Chapter 70:

Rain fell in thin sheets across the narrow alleyways of the market district.

Most people had already gone home.

The few who remained hurried between lantern-lit streets, keeping their heads down and their purses close.

Nobody wanted trouble after dark.

Especially not in this part of the city.

Unfortunately for one nervous man, trouble seemed determined to find him.

The burglar pulled his hood tighter around his face as he hurried through the rain.

His left sleeve hung empty.

The arm that once occupied it was long gone.

Lost months ago.

Lost because of a certain Nightmare Hotel.

The memory still made him shiver.

The giant masked killer.

The ghost nun.

The little monster girl.

The dog with three heads.

The mimic.

The horrifying chef.

The puppets.

The ravens.

The endless insanity.

He had lost sixteen men and an arm because of that cursed place.

And somehow he still hadn’t learned his lesson.

“One last job,” he muttered.

People always said that.

It was never actually the last job.

But this one was different.

This one was going to make him rich.

Very rich.

He glanced down at the heavy bundle tucked beneath his remaining arm.

Even wrapped in cloth, he could feel something strange about it.

Something wrong.

The object seemed to pulse occasionally.

As if it were alive.

As if it knew it had been stolen.

The burglar quickened his pace.

Tonight he would finally be rid of it.

And someone else could deal with whatever curse it carried.

⸻

The meeting place was an abandoned warehouse near the edge of the city.

The large building stood empty.

Dust coated the floor.

Broken crates littered the interior.

Only a single lantern illuminated the darkness.

A lone figure stood beside it.

Waiting.

The burglar immediately disliked him.

The man wore dark robes.

His face remained hidden beneath a hood.

Even without seeing his features, the burglar recognized danger.

There was something predatory about the stranger.

Something cold.

“You’re late,” the hooded man said.

The burglar scowled.

“I brought the item.”

The cultist smiled beneath his hood.

“I know.”

The burglar carefully placed the wrapped package on a nearby crate.

The cultist slowly approached.

Excitement flickered across his face.

For the first time.

The burglar noticed genuine emotion.

Greed.

Pure greed.

The cultist carefully removed the cloth.

The Puzzle Box sat beneath.

Black.

Silver.

Covered in shifting patterns.

The moment the cloth fell away, the lantern dimmed.

The warehouse suddenly felt colder.

The cultist stared.

Almost reverently.

“Where did you get this?”

The burglar laughed nervously.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Oh? Then do you want me to not pay you?”

“I stole it obviously.”

The cultist raised an eyebrow.

“From where?”

The burglar hesitated.

Then decided honesty might increase the price.

“The Nightmare Hotel.”

The cultist froze.

For several seconds neither man spoke.

Then the cultist began laughing.

Slowly.

Quietly.

The kind of laughter that made people uncomfortable.

“You stole something from the Horror Summoner?”

The burglar grinned proudly.

“That’s right.”

The cultist stared.

Then shook his head.

“You’re either incredibly brave…”

The smile widened.

“…or incredibly stupid.”

The burglar didn’t like the sound of that.

⸻

The exchange happened quickly.

A pouch of gold.

A few magical crystals.

Several expensive artifacts.

More wealth than the burglar had ever possessed.

His heart nearly stopped.

He was rich.

Actually rich.

The nightmare was over.

The hotel was behind him.

His future looked bright.

For approximately twelve seconds.

Then the cultist stabbed him.

⸻

The knife entered his chest.

The burglar stared down.

Confused.

The cultist twisted the blade.

Blood spilled onto the floor.

The gold pouch slipped from numb fingers.

The burglar collapsed.

His vision blurred.

The cultist crouched beside him.

“Thank you for your service.”

The dying man coughed blood.

“W-why?”

The cultist picked up the Puzzle Box.

“Because secrets are expensive.”

The burglar tried to reach for the gold.

His hand never made it.

A few moments later he stopped moving entirely.

The cultist didn’t even look back as he left.

⸻

Two days later.

Another place.

A different world .

A new city.

This world appeared normal.

Beautiful.

Prosperous.

Safe.

Children played in the streets.

Merchants sold food.

Adventurers laughed in taverns.

People smiled.

People lived.

People dreamed.

It was… all a lie.

The cult controlled everything here.

Every government.

Every army.

Every church.

Every major city.

The world had fallen countless years ago.

