Chapter 96: The Demonic Cult

Chapter 96: The Demonic Cult

Murphy stepped forward toward the guard; both of them looked at the beak-masked man and spoke. "May we get the password, sir?"

He walked toward them, leaning forward near their ears. "Ce—"

Both of them stepped back and lifted their fingers toward each other and whispered in a muffled tone. "How do you know that you have to say that in our ears?"

Murphy paused for a moment. "I was behind that man; he whispered in your ears, so I interpreted."

The man pointed a trembling finger toward him. "Do you know what it can lead to, making decisions on your own?"

Murphy nodded. "Pardon me, I will never do that ever."

Both of them curled their fingers and closed their eyes and whispered. "Password."

Murphy leaned forward and whispered back. "Cecity Obnubilate."

Both of them moved away and opened the door.

Murphy quietly walked inside, his expression hidden behind the mask as he moved through the corridor. The walls were printed with golden lines and a large red carpet beneath in the hallway. Various people walked with twisted masks; some of them had their mouths opened, some of them had twisted horns, and some of them had birds’ masks, while others had humanoid masks.

He followed the people walking toward somewhere.

That was when he finally noticed the most unsettling things; those were royals, but their crimson robes held a coppery scent as if... as if they had been bathed in blood.

Soon, he reached a vast chamber where all of them stood around the place, and in the center was a chair, and then one large dining table was placed a few meters away. Finally, his gaze landed on the man in the center.

He had worn a humanoid mask covered with a crimson hood and a demonic cult’s robe. His one hand held a circular object with bells attached to it and steam coming out of the holes in the ball. His other hand held a staff as he circled the chair once, then stopped in front of it and raised the staff.

People gathered around, braced themselves, and raised both their hands.

Thock!

The man hit the bottom tip of staff on the ground. All the people surrounding him bowed down. They laid their heads on the ground and stretched their hands forward. The man moved the object in his hand attached by a rope, moving it in a circular motion over their heads as the smoke rose toward the ceiling.

Finally, the man sat on the chair and said it out loud in a raspy voice. "I warn you, if anyone here makes any inquiry or if you say a single word of what you have seen here. There will be dire consequences to you and your families."

All of them remained silent. The man spoke again. "We shall begin, but this year, we couldn’t get the 78th organ."

The man’s eyes scanned each one of them, finally landing on Murphy. "You, please... come forward.

His steps echoed as he took three steps forward; Mo Fei’s mind was screaming to run away as he noticed the unsettling air, but Murphy’s identity had been pulling him forward. "You call me?"

"Yes," the man in the chair said as he slowly stood and pointed toward the dining room and the people standing there while holding plates. "You will offer them to our important guests."

Murphy closed his eyes, then slowly walked toward the dining table.

The crimson-cloaked man lifted the orb high, the rope swinging it in a wide circular arc again as the silver bells chimed with a rhythmic sound.

Finally, he began to speak loudly. The words were a mangled, unholy mirror of the holy tongue, spoken in a chilling rasp: "...Nema. Reve rof, yrolg eht dna, rewop eht dna, modgnik eht si eniht rof. Live morf su reviled tub, noitatpmet otni ton su dael dna..."

He tapped the ground; just as he did that, the ten cultists with the twisted masks surrounding him bowed down on the ground again. The copper stench rising from the dining table grew overwhelming as the man continued the twisted prayer.

"...Srotbed ruo evigrof ew sa, stbed ruo su evigrof dna. Daerb yliad ruo yad siht su evig..." the voice chanted, rising in volume, vibrating against the stone walls. Then, he tapped the surface twice with the staff, and all of them raised their heads and moved their hands toward the sky.

The man walked in a circle and moved the round object over their heads. Finally, he stopped and looked at all of them and opened the circular ball where boiling blood rested inside. He raised it high over his head, then dipped it down on his robe.

Murphy’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the boiling blood erupting in steam as it dripped down over the man’s body. "Am I dreaming?"

Murphy reached the edge of the long table. His hands trembled slightly beneath his heavy sleeves as his eyes fell upon what lay waiting on the platters. Taking a shallow breath behind his beak mask, he reached down toward the first offering. Mo Fei’s identity was now coming out, watching the surrounding.

The faint scent of what was inside the platter reached his nose... that... was... human flesh.

Twelve of them sat down on the chairs near the tables. Mo Fei inhaled a long breath behind his mask and pulled the platters, his eyes squinting as he saw the organs used as soup and in many dishes, his mouth almost throwing up, but he had to keep his composure.

He noticed one more thing... one seat was empty.

He served the platters and moved toward the empty chair; just then a voice came from behind him.

The crimson-cloaked man, holding the staff, spoke in an impossibly calm situation. "Serve him, but do not bother our guest."

Mo Fei’s eyes were fixated on the chair; a humanoid mask lay there. He heard them talking; he watched them eat the human organs; he watched them enjoy the taste. He also watched them... eat a soft flesh that seemed like of a young kid

Just then, he heard two voices, a familiar voice. Murphy took over again as he heard it, laughing of two men who were disgustingly similar to the royals. Prince Roosevelt and Platinum V. Carthen... he was right; they were funding the whole cult.

One of the men called out Murphy with a sickening chuckle. "Take a seat, and enjoy the meal before the grand ritual."

Murphy stared at the man wearing an owl mask over his face. He didn’t answer but opened his Apprentice’s Eyes, his gaze watching the spirit threads, but all of them were human... not corrupted but human, a true human... Just then his gaze landed on the empty chair, his vision darkened, and the spirit thread was dark, almost like a void; then blood dripped down from the thread, running down through the thread.

"An entity that is being praised and offered human lives." He muttered, but his hesitation was caught by the man sitting in the center of the room.

"Please, come forward again." The leader called out.

Murphy turned toward the man and stared, then finally walked toward the man, his hand clenched in a fist. He had seen enough of the royals’ greed.

The man tilted his head slightly. "May I know the password?"

Though Murphy stared deep into the man’s eyes and mimicked his gesture and tilted his head slightly, his expression was colder than winter as he spoke. "Cecity Obnubilate."

"Remove the mask." The man’s muffled voice echoed in the basement.

Murphy looked at the man sitting in the chair. His eyes not leaving him, finally, the fabric of his clothes shifted to the coat, his normal outfit. He reached his hand out slowly toward his face and gripped the mask, but he didn’t pull it for a few minutes. Then, with slow movement, he pulled it and dropped it down on the ground.

All of them looked at the detective standing in front of them. Their expressions hidden behind their masks as they watched the scene unfold.

Two figures in the background stared at the detective. That was the place where those two royals’ voices came from.

The man in the chair examined Murphy’s cold expression and the eyes filled with deep anger that he hid behind the emotionless facade. His lips slightly curled downward as he glanced at the people.

Many royals were sitting on the roof, many whispering to each other, while some of them waited for their turn for a meal but stopped to watch him. The leader moved his neck back to the previous angle and then said in a muffled voice. "You are... Detective Law... aren’t you?"

Murphy said nothing; he pulled out his revolver from his belt and pointed it toward the man sitting in the chair. All the surrounding men rushed forward, but their steps wavered as he pulled the trigger.

Bang! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Murphy kept pulling the trigger, shooting the man sitting in the chair six times, the hole of the revolver letting out a smoke which curled over the tip. He watched the man scream and ran his hands toward his own body, but then...

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He shot him three times again, but he didn’t stop; he kept going.

BANG! BANG!

Two times again then finally he moved forward and thrust the revolver’s point on the man’s head and pulled the trigger one last time.

BANG!