Chapter 14: The Beheaded Wizard

Empire of Brazil — Unknown Road — 1666

Tetanus awoke with a jolt.

His body lurched forward, his head slamming against something hard. A sharp pain shot through his temples, and he opened his eye with a grunt, his blurred vision slowly adjusting.

Wood. He was lying on a rough wooden floor, swaying with the uneven motion of wheels rattling over stones. A cart.

He sat up instinctively, muscles tensing, his hand reaching for the sword at his waist—

—but it wasn’t there. He was clad only in filthy rags, his body still scarred from the dungeon, but missing the gear he swore he’d recovered.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

The voice came from the front of the cart. Tetanus turned his head and saw an old man with a gray beard and a straw hat, holding the reins of a scrawny donkey. Beside him, a girl, maybe twelve, stared at Tetanus with wide eyes, her mouth slightly agape.

“Found you collapsed in the middle of the road, lad. It was getting dark, and rain was coming. I don’t leave souls suffering on the road, so I tossed you in here.”

Tetanus didn’t respond. His eye scanned the surroundings—dense forest on both sides, a gray sky promising a storm, the dirt road rutted and uneven. None of it was familiar.

The girl kept staring, more curious than afraid.

“Your eye…” she murmured.

The old man raised a hand as if to swat her. “Quiet, girl. Don’t comment on others’ flaws!”

“It’s not a flaw,” Tetanus growled, his voice hoarse from disuse.

The old man frowned but didn’t press. “Well, you’re awake now. You can hop off if you want. Or stay till the next village, if you’ve got coins to pay for the ride.”

Tetanus ignored the hint. He leaned against the cart’s side, his knuckles white from gripping the wood.

Hell. The Seven Princes. That cursed deal he hadn’t even had time to question or accept. Was it all a dream?

Tetanus looked at his chest, searching for something. There it was, as always—the spiral mark of the Anti-God, still moving slowly, like a second heartbeat.

No. It hadn’t been just a dream. He didn’t know if the old man had noticed the mark on his chest.

The girl tugged at the old man’s sleeve. “Grandpa, he’s bleeding.” She pointed to the sole of Tetanus’s foot.

He looked down. A rusty nail pierced his sole, just like in hell. Blood trickled slowly, mixing with the cart’s dust.

The old man sighed. “Bad luck, eh, lad? Here, hold on.” He grabbed a dirty rag from the bench and tossed it to Tetanus. “Wrap that up before it festers.”

Tetanus caught the rag but didn’t move to cover the wound. Instead, he yanked the nail out with a sharp tug.

The girl winced. “Ouch!”

The old man snorted. “Well, at least you’re tough. That helps these days.”

Tetanus ignored them, staring at the road ahead as he wrapped his foot. The cart crept along, the donkey’s hooves slapping the muddy road. Tetanus gazed at the dense forest lining the path.

Among the trees, he saw them—faces.

They seemed carved from the darkness between the trunks—large, red eyes fixed on him, mouths twisted into smiles too wide, watching the cart with malice.

The girl played with a cloth doll, oblivious to what Tetanus saw, and the old man muttered under his breath, distracted.

Tetanus clenched his fists. “Where are we going?” His voice was rough, cutting through the air.

The old man shrugged. “Euclides da Cunha. Half a league from here.”

“What year is it?”

The old man raised an eyebrow but answered, “Year of Grace 1666, lad. Did you hit your head or something?”

Tetanus swallowed hard. Four years. Four years since he’d been thrown into that dungeon. The world had moved on without him. “And what state are we in?”

“Holy Bahia of All Saints, for God’s sake.” The old man spat on the road. “You a foreigner or just messing with me?”

Tetanus ignored the question. “Is there work around here?”

The old man scratched his beard, thoughtful. “Well… if you’re the brave type—or crazy—they’re hiring explorers for a job. Ruins of an abandoned imperial dungeon showed up nearby. They say there’s stuff in there… stuff worth a good sack of gold. But they also say those who go in don’t usually come back.”

Tetanus felt a chill down his spine. A dungeon. Like the one he’d just escaped. “Who’s hiring?”

“Some Baron of Alcântara. Rich guy, likes collecting weird artifacts.”

Tetanus nodded, his fingers brushing the mark on his chest. He couldn’t do anything without gear, but like any good Brazilian, he could improvise when needed.

“And my equipment?” he asked, looking at the old man. “I had a sword, armor, everything…”

The old man laughed. “Lad, when I found you, you were naked as a stray dog. I just covered you with those old rags so you wouldn’t scare the girl.”

The girl looked at him, then murmured, “But you have a pretty eye…”

The old man rolled his eyes.

Tetanus didn’t respond, staring back at the eyes watching him from the forest as the cart plodded forward, the donkey’s legs sinking into the forming mud.

The gray sky darkened further, and the first heavy, cold raindrops began to fall, pattering on the cart’s canvas roof.

The rain intensified, turning into a downpour that soaked the road and made the donkey bray and balk in protest.

