CHAPTER 104: WORSHIP STONES

Charon’s torment did not end with the town.

The mists were unforgiving and relentless in their nature, refusing to let him go.

His next vision was that of a series of stones, built in a ritualistic circle. Locals would regularly come to worship at them, proclaiming that their memories could be restored if only they prayed hard enough.

The stones were weathered by generations of touch, each surface smoothed and grooved by countless fingers. Moss clung stubbornly to the cracks, as did various budding flowers, some planted by visitors.

The wind that moved here was different. It was cooler, almost damp, carrying the scent of earth after rain.

He was able to walk around and watch as the people laughed and played, singing their hymns and spreading the word of their faith. Children darted between the pillars, weaving through adults with mock sword fights made from fallen branches. A woman strummed a small lute, the notes tumbling through the air like bright beads on a string.

’This feels nice.’

It reminded him of the preachers back home. The Mistress was usually distrustful of them, as she said they were too far from their temples to truly know the will of the gods, but she still let Charon and the others listen whenever they wanted.

He wasn’t very good at that, the listening, except when it revolved around heroic tales.

Many heroes were part of the faithful, their powers deriving from the very gods they worshipped. When he was super young, Charon even considered joining the priesthood of Life, the most popular and exciting of the churches.

’How things have changed. If younger me knew that I would instead be part of the Church of Death, he would’ve been shocked and happy in equal amounts.’

The circle of stones seemed to hum the longer he stood among them. Not a sound he could hear exactly, but a vibration that settled low in his bones. It was almost... welcoming. The air carried the low, soothing cadence of prayers, words blurring into something more like music.

He watched a man kneel by the tallest stone, both hands pressed flat against it. His lips moved quickly, as though in fear the words might slip away if he spoke too slowly.

Across the way, two elderly women tied ribbons to a thin post driven into the ground. The cloth flapped in the breeze, the colors faded from years of sun, but still bright enough to stand out against the gray.

As it fluttered, it slowly shifted colors, following the sequence of the rainbow until settling on white.

Even the dirt here looked different, like it was richer, darker, holding the footprints of a hundred visitors.

Someone had left a clay bowl of fruit by the smallest stone. The apples were starting to wrinkle, but their scent was sharp enough to cut through the earthiness of the air.

’They really like their apples here, and clay? I haven’t seen clay work in ages! It’s odd how a place like this can have advanced machinery and something as medieval as clay!’

Charon closed his eyes for a moment, letting the scene settle around him. Here, the memories of the mist almost felt lighter, less oppressive.

For a single heartbeat, he could almost pretend none of the other visions had happened, that Alastor was a bad dream.

Almost.

’I need to remember what happened. I don’t know why or how, but this was shown to me for a reason. It has to be a warning from the crown.’

He frowned.

’How does that even make sense? A gods damned crown is what’s giving me information? This could all just be a random result that anyone could’ve gotten.’

It was hard to know anything without concrete proof in that direction.

Luckily, or unluckily, he was spared the mire of confusion by movement.

From the ridge, a shape emerged, long-legged, deliberate, accompanied by the sound of a hundred boots in perfect unison.

Alastor’s army crested the slope without a word, their glowing cores beating in time like a single, monstrous heart.

’What? He is here, too? Is that all this is, the mist showing me more horrific events!?’

The villagers were already in motion.

Charon could see them from the far side of the circle, rushing to place their final offerings at the altar stone. Some were simple, like bundles of dried flowers, while others were more flashy, like golden coins and advanced circuits, all in the hope of drawing the favor of the gods.

Some who had nothing to give clutched at the stones themselves, whispering prayers, their hands trembling.

It was as if they knew their end was coming and had gathered for a final time to depart on their terms.

A child ran into the inner ring, her appearance a knife to Charon’s heart. She stopped to press her forehead to each pillar, her lips moving fast in a quiet prayer.

The first volley ended the ritual.

Purple beams slashed across the circle, vaporizing offerings, splintering clay, cutting through those who clung to the stones as though they could shield them. The child fell before reaching the seventh pillar, her body gone in the same instant.

The survivors didn’t scatter; instead, they chose to gather at the center, shoulder to shoulder, drawing knives and rusted swords. Their breaths came hard, but none turned away.

Alastor stepped into the circle as if walking through a doorway. He ignored the defenders entirely, heading for the altar. His hand rested on it, blackened fingers curling against the weathered stone.

The air shifted.

Cracks raced through the altar’s surface, filling with a light that pulsed in sync with the cores of his soldiers. It was not the bright white of the temple gods, but the sickly violet of the Dead Lands.

The defenders charged.

They didn’t make it halfway. A line of constructs intercepted them, their armor new and shiny, their human faces still somewhat alive.

The clash was short and brutal. Laser swords met their own metal ones, steel feet crushed ribs, and the violet beams finished the rest.

By the time Alastor lifted his hand from the altar, no one stood to stop him.

The circle began to change.

From the cracks in each standing stone, blackness seeped like ink in water. The moss browned and curled, crumbling to dust that fell without a sound.

The air grew heavier, like the density had changed. As if gravity had made a mistake in its creation and now sought to fix it.

The Dead Lands were claiming this place.

Alastor’s gaze swept the circle, and for a moment, Charon thought he saw a glint of satisfaction beneath the impassive mask. He tilted his head, steel plates flashing briefly in the dim light, and raised a single finger.

The command was silent.

The soldiers moved to the outer ring, their weapons turned outward now, sweeping the slopes for more resistance.

Others began their grim work, hauling the bodies to the altar, feeding them to the tools hidden in Alastor’s arms.

One by one, they rose again in violet light, taking their places in the neat, unyielding ranks.

The stones had been converted into a temporary factory, the input being living, breathing humans, and the output being unthinking fodder for this crazed madman’s army.

’If he even is a man! It wouldn’t surprise me if he were a demi-god himself!’

From the ridge, Charon could see the spread.

Beyond the stones, the grass dulled and stiffened. The earth cracked and hardened, its color draining into a lifeless black. What had been green an hour ago was now the same polished onyx as the streets of the ruined village.

This was not just a conquest; it was rewriting the land itself.

A deep rumble rolled through the ground, and a fine mist of dust lifted from the worship circle. The altar’s light flared once more, and Charon felt, rather than heard, a low grinding sound, like millstones crushing bone.

He wanted to step back, but the vision held him in place.

The spread reached the first line of hills, the black swallowing shrubs and boulders without slowing. The horizon began to tilt, or maybe it was his own balance faltering.

Alastor turned away from the altar, the circle now nothing more than another command post. His voice was flat when it came, but each word seemed heavier than the last.

"Secure.... the ring... spread... to the others."

The nearest constructs broke off immediately, heading toward the narrow pass that led deeper into the range. More stones lay beyond that pass—smaller, less revered perhaps, but still standing.

Charon’s gut tightened. This was only the first.

He tried to memorize every detail, the number of soldiers sent, the pattern of their spread, the speed of the corruption as it bled into the hills. He didn’t know if this vision could be escaped, but if he made it back, Emerius and Annie had to know.

The mists began to curl at the edges of his vision again, tugging at him like unseen hands. He took one last look at the circle, now dimmed to match the rest of the Dead Lands, and let the pull take him.

Somewhere ahead, another set of stones was waiting to fall.