Absolute Cheater

Her humming rattled faintly in her throat, out of tune but strangely faithful to the cadence above, as though her body no longer obeyed her mind but something deeper. The needle slipped in and out of her flesh without flinch or pause, each bead of blood rolling with reverence into the bowl. The seed pulsed brighter with every drip, veins in the crystal twitching like a predator dreaming of prey.

Asher lingered in the shadows, posture still and eyes measuring. The three anchors glimmered faintly—each was more than iron. The bolts were etched with runes that spiraled inward, drawing from the bones and blood crusted to the altars. The seed drank through them, siphoning both sacrifice and spirit. Severing those bonds would cripple its grasp—but not cleanly. There was always a backlash.

The woman's hum broke, faltered into a jagged cough. Her eyes, pale and clouded, turned toward him—not in recognition, but in sensing, as though the seed itself guided her gaze. Her lips parted, whispering half a prayer, half a warning:

"Watcher at the root… the Maw stirs…"

Asher moved before her words sharpened. He glided across the cavern, his cloak brushing the rough walls, a ghost within the hum of blood and stone. His hand covered her mouth, the gesture gentle, almost reverent. He pressed just enough force for silence, no more. She struggled weakly, the needle slipping from her palm, clattering against the floor like brittle bone. Her eyes widened, then softened—not fear, but surrender. She thought the Maw had taken her.

He whispered again in Raymam's weary voice, "Rest. The Maw has no need for you tonight."

Her body slackened, exhaustion overtaking what little resistance she had. He eased her down, lowering her head against the stone. Alive, silent. He had not fed the seed.

Now he crouched by the first altar. His fingers traced the bolt, memorizing its pattern. The runes weren't simple locks; they were conduits. Destroying them with brute force would send the seed into frenzy. But disrupt the sequence? Unthread the chant that made the bolt throb in harmony? That would cut the current without breaking the pipe. He thought of the counterpoints he had sampled above, the faltering phrases. Yes—this was the same lattice. A ritual network disguised as iron.

A soft vibration reached him—chains tightening above, boots shifting on the stair. Someone was coming. Not a crowd—two, maybe three steps, careful and deliberate. Not drunk disciples. These were steadier, heavier. A Disciple's hand? Or an overseer summoned by the courier's report?

Asher let his palm fall from the bolt. He had one breath to decide: unthread the first anchor quickly and risk being caught in the act, or fade back into shadow, learn more of the watchers who entered, and let the seed burn one more hour unchallenged.

The cavern's hum swelled. The seed pulsed, as though it, too, awaited his choice.

The seed's beat grew louder, like a war drum calling him forward. Asher didn't hide, didn't wait in the dark. He had never been the hunted. The hunted stayed quiet, the hunted trembled. He was the blade that cut through silence, the shadow that made others lose their breath in fear.

He pressed his hand against the first altar bolt. The iron burned under his palm, glowing as if it knew he didn't belong. Asher's lips curled into a thin smile. He didn't lower his voice, didn't try to be careful. His tone came out low and heavy, like steel dragged across stone.

"Your rhythm is broken."

Power rushed through him. The blood runes screamed as he forced his will into them, not to obey but to destroy. He jammed the broken chant he had taken from above into the heart of the bolt's pattern—not neat, not subtle, but loud and merciless. It was like slamming a hammer into a perfect melody. The bolt shook. The runes cracked open like veins tearing apart, sparks spilling across the floor in wild bursts.

The seed bellowed. Its red veins lit up like a storm, painting the walls with bloody light. The two cultists who had been asleep sprang up in horror, their faces pale with dread. The woman who had been humming shrieked, her voice ripped apart as the song left her throat. The whole cavern quaked as the first anchor broke, the altar collapsing into ash and smoke.

Boots pounded down the stairway. Shadows stretched long before the torchlight. Three figures marched into view—cloaked, sharp in their movements, heavy with purpose. Overseers. One held a hooked staff carved with spirals that seemed to gnaw at the eye. Another wore a living chain that coiled around his arm like a serpent ready to strike. The last wore only a bone mask shaped like a gaping Maw. Their presence filled the room, a heavy weight, like iron closing around the air.

They saw him—cloak shifting in the storm of the seed's backlash, standing over the ruin of the altar. One anchor gone. And for a moment, their steps slowed. Not because they feared for the seed. But because they feared the man who had dared to break it.

Asher stood tall, silence wrapped around him. He drew his scythe with a rasping sound that cracked through the chamber like thunder crawling through the sky. His eyes glowed sharp and cold, promising death.

"You should have stayed above," he said, voice steady as stone. "Now you'll be the next scars I carve into this filth."

The chain-bearer roared, raising his arm, the links slithering to life, snapping with hunger. The staff-wielder struck the ground, his circle of sigils flaring open like jaws. The masked one murmured prayers, each word stinking of rot and greed.

Asher moved forward. Each step pounded like a drum, steady and unshaken. The cavern didn't cage him—it bent around him, stretching wider, as if the very stone knew who to bow to. He raised his scythe, leveled it once at the seed, then at the Overseers who barred his way.

"Come," he said. "Let's see who your Maw eats first."