The old man pulled the reins, stopping the cart under the canopy of a large tree offering some shelter. “Damn rain,” he muttered, tying the reins and climbing down with a tired grunt.

“Let’s camp here till it passes. No use pushing the beast in this mud!” He looked at Tetanus, pointing to the forest. “Help gather some dry twigs, lad. And you, Ana, stay put and don’t touch anything.”

Tetanus climbed down, his foot sinking into the mud. He ignored the old man and walked toward the forest, drawn to the faces watching him. Rain streamed down his face, soaking the rags covering his body.

They were shapeless creatures, their bodies like liquid shadow, their red, bulging, cross-eyed gazes staring into the void. Long, twisted fingers pointed at him, beckoning.

He approached, the figures unmoving, just staring, their mouths stretching into foolish grins.

“What do you want?” Tetanus asked, voice low but firm. There was no answer, only the sound of rain and the pulsing of the mark on his chest. He took another step, nearly touching the forest’s edge, when a shrill scream cut through the air from the camp.

Tetanus spun on his heels, adrenaline surging, and ran back, the mud slowing each step. When he reached the camp, the scene froze him.

Ana stood by the cart, rain streaming down her pale face. In one hand, she held a sword—his sword, the one he swore he’d lost.

In the other, she held the old man’s head, his eyes open in a silent scream, blood dripping and mixing with the mud. The old man’s headless body lay a few meters away, his gray beard caked with dirt.

The girl twisted her neck 150 degrees backward. Ana’s eyes were no longer a child’s. They glowed a vivid red, identical to the figures in the forest, and her mouth contorted into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Hunter…” she whispered, her voice distorted, as if multiple voices spoke at once. “Why did you do that?” She raised the sword, its blade gleaming in the rain, pointing it at Tetanus.

Tetanus stepped back as the girl—or whatever it was—advanced, the old man’s head swinging in her hand like a trophy.

Ana lunged, the sword that once belonged to Tetanus flashing as it sliced toward him. The old man’s head was tossed aside.

Tetanus acted on instinct. His muscles, hardened by years of torture, reacted with brutal precision. He raised his hand, calloused fingers closing around the blade before it struck. The pain of the metal cutting his palm was ignored, rage overriding any sensation.

“Possessed now, you crazy bitch?!” he snarled.

With a grunt, he yanked the sword hard, wrenching it from her hands. The force made Ana stumble, and Tetanus capitalized, delivering a powerful kick to her chest. The impact sent her sprawling into the mud, her small body sliding across the wet ground.

She tried to rise, her body twisting grotesquely, like a newborn calf struggling to stand.

Tetanus spun the sword in a fluid motion, the blade slicing through the air in a streak of light. Ana’s head rolled, severed from her body, and a shrill, supernatural scream tore through the sky, echoing across the forest before fading. Her body collapsed, lifeless, blood mixing with the rain and mud.

Tetanus stood for a moment, panting, the sword dripping blood in his hands. He looked at Ana’s head, its red eyes now dull, mouth agape in a silent scream. With a grunt of disgust, he lifted it by the hair and tossed it away, the skull vanishing into the forest’s darkness.

The spiral mark of the Anti-God on his chest pulsed, as if approving the act, and a cold weight settled in his soul.

He approached the bodies of the old man and the girl, the rain washing the blood from his hands. He grabbed a soaked blanket from the cart and threw it over the corpses, covering them not out of respect but practicality—he didn’t want to look at them anymore.

The forest around him seemed alive, the demonic faces still watching from the trees, but now they were retreating, fading into the darkness.

Tetanus returned to the cart, the rain soaking the rags covering his body. He rummaged through it, tossing aside sacks of grain and rusty tools.

Under a loose board at the cart’s bottom, he found a chest locked with a crude padlock. With a single sword strike, he broke it, the metal snapping.

Inside was his gear: reinforced leather armor, a pouch with a few coins, and a water flask. But the rusty chain, his improvised weapon, was gone.

The old man, that bastard, had likely stolen it to sell or use. Tetanus spat into the mud, anger rising, but there was no time to dwell. The old man was dead anyway.

He donned the armor, quickly tightening the straps over his broad shoulders. The pouch was tied to his waist, and he checked the flask, still intact. The sword, now bloodied, was sheathed. He was equipped again.

Tetanus approached the donkey, trembling in the rain, its eyes wide with fear. He cut the reins with his sword, freeing the animal. “Go,” he grunted, giving its flank a light slap. The beast brayed and bolted down the road, vanishing into the dark. Tetanus didn’t need a slow cart; he’d move faster and less visibly on foot.

The rain kept falling as Tetanus headed toward Euclides da Cunha. The road wound through low hills, the dense vegetation giving way to open fields and, eventually, the first buildings of the village.

The village was surprisingly large but eerily underpopulated, with mud-and-wood houses lining a main dirt street, now turned to mud by the rain.