The population simply hadn’t realized it yet.

⸻

Deep beneath one of the largest cities stood a church.

From the outside it appeared ordinary.

A place of worship.

A sanctuary.

A place of peace.

Inside existed something very different.

Cultists filled the underground chambers.

Dark banners covered stone walls.

Ancient symbols glowed with sickly light.

Priests whispered prayers to a sleeping god.

And in the center of it all sat the Puzzle Box.

⸻

The cultist who had purchased the artifact knelt before the Head Priest.

The elderly man examined the box carefully.

“Are you certain this came from the Horror Summoner?”

“Yes.”

The Head Priest smiled.

“Excellent.”

He carefully ran his fingers across the surface.

Ancient patterns shifted beneath his touch.

Almost like living flesh.

The old priest frowned.

“This thing is very unusual.”

“Can it be opened?”

The priest’s smile widened.

“Of course, there’s nothing that I can’t open.”

⸻

The next two days proved frustrating.

The Puzzle Box refused every attempt.

Magic failed.

Tools failed.

Divination failed.

Blood rituals failed.

Nothing worked.

The box remained stubbornly closed.

Patient.

Waiting.

As though it were testing them.

Judging them.

Mocking them.

The Head Priest grew increasingly obsessed.

He barely slept.

Barely ate.

Barely left the chamber.

He wanted answers.

He wanted power.

He wanted whatever secrets the box contained.

Most of all—

He wanted to prove himself worthy.

⸻

On the second night.

Everything changed.

A single click echoed through the room.

The Head Priest froze.

The Puzzle Box shifted.

One section rotated.

Another unfolded.

The artifact slowly began transforming.

The old priest smiled.

Victory.

Finally.

Victory.

⸻

The room darkened.

Candles extinguished themselves.

The temperature plummeted.

Shadows stretched unnaturally.

A low humming sound filled the chamber.

Reality itself seemed to tremble.

The cultists backed away nervously.

The Head Priest stood his ground.

A doorway of pale light appeared before him.

Not a portal.

Not exactly.

More like a wound.

A tear in existence.

Something on the other side was opening a door.

Something was coming through.

⸻

A figure stepped forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Three beings emerged from the light.

Humanoid.

Mostly.

Their pale flesh appeared stretched across impossible shapes.

Metal protruded from skin.

Chains hung from their bodies.

Their expressions remained calm.

Almost serene.

As though they were greeting old friends.

The lead figure stepped forward.

Its eyes fixed on the Head Priest.

The room had become completely silent.

Nobody moved.

Nobody breathed.

Then the being smiled.

A slow, terrible smile.

“We have such sights to show you.”

⸻

The doorway slammed shut.

The screaming began almost immediately.

The Puzzle Box’s portal snapped closed.

Darkness completely consumed the chamber.

The cultists attempted to flee.

Several collapsed over each other. 

Others covered their faces from insanity.

The sounds that followed echoed through the underground church.

Screams.

Chains.

Wet tearing noises.

Laughter.

Pleading.

More screaming.

Then a deafening silence.

⸻

Several minutes later the chamber doors slowly opened.

One figure emerged.

The lead Sinbiter.

Its expression still calm.

Satisfied.

The Puzzle Box rested comfortably in one of its hands.

The creature looked down at itself.

Its flesh shifted.

Bones cracked.

Muscles reshaped.

The creature moaned as its body was reformed.

Its appearance flowed like liquid.

Moments later the form of the Sinbiter had vanished.

In its place stood the form of the original Head Priest.

Perfectly replicated.

Every detail.

Every wrinkle.

Every expression.

The disguise was flawless.

Only the eyes remained different.

Cold.

Hungry.

Ancient.

The false priest smiled.

Then walked calmly into the corridor.

Behind him.

The ritual chamber remained open.

Chains covered every surface.

Blood dripped from stone walls.

The remains of the real Head Priest decorated the room like a grotesque work of art.

The smell of death lingered heavily in the air.

And resting among the carnage…

A thick drop of blood slowly slid inside the surface of the Puzzle Box.

As though the artifact itself had fed.

Far away.

Back in Mystic Blood Valley.

Gene remained completely unaware that one of the most dangerous artifacts he had ever created had just escaped into enemy territory.

And somewhere in the darkness.

The Sinbiter smiled.

After all.

Their world had just become much larger.

I will return in a week.

>.>