I came back to consciousness to the sound of chanting.
Low, deliberate voices echoed through a cavern that smelled like rust and wet stone. Firelight wavered across walls carved with beasts and crescent moons. I found myself lying on a slab of dark rock, cold biting up my spine, wrists tied with rough rope that felt like it had a personal grudge.
A hooded figure leaned into view. White bone mask. Gold teeth flashing behind the eye-slits.
"Subject breathes," the figure announced. "Begin the rite."
If there's a single word capable of ruining someone's entire day, it's begin.
"Wait," I rasped. My throat felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper. "I'm pretty confident there's been a scheduling error."
The bone mask tilted. "There are no errors in the decree of the Blood Moon."
There were, in fact, several. Including the part where they abducted a college dropout whose greatest life achievement was binge-reading xianxia webnovels and failing electives. I had the sinking realization that I might be dying again, and the respawn timer was on cooldown.
Six robed weirdos closed in around the slab. They carried bowls full of steaming dark liquid. Two more dragged a goat toward a chalk drawing on the floor. Poor goat. The sigil looked like a toddler had been left unsupervised with geometry and enthusiasm.
A deep gong vibrated through the cavern, and the leader raised a knife with a fluted blade.
"Hold on," I blurted, voice cracking so hard it should have registered on the Richter scale. "What—exactly—are we summoning?"
"The Heir," the man replied. "Our messiah. Vessel of the Blood Moon's shadow."
I felt less like a chosen one and more like garnish on a ritual appetizer plate.
My wrists strained. The ropes groaned. Torches hissed. The air thickened, humidity and static prickling like the cavern was about to sneeze lightning.
The knife started to descend.
"Stop!" I yelped. "Behold, mortals, for your time has come!"
The line leapt out before my brain could intercept it. Panic had hijacked my mouth and turned it into a stand-up act with suicidal commitment.
Every head snapped toward me. The blade halted a breath from my chest. The bone mask slowly lowered his arm.
"Repeat," he demanded.
I swallowed. "Behold, mortals, for your time has come."
Congratulations, I thought. You've just quoted an edgy meme at people who probably kill before breakfast.
"Your time… has come," I continued, improvising with the grace of a falling brick. "For the Heir. Release me. Now."
There's a special flavor of silence that happens when everyone in a room has the exact same terrifying idea. We experienced that silence. And then — to my left — a candle tipped off its wall sconce, bounced off a clay bowl, and plopped into a dish of powder.
The powder erupted in blue flame.
A huge inhaling sound swept through the cavern. The chalk sigil flared white, then crimson, then pitch black. The goat bleated once and simply sat down, reconsidering existence. The bowls frothed. The ground shook. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Apparently, while shouting, I had kicked the slab, nudged the sconce, jostled the candle, and ignited whatever hell-powder that was. A Rube Goldberg machine of bad decisions. The kind of moment that makes even atheists consider prayer.
To the cultists, however, it looked like a divine sign.
They dropped to their knees just as the chalk lines burned out. The bone mask pressed his forehead to the stone.
"The Heir has spoken," he whispered, trembling. "All hail the Blood Moon Heir."
Six foreheads hammered the floor in unison — bang, bang, bang — like woodpeckers with job security. The goat lay down and decided to nap.
I stared at the flickering blue flame. I stared at the cultists. At some point I'd sat up — the ropes had charred through. Energy hummed in the cavern. My pulse rampaged like I'd swallowed a terrified rabbit.
"Rise," I ordered, because if I didn't keep talking, I was going to scream.
They rose in eerie synchronization. The knife lowered — which I deeply appreciated.
"What is the Heir's command?" the masked leader asked.
I know three things in life with absolute certainty:
How to study for an exam I'm guaranteed to fail.
How to make instant noodles taste like childhood.
How to bluff while sweating.
"First," I said, "bring me water."
A terrified girl rushed forward with a clay cup. I drank. It tasted smoky and weirdly sweet.
"Second," I continued, handing the cup back with the dignity of a damp cat, "tell me your name."
"I am Elder Hei," he replied. "Knife of the Ebon Moon Cult. This rite was under my supervision."
Fantastic. Knife of the Cult. Totally casual.
"Elder Hei, your preparation pleases the Heir."
He made a noise somewhere between relief and unhinged joy.
"However," I added, stretching the word like I'd planned this all along, "the Heir detests waste. Killing them would blunt destiny. Release the prisoners into the outer barrens. They will spread our legend. They will live… for now."
He hesitated. The torchlight sputtered. The ritual scars on the floor dimmed to faint marks.
"Mercy," Elder Hei murmured, like tasting a foreign spice. "A hidden blade."
"Exactly," I said. "You don't dull the knife on ordinary necks. Save the edge for throats that matter."
Heads bobbed in agreement. The water girl stared at me like I personally rewired her belief system.
"Your will is absolute," Elder Hei vowed. "And the goat?"
"The goat retires with honor," I declared.
The goat snored in approval.
Orders were shouted. Disciples scattered. My body remembered that it was in pain. I slid off the slab and wobbled, my legs briefly forming a union before agreeing to work.
Elder Hei snapped his fingers and someone handed him a bundle of black cloth. "Robes for the Heir."
I took it. Warm fabric. Scent of iron and unfamiliar herbs. I wrapped it around myself and fastened it with loops clearly designed for knives I did not possess. It made me look taller — and like an assassination target.
"The Heir requires quarters," I said. "A room. Quiet. With a door that locks."
"Of course."
He led me through glittering tunnels veined with quartz. Along the way we passed bone charms, sacks of grain, and an acolyte polishing an altar as though destiny depended on shine. When he spotted me, he gasped dramatically and whispered, "The Heir," to the altar like it was gossip.
The room he offered could barely impress a mouse: straw mattress, short table, three books, and a smoky brazier. But it had a door. And a lock.
"It is modest," Elder Hei said. "The true sanctum remains sealed until the Blood Moon ascends. For now, the Heir rests here."
"It's fine," I admitted. After a ritual slab, a straw mattress is a five-star resort.
He lingered. "The Sect will desire a sign. A small miracle will satisfy them. The elders can gather at dusk."
"Dusk works," I said, manufacturing confidence out of sheer terror. "Send food. And water that doesn't taste depressed."
He nodded. "Acolyte Chun will attend to you."
He turned to leave, then hesitated at the threshold.
"Your mercy," he said quietly. "Unexpected. The previous Heir preferred fire."
Great. A pyromaniac predecessor.
He bowed low and slipped out.
I pushed the iron bar across the brackets and leaned against the door, exhaling what felt like several lifetimes of fear.
Silence.