Thatched roofs dripped, and the smell of smoke and cooked food mingled with wet earth. The few people in the streets—merchants, farmers, women carrying baskets—stopped to stare at Tetanus as he passed. His imposing figure and gear drew looks of curiosity, fear, and suspicion. A man with a fruit cart muttered something to another, pointing at Tetanus, but he ignored them.

The old man had mentioned a Baron of Alcântara hiring explorers for an abandoned dungeon. Tetanus needed to find him.

He didn’t know if he was equipped enough for the mission, but the promise of gold, perhaps an ally, or even answers drove him forward.

He stopped at a tavern in the village center, a wooden building with a crooked sign reading “Tame Ox Tavern.” The door was ajar, laughter and clinking mugs spilling into the street.

Tetanus entered, rain dripping from his armor, his foot leaving wet prints on the wooden floor. The interior was dimly lit, candles flickering on rough tables. A group of men played cards in a corner, while others drank cheap beer, their voices loud and hoarse.

Silence fell like a stone when Tetanus entered. He didn’t care, striding to the counter where a short, bald tavern keeper cleaned a mug with a dirty rag.

“I’m looking for the Baron,” Tetanus said, his deep voice echoing in the quiet. “Where is he?”

The tavern keeper looked up, hesitant, sizing Tetanus up as if deciding whether he was a threat or just mad. “The Baron?” he replied, scratching his chin. “Not just anyone walks in asking for him. Who are you, and what do you want with the man?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” Tetanus cut in, his yellow eye fixed on the keeper. “I heard he’s hiring explorers for a dungeon. I want to know where he is and what he wants exactly.”

The keeper snorted, but the mention of the dungeon made the men at the tables murmur, some exchanging nervous glances. “The dungeon, huh?” he said, lowering his voice. “The Baron’s at the big house, top of the hill, end of the main street. But listen, lad, it’s not just gold in that dungeon. They say it’s cursed, full of things that don’t belong in this world. The last group that went… well, no one saw them come back.”

Tetanus didn’t react, just nodded. “And what does the Baron want from there?”

“Artifacts,” the keeper replied, hesitant. “Old things, from the first colonists, or maybe older. He’s obsessed with relics, especially ones with… power, let’s say. But no one knows exactly what he’s after. Just that he pays well. And that those who go either die or disappear after.”

Tetanus turned without another word, leaving the tavern under the patrons’ stares. The rain had eased as he walked up the main street, climbing the hill toward the manor. The building was imposing, stone and wood, with tall windows and a reinforced iron gate. Armed guards with spears patrolled the entrance, their eyes tracking Tetanus as he approached.

“Stop there,” one guard ordered, spear raised. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Tetanus,” he replied, voice firm. “Here to see the Baron. About the dungeon.”

The guards exchanged glances, but the one who spoke lowered his spear, still wary. “Wait here.” He went through the gate, leaving Tetanus in the rain.

Minutes later, the guard returned with an imposing middle-aged man dressed in fine but worn clothes, an embroidered vest, and a silver-handled cane. His face was pale, with deep blue eyes that seemed to carry a hidden weight.

“You’re the adventurer?” the man asked, his voice tinged with an accent Tetanus didn’t recognize. “Pierre Labatut, Baron of Alcântara. My men say you’re here about the dungeon. Speak, what brings you, and why should I negotiate such a mission with your… barbarism?”

Tetanus met the Baron’s gaze. “I’ve survived worse than your dungeon,” he said, voice sharp. “I want to know what’s in there, what you really want, and how much you’re paying.”

Labatut smiled, a cold, sarcastic laugh climbing his throat. “Big shit, I’m a former French army general.” He gestured for the guards to open the gate. “But come in, Tetanus. Let’s negotiate what I want from those dungeons. And the payment, of course.”

Euclides da Cunha, Baron’s Manor — 1666

Tetanus crossed the iron gate, the guards watching warily, spears still in hand but keeping their distance.

Pierre Labatut, the Baron of Alcântara, walked ahead, his cane tapping rhythmically as he climbed the steps to the manor’s main entrance. The building was grand, with polished stone walls and tall, opaque glass windows, but there was an air of decay—subtle cracks in the walls, mold creeping in corners, and a palpable darkness.

Inside, the main hall was lit by iron chandeliers, their flames flickering and casting dancing shadows on faded tapestries covering the walls. The wooden floor creaked under Tetanus’s weight, and the smell of burning wax mixed with mold.

Labatut gestured to a carved wooden chair, but Tetanus stayed standing, his wary gaze fixed on the Baron, hand near his sheathed sword. He didn’t trust the man with his foreign accent and cunning eyes.

“Sit, if you like,” Labatut said, settling into a plush armchair, his cane resting beside him. “Or stand there like a rabid dog. I don’t care. Let’s get to it.” He crossed his legs, his blue eyes studying Tetanus like he was inspecting a delivery. “You asked about the dungeon. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Tetanus crossed his arms, his leather armor creaking. “Talk. What’s in that dungeon, and what do you want from it?”

