The Mockery of Sacrifice
Duncan halted his retreat the moment he registered what the masked priest was chanting.
He'd been seconds away from cutting off the spiritual tether that bound him to this corpse, ready to return to the safety of the Vanished—only to pause when he realized what the cult leader was actually offering to their so-called sun god.
His heart.
Or rather, what should've been his heart, if he hadn't been currently operating a body with a hollowed-out ribcage and a hole in its chest large enough to see daylight through.
The cultists didn't know that.
Still holding the sacrificial dagger high, the priest's voice rang with conviction, invoking the return of a long-dead deity, calling for the heart of a "lost soul" as tribute to mend the wounds of the shattered sun.
Duncan stood calmly, observing the gleaming edge of the black dagger, the tongues of dark flame licking along its blade. His curiosity only deepened.
That dagger—was it another "anomalous item"? Did it borrow power, like the green flame of the Vanished, from some greater source? Was the priest a practitioner of real magic in this world—an adept capable of wielding supernatural power? And if so, how many more like him were there?
These were questions worth answering. Duncan just wasn't prepared for how quickly those answers would arrive.
The dagger plunged into his chest.
There was a hollow thunk, like poking a stick into an empty drum. Fire flared within the cavity, but there was nothing to burn. Nothing to pierce. The ritual screeched to a halt, figuratively and almost literally.
From behind him, the totem's burning orb sputtered with a cacophony of sharp pops and spine-tingling cracks, releasing a disorienting, shrill noise that seemed to tear at the very air. Duncan felt something seeping out—some cold, manic energy trying to creep across the altar.
Even through the dulled senses of his borrowed body, he could tell that the ritual had just gone spectacularly wrong.
Around him, the cultists froze. Two acolytes who had held his arms dropped to their knees, terror overtaking zeal. The priest—now motionless—still gripped the dagger, staring at Duncan in horror through the slits of his golden mask.
Duncan offered a toothy, lopsided grin. His decaying face barely moved, but the sentiment was clear.
"Two things," he said casually, placing a hand over the priest's trembling fingers.
Ghostly green fire licked along the dagger's hilt, coiling down its blade like ivy. The feedback was immediate—faint, hollow, and disappointingly weak. It was a mockery of true power, a counterfeit that barely held together under scrutiny.
Still, Duncan wasn't picky.
"First," he said, yanking open the ragged fabric covering his chest, revealing the cavernous hole that passed for a torso. "I'm a man of great heart—well, used to be. See?"
The priest stared through Duncan's chest.
"Second," Duncan added with a smirk, "next time, make sure your offering isn't expired."
He gently pushed the priest's hand away. Somehow, it was easy—his green flame disrupted the dagger's flow, unraveling the link between its borrowed power and its wielder. The high priest stumbled back, visibly shaken.
"You… foul abomination!" the cult leader hissed, backing away. "Resurrected filth! You profane this sacred rite! Who raised you?! What necromancer defiles our altar?!"
Duncan turned the dagger in his hand, weighing it thoughtfully. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he muttered, but his eyes gleamed with mischief as he turned toward the flaming totem behind him.
A ridiculous idea took hold.
He lifted the dagger to the sky.
"Most radiant and holy Sun God!" he proclaimed in a thunderous mockery of the cult leader's voice. "Accept this sacrifice upon your sacred altar! I offer the priest's heart in your name—may you rise from fire and blood!"
The dagger burst into flames.
The totem behind him shuddered, the chill of madness twisting into focus, aiming itself toward the priest. Duncan saw the terror in the man's eyes just before the blade ripped itself from his hand and launched forward, propelled by unseen forces.
It struck home.
The priest's cry echoed through the chamber as the blade buried itself in his chest. His golden mask tilted upward in agony. A heartbeat later, his heart was ash, incinerated by black fire and a whisper of ghostly green.
The dagger shot back to Duncan's hand, inert and emptied.
In the sudden silence, he stared at the dagger and muttered, "So it just needed the right incantation? Doesn't matter who says it?"
The totem refused to answer.
The Madness of the Faithful
Whatever momentary awe the surrounding cultists had felt was rapidly overridden by something far more volatile—rage.
The priest was dead. The ritual had been desecrated. The so-called sacrifice stood victorious on the altar, holding the dagger that had done it.
The closest cultists screamed and lunged.
Duncan had half a mind to throw the dagger again and shout, "I offer all your hearts!"—but the moment he saw one of them pulling a revolver out of his cloak, he reconsidered.
He gave the crowd his middle finger and severed the connection.
Time to go home.
Return to the Vanished
Far away, across an endless ocean, soft footsteps echoed on the deck of the Vanished.
Alice, the gothic doll, emerged from her room in slow, deliberate steps.
Her coffin no longer followed her. She had left it behind for now, content to explore.
Captain Duncan had said she could wander freely through the lower decks—and the upper deck too, if she wished. And if she had questions, she could come to the captain's quarters.
Alice remembered that very clearly.