Brother Marcus paused at the mouth of the tunnel, torchlight trembling against the rough stone. Cold air wrapped him like dead fingers, thick with rot and centuries‑old sweat from pilgrims entombed above. Bones lined the walls—skulls stacked like macabre wallpaper—each empty socket seeming to watch his every move.
Father Marcus was no timid cleric. His eyes, hardened by years of ritual and battle, scanned the corridor. He tightened his grip on the broken crucifix—its silver scarred, the wood splintered—a weapon baptized in countless exorcisms. At his belt hung vials of holy oil, a coil of consecrated salt, and a well‑worn copy of the Rituale Romanum.
Each footfall echoed like a distant heartbeat. Far ahead, a single drip of water marked time in the silence. His breath came loud—too loud—his fear a prophecy of what waited. At a narrow bend, he knelt to study fresh footprints: small, barefoot, ending at a mound of shattered ribs. He touched a warm fragment. He recoiled, torch clattering. Darkness swallowed him. When light returned, damp handprints—black and glistening—marred the stone.
A whisper crawled up from the depths, words he could not understand but felt like nails on his mind. Marcus's jaw tightened. He whispered the exorcism blessing under his breath, voice steady: "In nomine Patris…." He forced himself forward, silver crucifix cool in his palm.
The tunnel opened into a vast chamber beneath the ruined church. Flickering torches revealed a stone altar carved with half‑Latin, half‑unknown runes—the legacy of prophets who betrayed their calling. The floor gleamed with something dark—blood, or worse. A rotten stench clawed at his throat.
Upon the altar lay the shredded remnants of Zion's mummified shroud. Its dark stains pulsed as if alive. Marcus knelt and sprinkled holy water in a circle around the altar, murmuring, "Exorcizo te, omnis immundus spiritus…" The water hissed like acid on flesh.
From the shadows came a low, guttural growl. Blue‑flame candles guttered, icy tongues licking the air. Shadows peeled away from pillars and coalesced into Methusi: a half‑formed silhouette wreathed in cobalt fire, eyes twin pits of frozen night, a grin splitting his face like cracked tombstone. His new features gleamed: jagged horns of black glass, wings of living shadow folded at his back, and a voice that split in two—a lost boy's whisper and an ancient god's rumble.
Methusi's entrance twisted the air. The runes on the altar glowed red, feeding on his presence. "You are late, Father," he hissed, the boy's tone mocking, the deeper voice shaking the pillars. "The altar is ready."
Marcus rose, heart hammering but face calm. He planted his feet, raised the broken crucifix, and intoned Psalm 68: "Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered; let those who hate Him flee before Him." The demon responded with a hiss—metal scraping bone—and lunged. Marcus held firm; the silver cross blistered Methusi's flesh, smoke curling where iron met fire.
He backed toward the protective salt circle. The creature's claws carved black scars in the stone, sparks spraying like sinister fireworks. Marcus began the Litany of the Saints, voice booming: "Saint Michael, defend us! Saint Benedict, protect us!" His words rang like hammers on steel.
Methusi paused, head tilting like a predator amused. The blue‑flame shadows behind him writhed into skeletal forms, each reaching for Marcus. He didn't flinch. He flicked salt with precise flicks, each grain a barrier of faith.
Marcus seized the moment. He thrust the crucifix forward and spoke the deprecative formula with authority only a radical priest could muster: "I adjure you, Methusi, unclean spirit, by the living God and the sacrifice of His Son, depart this place and leave His innocent in peace!" The demon shrieked, pillars trembling as if in fear.
The ground split open. From the fissure surged pale, skeletal hands, grasping at Marcus's legs. He kicked free, faith fueling his strength, and scrambled back within the circle as Methusi stepped across the salt. Its flesh smoked where it touched the consecrated barrier, yet it advanced, whispering directly into Marcus's mind: "You cannot win. This place is mine." Fear threatened to break him.
Marcus closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He recalled Christ's victory over Hell—the Harrowing, when light shattered darkness. He opened his mouth and roared the imperative: "By the power of Christ crucified, I command you, Methusi—unclean spirit—return to your damnation!"
A blinding flare erupted from the crucifix. Methusi's twin voices merged into one agonized scream. Smoke and shadow peeled from his form; the jagged horns cracked and fell, the wings dissolved into ash. With a final, earth‑shattering roar, the demon was sucked back into the crack. The skeletal hands withdrew. The fissure sealed as though it never was.
Silence fell. Marcus sank to his knees, chest heaving. The altar chamber lay still; the foul stench had lifted. The shroud's stains were ash. He collected the ash and torn cloth into a pouch, labeling it with a swift stroke of holy oil.
He had survived—but only barely. The portal beneath Monteverde still pulsed faintly, its unholy heartbeat a promise of return. Marcus knew this victory was a reprieve, not an end.
Above ground, dawn's pale light touched the church spire. Father Marcus emerged into the chill air, torch and crucifix in hand, eyes burning with resolve. He did not look back. He carried the echo of Methusi's twin voices, the memory of skeletal hands, and the certainty that the next confrontation would demand every ounce of his radical faith.
"This was just the beginning," he whispered. And in the hush, the bones in the walls rattled—a vow that darkness waits for no man.