Labatut leaned forward, fingers drumming on his cane. “The dungeons were discovered half a century ago, at the height of the colonial period. It was a cursed place, a hell on earth. The Portuguese used it as a prison for the worst criminals—murderers, rapists, madmen. But that wasn’t all. In its depths, there were mines, not just for gold or silver. Rare minerals, things that glowed unnaturally.” He paused, his gaze distant, as if seeing something beyond the hall. “When Brazil became independent and Dom Pedro II took power, the dungeon was sealed. No one knows why, but records say something escaped from there, something that scared even the toughest of the Empire. Since then, it’s been forgotten… but what lingers cannot be forgotten.”

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

“And what do you want me to bring back?” Tetanus asked bluntly.

Labatut smiled. “Artifacts. Relics. Anything unusual. If you don’t understand it, you bring it.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And if you find something like a book or tome, bring it intact. No matter the cost. That’s worth more than any gold.”

Tetanus frowned. “And how much are you paying for this? I’m not risking my skin for vague promises.”

Labatut laughed, the sound echoing in the hall. “One artifact in particular. Something not of this world. A dark, square object with an… alien look, let’s say.” He leaned forward, voice low as if afraid of being overheard. “I won’t bore you with details, because I don’t have them. I only know it’s valuable, and it’s in the dungeon’s depths. Bring it to me, and I’ll make you a rich man.”

Tetanus snorted, uncrossing his arms. “Rich, huh?” He stepped forward, his yellow eye fixed on the Baron. “It’s not just money I want, and going into a place like that unprepared… Weapons, supplies, maybe backup. That costs gold, and I don’t have any. I want an advance to gear up properly.”

Labatut raised an eyebrow, amused but not surprised. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. A former French army general, and here I am, negotiating with a scarred barbarian.” He laughed again. “No need for gold in hand. Tell the village shops you’re my envoy, and they’ll provide what you need—weapons, provisions, anything. But don’t abuse my generosity.”

He stood, walking to a table with a parchment roll. He unfurled it, revealing a crude map drawn in black ink with tight, scrawled notes. “This is the way to the dungeon. A few kilometers north, hidden in the hills. Follow the map, and don’t get lost.”

Tetanus took the map, studying the winding lines and strange symbols marking the path. He folded it and tucked it into his pouch, his mind already planning the next steps. “And the payment?” he asked, voice firm. “How much is this artifact worth to you?”

Labatut sat back down, cane resting on his knee. “Enough money to let you spend it on half the world’s whores and stop annoying me.”

Tetanus turned to the door. “I’ll get what I need in the village and head out. If this artifact’s so important, it better be worth the risk.”

Labatut nodded, his cold smile returning. “Bonne chance, monsieur.”

Tetanus left the manor, the guards now distracted at the entrance as a light drizzle fell over the village.

He pushed open the blacksmith’s door, a rusty bell jingling above. The interior was stifling, lit by a brazier crackling in a corner, casting flickering shadows on walls lined with weapons and tools.

Two merchants stood behind a rough wooden counter: a burly man with a long beard and two missing fingers, and an older woman with a wrinkled face but sharp, lively eyes. A group of local Bahians, likely customers, chatted loudly near a shelf of knives but fell silent when Tetanus entered, their eyes fixed on the newcomer.

“I’m Pierre Labatut’s envoy,” Tetanus said, his deep voice cutting through the silence. “I need equipment. He said you’d provide.”

The burly merchant, presumably the shop’s owner, scratched his beard, sizing Tetanus up. “The Baron’s envoy, huh?” He exchanged a look with the woman, who frowned. “Alright, lad. What do you want?”

Tetanus pointed to a chainmail armor hanging on a wooden stand. It was well-crafted, the iron rings intricately linked, gleaming in the brazier’s light. “That armor,” he said, then pointed to a large silver sword with a broad blade and reinforced hilt on a shelf. “And that sword.”

The woman approached, grabbing the chainmail with a grunt. “Heavy, but it takes a beating. You seem the type who needs it.” She handed the armor to Tetanus, who swapped it for his old leather one, quickly adjusting the straps over his broad shoulders. The metal’s weight was reassuring, sturdier than leather. He took the sword, testing its balance with a quick spin. The blade sliced the air, and he nodded, satisfied.

As the merchants wrapped additional supplies—a spare canteen, ropes, and a hunting knife—Tetanus leaned on the counter, his yellow eye fixed on them. “You known the Baron long?” he asked, voice casual but intentional. “He sent others to this dungeon?”

The burly merchant hesitated, glancing at the woman before answering. “You’re at least the twentieth,” he said, voice low, as if afraid of being overheard. “The Baron’s always sending people to that cursed dungeon. Strong men, mercenaries, adventurers… they go, and none come back. Or if they do, they disappear after talking to him.”

