seas moaned with betrayal and vengeance as Rafael watched from the gate of the coral garden. He stood guard over the faithful, who prayed with clasped hands around golden relics, aware of the coming arduous pilgrimage.