The Smiling Man's corpse slumped forward, his grin stretching wider even in death. His arm, torn open, still dripped a thick, oily blackness—but this was no blood. It was something else entirely: writhing, bubbling, alive. The mass poured from the gash, slithering like ink given form, a tide of motion that defied understanding.
Erasmus did not flinch. He had already seen this, had already foreseen everything that would happen here.
The others around him, however, were frozen in place, their faces pale with dawning horror. The blackness did not simply pool on the ground—it spread. Tendrils—thin and fine as silk—uncoiled, twisting through the air as though seeking flesh, driven by some purpose, some will. The parasites poured from the Smiling Man's body in waves, their countless limbs bristling against the dirt, pushing outward with a relentless hunger.
The ground beneath them quivered, a low pulse echoing through the cavern floor. A sound arose—not the growl of an animal, not the screech of a beast, but something else entirely—whispers. A chorus of voices, but there was no mouth from which they issued. No body that housed them.
"We are here."
The words crawled across the cavern like a shadow. The floor of the cavern shuddered again, as if something beneath was breathing, drawing in the air, the very life of the place. And then, the first scream erupted.
A young cultist, his gaze locked in terror at the sight of the Smiling Man's body, stumbled backward. His foot sank into the ground—not as though stepping into mud, but as though the earth itself had opened wide to swallow him whole. The parasites surged forward, a living tide that surged around his legs, wrapping tightly, like veins seeking a pulse to latch onto.
The man fought to free himself, clawing at the dirt, but the earth itself seemed to conspire against him. His body sank, robes billowing outward as the black tide surged up his limbs. The blackness reached his chest, his throat, his face—and then, the screaming ceased.
His body went slack, lifeless. But then, his mouth twitched, his chest rose and fell with unnatural, jerking movements—as though something inside him was still shifting, still settling into place.
His head tilted upward, and his eyes, once frantic and full of terror, now stared out blankly, empty. Then, his lips curved into a perfect imitation of the Smiling Man's grin.
He rose—not by his own strength, not by pushing himself up, but by some unseen force within him, pulling him from the earth. His gaping chest wound no longer bled—not because he was healed, but because there was nothing left inside him, nothing left to bleed. Only the crawling blackness.
The whispers grew louder, swelling, vibrating through the air.
"Join us."
"We hunger."
"We see you."
And then, the ground split open further.
What emerged was not a claw, nor a beast, nor some ancient predator—but motion itself. Thousands of tiny limbs, writhing and weaving in unison, came together, forming something too fluid to be solid. It spilled forward in a rolling tide, neither crawling nor walking, but swarming, a mass of movement too vast to comprehend.
The first to run were the weakest among the cultists—the ones whose faith had already begun to fracture. They had wavered the moment Erasmus had entered their world. The sound of their sandals slapping against the stone echoed as their panic grew, their breath coming fast and ragged. They did not make it far.
The ground opened beneath them, consuming them whole. The parasites were fast—too fast. Their screams were cut short, muffled into wet gurgles as they were dragged into the abyss. Silence followed, but not for long.
One by one, they rose again.
Their robes still clung to their bodies, but beneath the fabric, something stirred. Something unnatural. The black tendrils inside them pulsed and bulged, outlining too many limbs beneath their skin, too many movements where there should be none. Their bones cracked and stretched, wet sounds that made the air thick with horror. Their fingers curled unnaturally, as if remembering how to hold themselves, to grasp.
And then, their heads lifted, in eerie unison, all of them—their eyes empty, lifeless, their faces contorted into that same unnatural, frozen smile.
The Smiling Ones.
They did not blink. They did not flinch. They merely twitched, their smiles stretching wider, too wide, lips pulling back in grotesque angles, their jaws creaking as if fighting to maintain their human shape.
And then, with perfect synchronization, they turned toward the last untouched cultist.
A trembling man collapsed to his knees, his lips moving in desperate prayer, calling upon the Ebonmoth, his supposed god. His hands shook, his words choked in his throat. He glanced toward Erasmus—the unmoving figure, the one untouched by the horror unfolding around him.
"Please," the cultist begged, his voice breaking. "Why won't you stop this?"
Erasmus met his gaze. And smiled.
The cultist froze.
His breath caught in his throat. His face twisted in horror, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
He did not scream when the parasites reached him.
His silence was answer enough.
The cult, what remained of it, was crumbling. Some fled, disappearing into the dark tunnels, desperate to escape the growing tide. Others stood still, accepting their fate, waiting for the inevitable to take them.
And Erasmus? He merely watched.
This was no longer his concern.
He turned his attention elsewhere, to the one person still standing.
The Hero.
A young warrior, blade drawn, but unmoving in the face of the terror surrounding him. His eyes, red and fierce, flickered between the rising husked bodies, his grip on the hilt of his sword white-knuckled, a fragile resolve threatening to shatter.
Erasmus spoke—his voice calm, even.
"Move, or you will die standing."
The Hero exhaled sharply, the sound filled with the weight of his resolve, his fear barely hidden beneath layers of bravado. Then, without another word, he stepped forward.
His blade ignited—a golden flare of light, rippling, alive with divine heat, a flame that could not be extinguished.
The parasites hesitated.
The whispers faltered.
And then, the Hero spoke—his words carrying with them the weight of a lifetime of promises.
"So long as I stand, evil shall not pass."
His words were not a plea. They were not a whisper. They were a Vow.
The air around them shifted.
Something answered.
The golden light expanded, flooding the cavern. The parasites recoiled, their writhing tide faltering, screaming as they burned in the radiance. The Hero moved. His blade sliced downward, the divine fire cutting through the first wave of parasites.
For a moment, the chorus of whispers shattered.
But Erasmus saw the flaw.
For every parasite the Hero struck down, five more emerged from the earth. And among them were the faces of those the Hero had tried to save. The girl, no older than sixteen, stepped toward him.
She had called to him for help only moments ago. Now, she smiled.
Her lips moved.
But the voice that emerged was not hers.
"You promised, didn't you?"
The Hero hesitated.
Just for a breath. A single, infinitesimal pause.
And that was all the swarm needed.
The ground beneath the Hero cracked open, tendrils of blackness bursting upward, wrapping around his arms, his chest, his throat. He gasped, the golden light flickering in his hands as the parasites surged forward.
His blade wavered.
And in that moment, it was too late.
The parasites overwhelmed him, engulfing him completely.
He thrashed, golden fire erupting in one final burst of defiance—but it was already dimming.
His sword was the last thing to vanish into the writhing dark.
Erasmus tilted his head, observing the Hero's disappearance with quiet detachment.
And as the cavern echoed with the whispering hunger, he wondered—how much longer could the Hero uphold his Vow before it began to crack? How much longer before he, too, was consumed by the very thing he swore to fight?
Before he broke?
Erasmus smiled.
Because it would take time.
A hundred battles. A thousand corpses. A million deaths.
But in the end…
He would break.