The woman crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. “There’s something off about that Frenchman. He’s not just a relic collector. The locals here talk… ugly things. They say he was a cruel general, tortured prisoners during the war, burned whole villages in the backlands. And there’s a legend…” She paused, glancing at the other Bahians in the shop, now listening intently.

A thin farmer with sun-weathered skin spoke up, voice trembling. “The monster Labatut, that’s what they call him. They say he’s not human anymore. That he makes pacts with things from hell. Out in the backlands, folks say he appears at night, eyes glowing like fire, taking anyone who crosses his path. And that dungeon…” He crossed himself quickly.

Tetanus listened to the legend of the monster Labatut in silence. Labatut wasn’t just an eccentric rich man—there was more.

“And no one’s ever brought anything back?” Tetanus asked, taking advantage of the lull in the rain.

The burly merchant shrugged, uneasy. “Some brought trinkets. Stone pieces, broken jewelry, things like that. But never what the Baron really wants. And like I said, they disappear after.” He leaned over the counter, voice a whisper. “If you’re going to that dungeon, lad, be careful. The Baron’s not trustworthy. And that place even less.”

Tetanus nodded, filing the words away. He took the supplies, slinging the canteen and rope onto his belt and sheathing the silver sword. “Thanks for the warning… I noticed this place has fewer people than I expected.”

The woman replied, “This village… it was thriving before Labatut came, had about ten thousand people. Now there’s less than five hundred. That Frenchman must be making everyone disappear.”

“Alright… thanks for the gear. Keep the old armor. It’s a gift.”

He left the blacksmith, his mind on the merchants’ words. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained heavy, dark clouds looming like a bad omen. Tetanus glanced at Labatut’s map, mentally tracing the path to the dungeon in the northern hills.

He trekked through the hills north of Euclides, Labatut’s map in hand. The air grew heavy, a faint stench of rot intensifying as he neared his destination.

After hours of walking, he spotted the dungeon’s entrance, hidden among jagged rocks and covered in twisted vines. The iron gates, rusted and ajar, loomed like menacing bars against the hillside. Swarms of blowflies buzzed, drawn by an overwhelming stench of rotting flesh emanating from within.

Tetanus wrinkled his nose, his stomach churning, but he pressed forward, shouldering the gates open. The metal screeched loudly, echoing in the silence as he entered, the dungeon’s darkness swallowing the daylight.

Imperial Dungeons

The interior was chaos. The stone walls were cracked, covered in moss and dark stains that looked like dried blood. The dirt floor, littered with debris, was strewn with broken bones and twisted metal scraps, as if the dungeon had been abandoned in a hurry. Tetanus felt a wave of weakness wash over him, a sudden, supernatural hunger draining his energy, as if the place itself was sapping his vitality. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the sensation and moving forward, hand always on his sword’s hilt.

Ahead, a tattered flag of the Brazilian Empire hung on a wall, swaying slightly despite the lack of wind. Its faded colors—green, yellow, and blue—were stained with filth, the imperial crest barely recognizable. Tetanus passed it without a glance.

He followed a narrow corridor, the stench of rot growing stronger, until he reached what seemed to be an abandoned kitchen. Rotten wooden tables were overturned, rusted pots scattered on the floor. In a corner, he found a sack of dried flour, hardened by time but still edible. He took it, knowing any supplies could be useful.

Suddenly, a heavy sound echoed through the corridor—slow footsteps accompanied by a grotesque dragging, as if something massive was moving.

Tetanus acted on instinct, slipping behind an overturned table, hiding in the shadows. He held his breath, heart pounding, as the thing entered the kitchen.

It was a mutant jailer. Its form was colossal, about four meters tall, its deformed muscles stretching its skin to near tearing. A small, ill-fitting armor seemed fused to its body, the metal embedded in its flesh as if part of it. But what sent a chill down Tetanus’s spine was what hung between its legs.

Its penis, like a third leg, swollen and grotesque, was so large it dragged on the floor, leaving a viscous trail. The creature reeked of a foul mix of sweat, rot, and something inhumanly acrid. Its small, sunken eyes glowed with white light, and it carried a giant axe, big enough to cleave a man in half with one swing.

Tetanus stayed still, knowing that fighting this thing here, without a plan, would be suicide. The jailer stopped in the kitchen’s center, sniffing the air with a guttural grunt, its head turning slowly side to side. Tetanus remained hidden, imagining that being caught by the jailer could lead to a fate worse than death.

The jailer’s breathing echoed, heavy and hoarse, as it rummaged through barrels with hands the size of plates. Tetanus stayed frozen, his hand slowly opening and closing around his sword’s hilt.

The monster was too close. Too close. A heavy step. Another followed. The stench of rotting flesh and fetid sweat filled the air. The creature was so near that Tetanus felt its grotesque penis brush against his arm.

Tetanus had an idea.

With a swift move, he grabbed the sack of moldy flour from his pouch and hurled it at the jailer’s face. The white powder exploded in the air, coating the creature’s bulging, cross-eyed gaze.

“GRRRAAAAGH!”

