The scale of the sewer system was staggering.
As Duncan stood within its depths, he found it difficult to believe this massive underground complex had been built merely to manage a city's wastewater. The reinforced supports, the web of metal pipelines near the vaulted ceiling, the walls lined with gas lamps etched in arcane sigils—it all pointed to a place that had long since outgrown its original purpose.
And now, hidden from the eyes of the world above, this cold and fetid underworld had become a seedbed for something far more malignant—a cult that claimed to worship the sun, but radiated nothing but shadows and dread.
At the junction of several sewer passages was a wide subterranean chamber. Cement pillars held up a stone dome. Gaslights bathed the space in bright amber, revealing a swarm of black-robed figures. By Duncan's estimation, there were hundreds of them gathered in this place that smelled of mildew and rot.
In the center stood a raised platform.
A tall man—clearly a figure of authority—stood upon it. Unlike the others, he wore no hood. Instead, a radiant golden mask adorned his face. It was shaped like a blazing sun, stylized with jagged rays and fractured like a cracked relic. Behind him loomed a strange totem: a tall wooden pillar crowned with a roaring fireball, flames spewing from holes in what appeared to be a metal core.
When Duncan was "escorted" into this scene, the cultists turned to look.
"We recovered an escaped sacrifice on the way here," one of the black-robed escorts reported with obsequious pride. "He's been in the dark too long—his mind's clouded. We humbly ask that you shine the Lord's light upon his pitiful soul."
The golden-masked leader turned, gazing down at Duncan from his elevated post. His voice echoed through the chamber, laced with cold disbelief.
"An escaped sacrifice?"
Duncan didn't answer. He was busy taking in the surroundings—the totem, the congregation, the mask—all of it. He saw through the imagery instantly.
They were trying to recreate the sun.
Not the warped, rune-bound celestial object hanging in this world's sky, but the sun as Duncan remembered it—brilliant, burning, life-giving.
This cult wasn't just using solar symbolism. They truly believed in a "True Sun God," one who had, at some point in the distant past, "fallen."
Duncan lifted his head, meeting the golden mask's gaze with tranquil curiosity. It was supposed to be a placid look, but due to the decayed nature of his borrowed body, it came off more like vacant indifference.
The high priest looked at him for barely two seconds before turning to one of his attendants. "Check the holding area," he ordered. "Immediately."
He then nodded to the escorting acolytes, tone lightly approving: "You've done well. Even the smallest act in our Lord's name shall be remembered when the sun once more burns above the earth."
The black-robed cultists looked like they'd just been blessed by a god. They practically beamed with reverence as they chanted praises to the True Sun and shoved Duncan up to the foot of the dais.
The golden-masked priest raised his voice for all to hear.
"Wretched soul who strayed from the path," he declared, "did you not feel the chill in the rock and mud? Did you not suffer in the absence of light?"
Duncan just stared at him.
He didn't need to say anything, because the priest clearly wasn't looking for answers. His words were for the audience, and for the flaming god he believed listened.
"The cold and dark are the false sun's legacy!" the priest roared, pacing the dais like a theatrical prophet. "Under its reign, the deep sea spreads unchecked! Land lies fractured! The surface rots with hate and despair, and the great things buried in the dark stir and whisper!"
Duncan internally nodded. The man was clearly insane—but an informative kind of insane.
"How long shall we endure this twisted world?" the priest demanded. "How long shall we suffer the false sun's tyranny?"
He raised his arms, voice trembling with fervor.
"We shall suffer no more! We call for our Lord's return! The True Sun God, who shall rise from blood and flame, and bring order and life once more!"
The congregation erupted.
"May the True Sun God rise again!" they cried. "May he burn from blood and flame!"
Over and over, their chants shook the chamber, reaching a fevered pitch. Duncan marveled at the force of their fanaticism.
Then came the decree:
"Bring the offering forward!" the priest called. "Let his blood soothe the wounds left by the sun's fall!"
The cultists surged. Duncan didn't resist. In fact, he climbed the platform himself. Despite the frailty of his borrowed body, it was just a few steps—and frankly, he'd rather not be manhandled if he could avoid it.
The high priest froze. For a moment, the entire congregation fell awkwardly silent.
Duncan stood before him, looking up at the gold mask with curiosity and a faint smile.
"So," he said casually, "what happens next?"
The priest didn't reply.
"I asked," Duncan repeated, "what's the next step?"
For a few seconds, the high priest just stared at him—then finally, his voice found its footing again.
"The darkness has surely corrupted your mind… but the True Sun shall purify your soul," he intoned. "Bring him to the totem!"
Two robed men stepped up and seized Duncan's arms. He allowed it. No sense resisting when he didn't even know what the ceremony involved.
They pulled him under the flaming totem.
Their grip tightened—tighter than expected. Duncan could feel the fragile bones of his temporary host creaking under the strain.
His eyes narrowed. These two had inhuman strength.
Then the priest approached.
He produced a dagger from his robes—its blade black as obsidian, twisted and claw-like, gleaming with reflected firelight.
Duncan mentally prepared to sever the spiritual link. He'd gotten what he came for—there was no point letting this body get literally sacrificed.
The priest lifted the blade and began to chant:
"O Most High, O Most Holy Sun! Accept this offering upon the sacred pyre! Let the heart of this vessel mend the cracks in your fallen glory! May you rise again from blood and fire!"
Duncan's hand, still bound, twitched slightly.
Then he stopped, tilted his head at the priest—and stared.
Wait… did he just say heart?
A beat of stunned silence passed.
"Uh," Duncan said slowly, "you might want to check again."
The high priest paused.
"You're offering up my heart," Duncan added, with grim amusement. "Problem is—I don't have one."
He gestured slightly toward his chest.
"Big hole. Completely hollow. No refunds."