The jailer roared, its massive hands rubbing its blinded face. Tetanus didn’t wait—he slid across the wet floor, passing under the monster’s enormous, crooked legs.

His sword’s blade flashed. A quick, precise strike of steel against flesh severed the jailer’s grotesque penis with a wet sound, the organ flopping to the floor like a dead fish.

The abomination howled in pain, a shrill, bestial sound that shook the walls. It spun, blind with pain and fury, its arms flailing like a crazed windmill.

Tetanus rolled across the floor as the jailer’s giant axe smashed into a cabinet. A second swing followed.

Tetanus’s sword sliced behind the creature’s joints, the blade tearing through tendons like a knife through butter.

The jailer collapsed, its useless legs folding unnaturally.

Before it could scream again, Tetanus climbed onto its chest, striking the wrist of the arm holding the axe, stopping it from reacting.

“Sleep, ugly.”

The sword plunged into the monster’s mouth, piercing deep into its throat, through flesh, as the creature let out a final gurgling scream.

The jailer’s body convulsed, muscles twitching violently before going still. Tetanus pulled the blade free, black blood gushing in thick waves. He wiped the sword on the corpse and stood, listening for more sounds. None came.

A hall led to another room, its door different from the others—ajar, its bars twisted as if something massive had tried to rip them off. Tetanus pushed it open with his foot.

Inside, rotting wooden shelves leaned precariously, laden with dusty books and clouded glass vials. The air was heavy with mold and something else—like flayed skin, but not from an animal.

Tetanus approached the central shelf, where a thicker volume stood out. Its cover was an eerie pink, with faint veins visible beneath the surface. When he touched it, the texture was soft, almost alive.

“The Birth of a God”

The letters were embossed in gold, but it was the dedication below, written in dark red ink, that made him clench his teeth:

“In the skin of the faithful, we write the truth.”

A bible made of human skin.

Tetanus opened the book, and a loose page fell, sliding under the shelf. He crouched to retrieve it, but the paper slipped further into the shadows, out of reach. He didn’t pursue it. He tucked the book into his pouch—not out of devotion, as he’d abandoned faith long ago, but because something in that text might be worth gold to the Baron.

Leaving the cell, he found a narrow staircase leading upward. The steps creaked under his weight, but he climbed anyway.

The upper floor was a circular room with cell doors arranged in a semicircle. In the center, a corpse lay slumped on a table—or so it seemed.

The body was mummified, its skin clinging to bones like old parchment. It wore tattered remnants of what might have been an explorer’s uniform, with a belt of rusty keys hanging from its waist.

Tetanus approached cautiously, fingers closing around the belt. As he pulled, a dry sound echoed—a snap of closed eyelids. The thing opened its eyes.

Dried eyelids tore open, revealing white, rolling orbs that fixed on him. Its mouth opened in a hoarse screech, and bony fingers twitched, scratching the table.

Tetanus didn’t wait for it to rise. His sword sliced the air, burying into the creature’s skull with a wet crack. The ghoul convulsed, its arms spasming, but Tetanus twisted the blade, splitting the skull in half.

The body fell back onto the table, still at last.

He yanked the keys from the belt, examining them quickly. Some bore worn symbols—cell numbers, perhaps.

At the corridor’s end, he found a metal door, different from the others. It was solid, with iron reinforcements and a wide, rusted lock still intact. Tetanus tested the keys, one by one, until one with a circle symbol clicked into place. He turned it, the mechanism groaning as if resisting, and shouldered the door open. The metal gave way slowly, revealing an open-air courtyard.

The air was cold, thick with the same rotting stench permeating the dungeon. The gray light of the overcast sky barely lit the space, but it was enough to reveal a grisly scene: a row of hanged corpses dangled from thick ropes tied to warped wooden beams.

There were dozens, maybe more, swaying slightly despite the lack of wind. Some were in advanced decay, their skin dark and swollen, while others were mummified, with sunken eyes and mouths gaping in silent screams.

Hundreds of blowflies buzzed around, the ground below stained with dark fluids dripping from the bodies, killing the grass beneath. Tetanus crossed the courtyard, searching for another exit.

On the far side, he spotted another iron door, smaller but equally reinforced. He tested the keys again until one with a chessboard symbol fit the lock.

The door opened with a low groan, revealing a dark corridor descending into the dungeon’s cells. The smell of mold and death was even stronger here.

The cells were a maze of rusted iron doors, open or broken, their interiors empty save for shattered chains and scattered bones. Tetanus searched each cell carefully, looking for clues or anything useful. Some had desperate scratches on the walls, as if someone had tried to claw through stone. Others bore inscriptions in languages he didn’t recognize, or perhaps from prisoners of other nations, carved with enough force to leave marks.

At the corridor’s end, he found a different area: an empty space with a circular hole in the floor, wide enough for a cart. Thick chains hung from the edges, descending into the darkness but not reaching the bottom. It looked like a lift or platform used to transport prisoners or haul minerals from the dungeon’s depths.

Tetanus approached, peering into the abyss below. The darkness was so dense it seemed solid, and a faint whisper, like muffled voices, rose from the depths, making the mark on his chest pulse harder.

“Deeper… you must go deeper…”

He didn’t hesitate. He took the rope from his belt, tying one end to a chain fixed to the wall. He tested its strength with a firm tug and, satisfied, began to descend.

The rope creaked under his weight, the air growing colder and damper as he plunged into the darkness. The stench of rot gave way to something more mineral…

After what felt like an eternity, his feet touched the ground. He was in a cavern complex, the natural rock walls gleaming with veins of a strange mineral emitting a faint, greenish glow, illuminating the space with a ghostly light. The floor was uneven, covered in broken stalactites and fetid water pools.

The silence was broken only by dripping water and a distant, slow dragging sound echoing through the caverns. The mark on his chest burned, as if it knew he was closer to the artifact.

Tetanus advanced through the cavern complex, the greenish glow of the mineral veins lighting his path, casting long, distorted shadows. The air was damp, thick with the smell of wet stone and something organic, like decaying fungi.

After navigating a narrow tunnel, he reached a carved stone bridge suspended over a black abyss with no visible end. The bridge was ancient, cracked and moss-covered, with rusted chains dangling from its sides, swaying in the cold draft rising from below.

Tétano testou a estabilidade com o pé, sentindo a madeira firme sob suas botas, atravessando com cuidado, do outro lado, o túnel se alargava, levando a uma caverna maior, onde o brilho esverdeado se intensificava, revelando algo inesperado.

Tetanus tested the stability with his foot, feeling the firm wood under his boots, crossing carefully, on the other side, the tunnel widened, leading to a larger cave, where the greenish glow intensified, revealing something unexpected.

Uderground City

It was a strange and unsettling sight. Rudimentary structures of stone and wood sprawled across the cavern, illuminated by luminescent fungi growing in large colonies on the walls and ceiling.

The inhabitants, dozens of them, moved among the structures, their bluish skin glimmering under the faint light. They were humanoid but emaciated, with hairless, gaunt bodies and large, opaque eyes adapted to the darkness.

The males displayed abnormally long penises, thirty to forty centimeters, hanging shamelessly, while the females had sagging breasts, their loose skin stretched over visible bones. Nudity was irrelevant here—some couples openly copulated in dimly lit corners, showing no shame, while others bartered in an makeshift market, trading fungi, dried mushrooms, and hardened meat for shiny objects or carved stones.

Tetanus stopped at the city’s entrance, sword still in hand but lowered. The inhabitants noticed him immediately, turning their heads in unison, their opaque eyes fixed on him.

To his surprise, they didn’t seem hostile. A group approached, led by an older figure with wrinkled bluish skin and a chain of bones around their neck. “Stranger…” the creature said, its voice raspy but understandable, in archaic Portuguese. “We haven’t seen outsiders in ages. What brings you to the depths, one-eyed man?”

Tetanus relaxed his stance but kept his guard up. “Passage,” he replied, voice deep. “And supplies, if you have them. I’ll pay with coins.”

The old cavern dweller tilted their head, curious, and gestured for Tetanus to follow to the market. The other inhabitants watched, some whispering in a guttural language Tetanus didn’t understand.

At the market, he traded some of the coins he’d recovered from the cart for strips of dried meat wrapped in fungal leaves. The taste was bitter, but he stored the supplies in his pouch, knowing the dungeon’s supernatural hunger could worsen.

The inhabitants were oddly friendly, offering him water from an underground spring and even a glowing mushroom, which he declined with a wave.

While eating a piece of the dried meat, Tetanus decided to take a chance. “I’m looking for something,” he said, his yellow eye fixed on the old dweller. “An artifact. Dark, square, with an… otherworldly look. Know anything about it?”

The mood shifted instantly. The old dweller stepped back, their opaque eyes wide, and the other inhabitants stopped what they were doing, hands tightening around stones and crude tools.

“The Black Cube…” the old one whispered, voice trembling. “You must not touch it! It’s cursed! It brings death!” Before Tetanus could respond, a stone flew at him, striking his chainmail with a clang. Another followed, and soon the air was filled with projectiles, the inhabitants screaming in fury, their voices echoing like a demonic chorus.

Tetanus acted on instinct.

His silver sword flashed as he raised it, charging the nearest group. The first inhabitant, a skinny male wielding an improvised spear, fell with a clean strike, the blade severing his neck.

Blue blood spilled onto the ground, glowing under the fungal light. Others came, men and women, shouting and throwing stones, but Tetanus was an unstoppable force.

Each sword strike was precise, cleaving limbs, piercing chests, decapitating. A group tried to surround him, but he spun, his blade tracing a deadly arc that left bodies strewn across the market. The old dweller tried to flee, but Tetanus caught up, driving his sword into their back. The old one’s scream was muffled by the sound of breaking bones.

In minutes, the underground city was silent, save for the drip of water and the echo of final moans. The ground was covered in bluish bodies, their blood forming glowing pools.

Tetanus stood, panting, his sword dripping viscous liquid. The mark on his chest burned like fire, and he felt a weight grow in his soul. He hadn’t wanted this—a massacre—but mentioning the “Black Cube” had turned them into enemies, and he couldn’t risk leaving survivors to pursue him.

He took advantage of the sword’s luminescence from the blood and used it to light his surroundings, scavenging the market for more dried meat and the coins he’d traded.

The city was empty now, the glowing fungi flickering as if mourning the carnage. Tetanus searched for clues about the artifact. In one of the structures, he found markings on the stone—carved symbols, one vaguely resembling a cube with spiraling lines.

A tunnel at the city’s far end descended further, and he followed it, arriving at a vast chamber with walls covered in spiral carvings.

In the center, on a black stone pedestal, was the Black Cube. It was exactly as Labatut described: a square object the size of a clenched fist, its surface so dark it seemed to swallow the surrounding light. Faint lines, almost imperceptible, ran across it, moving like living veins, as if the thing had its own electric energy.

Tetanus approached, the mark on his chest vibrating in sync with the artifact. He reached out, hesitant, and when he touched the cube, the air around him changed. Gravity seemed to halt, time slowing, and an oppressive silence swallowed all sound. The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath.

He yanked the cube from the pedestal and placed it in his pouch, its weight oddly light for its appearance. The moment he stored it, the air shifted instantly, as if gravity had paused, and the walls began to tremble.

Tetanus ran back to escape the place, but then another whisper echoed in his head, a deep, guttural, hoarse voice from the depths: “Deeper… you must come… hunter…”

The ground shook slightly, and Tetanus spotted wooden platforms descending deep into the cavern’s abyss.

He began descending the wooden platforms carefully, the wood creaking dangerously under his weight.

Ancient Pit

The greenish glow of the caverns gave way to near-total darkness, broken only by occasional sparks from minerals in the walls. The air grew colder, the smell of sulfur stronger, and the voice calling him became clearer, more insistent.

“Here… here… HERE! RIGHT HEEEEERE!!!!”

When his feet touched the ground, he was in a pit of corpses, standing atop a mountain of burned bodies—millions, perhaps, some penetrating others in a final act of love before whatever had happened there.

The walls were covered in ancient ruins—broken columns, shattered statues, and carvings of symbols resembling those in the human-skin bible.

In the center of the cavern, buried among debris, he saw something that made him question his sanity.

A decapitated head, medium-sized, with features suggesting an Arab man. Its skin was marked by rough lines of age, a thick black beard covering the chin, with a dense mustache under the nose. The teeth were yellowed, stained with sulfur, and the eyes, open and glowing with supernatural light, fixed on Tetanus.

“FINALLY!” the head shouted, its deep voice laced with sarcasm, echoing through the cavern.

“A MAGGOT with the balls to come down here! BOW BEFORE ME, for I am Al-Yasiin! The prince of flames! The herald of lies! The God of enlightenment!”

A few seconds passed.

“Hmph. Expected more, but I’ll take it. All you maggots do is dig, after all. Tetanus, is it? What a ridiculous name. Ke ke ke ke!” He laughed, a harsh, acidic sound that made Tetanus clench his fists.

“What the hell are you?” Tetanus growled, pointing his sword at the head, the mark on his chest pulsing in response to its presence.

“I am Al-Yasiin, you ignorant fool,” the head shot back, its eyes gleaming with disdain. “God of enlightenment, as I said, or at least I was, until those bastards…” He paused, his mouth twisting into a sarcastic smile. “But you, with that stinking Anti-God mark on your chest, seem like the kind of useful maggot I need… listen well. I want, I CRAVE to kill the new gods, to rip out their spines, make them choke on their own shitty ideology! So, what do you say to helping me get out of here?”

Tetanus frowned. “Why would I help you?” he asked, voice sharp. “And how do you know who I am?”

Al-Yasiin laughed again, his yellowed teeth glinting. “I know because I’m a god, you cyclops. Even without my old body, I see the world, feel the flames of fate. And you, with that infernal pact, are caught in a dance with forces you don’t understand. Take me with you, kid, and I’ll help you survive. Maybe even share some nice little secrets.” He winked, the gesture almost comical on a severed head. “Or would you rather wander until you succumb to forces you can’t comprehend?”

Tetanus hesitated. He definitely didn’t trust Al-Yasiin—the so-called “god” had an arrogance that grated, and his intentions were dubious at best. But something in the head’s voice, perhaps the promise of the revelations he craved, made him act.

He grabbed Al-Yasiin’s decapitated head by the hair, stuffing it into his pouch amid the head’s complaints and curses.

“Good choice, cyclops,” Al-Yasiin said, voice dripping with irony. “Now climb up before something worse shows up. And please, don’t trip. That’d be embarrassing.”