Forsaken Hunter-Chapter 12: ENSLAVED BY THE CULT

The forest was a crypt of silence—a heavy shroud pressing down, thick with the weight of death.

The faint rustle of leaves trembled in the night breeze, fragile whispers against the mournful hoots of unseen creatures, their calls echoing like lost souls.

The air carried a cloying stench—damp earth soaked with blood, a bitter tang that coated the lungs and lingered like a curse.

Crimson streaks stained the mossy ground, glinting wetly under fractured moonlight spilling through skeletal branches, casting long, jagged shadows that clawed across the clearing.

Beno lay sprawled—a broken silhouette amidst the carnage, trembling with exhaustion.

Every inch of him ached—arms limp, muscles screaming with each twitch; legs heavy as lead, bones grinding beneath torn flesh; his chest a battlefield, each breath a ragged rasp under an invisible weight crushing his ribs.

He clawed at the dirt—fingers sinking into cold soil, willing his body to move—but numbness spread like ice, betraying him.

Damn it... I can't fall here. The thought burned—desperate, flickering—his will clawing against the dark.

A sharp clang pierced the stillness—metal striking metal, a shriek slicing the night.

Beno's neck protested—a dull ache flaring—as he forced his head to turn.

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His blood ran cold, a primal chill sinking into his marrow.

Three cloaked figures emerged—wraiths born from shadow, their forms materializing with eerie grace.

Deep black hoods swallowed their faces, light vanishing into voids where eyes should gleam. Their robes shimmered with twisted crimson symbols, pulsing faintly like living veins, a rhythm that thrummed dread into the air.

But it wasn't the robes that froze him—it was their aura: cold, calculated, unnatural, a presence so alien his instincts screamed run even as his body lay shattered.

They're not hunters... they're something else.

Before Charles could react, cold steel clamped his wrists—clank—a death knell echoing through the trees.

Iron cuffs bit deep, edges cutting into flesh, blood trickling down his forearms in thin, dark rivers. The shadows moved—precise, silent—gloved hands gleaming wetly in the moonlight, restraining him in a heartbeat.

One cultist drew an orb—its surface swirling with ominous red light, a vortex of malice trapped in glass. He activated it—air shimmering, reality rippling—and a deep, guttural voice growled from within, dripping with authority.

The figures dropped to one knee—robes pooling like spilled ink, heads bowed in unison.

"Praise to the Devil, our Master," the lead cultist intoned—voice low, reverent. "We have the target."

"Good," the orb rumbled—a pause heavy with menace. "Bring him here. Alive. No matter what."

A beat—silence stretching taut. "Do not fail me."

"Yes, Master," the cultist replied—voice flat, obedient. The orb flickered—red fading to a dull pulse, connection snapping shut with a soft crack.

Beno clenched his fists—nails digging into palms, drawing faint stings of pain as he pushed against the ground. His body burned—torn muscles pulsing, exhaustion chaining him down, vision swimming with black spots.

But seeing Charles—dragged like a broken doll, wrists bound, body limp—lit a wildfire in his chest, fury roaring through his veins.

"Who the hell are you?!" His voice scraped—hoarse, raw—tearing from his throat. "How'd you get in?!"

A cultist turned—head tilting, voice slithering with amusement, venom lacing every word. "Beno Mark. E-rank candidate."

Beno's breath snagged—shock twisting his gut. They know me?!

"How do you know me?!" He bared his teeth—rage trembling in his fists. "Who are you?!"

Laughter erupted—sharp, cruel, a chorus of glass shards piercing the night. His blood boiled, chest heaving as fury clawed free.

Charles lay crumpled—clutching his chest, blood slicking his fingers, the arrow pulsing with each ragged heartbeat.

Crimson flecked his lips—coughs wet, gasping—as he forced his eyes to focus, defiance burning through pain. "They're... cult dogs!" he shouted—voice breaking, blood spraying. "Worship the Devil!"

The laughter died—rage darkening their gazes, a storm brewing. Rio, Joy, Annie shed their hoods—faces twisted with hatred, stepping forward like predators.

"What did you just call us?" Rio hissed—voice low, lethal.

Joy snarled—teeth bared. "Who's a dog, huh?"

Before Charles could answer, Annie struck—her slim frame a blur of fury. CRACK! Her boot slammed his stomach—a wet snap echoing as ribs splintered.

Blood spewed—crimson glinting in moonlight—his body curling as kicks rained down—thud, thud, thud—gasps turning to gurgles, hands clawing dirt.

Beno's vision blurred—rage swallowing his sight. "NO! Leave him alone!" His scream tore free—desperate, primal. "Don't you dare hurt him!"

Annie kicked again—Charles shuddering, bones creaking, flesh blackening.

Joy chuckled—cruel, watching Beno crawl, hands scraping mud, legs dragging uselessly.

"Look at him!" Joy laughed—sharp, mocking. "Crawling like a worm. Pathetic."

Charles turned—bloodied face toward Beno, eyes half-lidded, pain and regret shimmering. "I'm... sorry, Beno," he rasped—weak, fading. "I lost control... wounded you..."

Beno trembled—fists clenching, nails piercing flesh, blood dripping into dirt.

The air choked—helplessness and fury a storm ready to break.

"Well, mission's done," Joy said—gesturing lazily at Beno. "What about this one?"

Charles's voice—faint, pleading—cut through. "No... don't... hurt him..."

Rio grinned—cold, predatory. "Objective was you. We're done."

He slung Charles over his shoulder—limp, bleeding—a steady drip staining the ground as he turned.

Beno pushed to stand—knees buckling, vision blurring, tears stinging. Useless. Helpless.

His chest tightened—failure a blade twisting deep.

A soft voice whispered—telepathic, haunting: "Please... take care of my brother..." Clara's words sank into him, pain slicing sharper than any wound.

"I can't... I can't save him..." His whisper broke—lost to the wind.

The world blurred—pain, betrayal, hatred boiling over like a volcano.

His nails clawed furrows in the dirt—breath snarling, veins burning with unrelenting fury. His vision darkened—rage clawing at his sanity, a beast breaking free.

His head snapped up—teeth bared, a feral growl rumbling deep.

BOOM!

Energy detonated—a shockwave tearing through the forest. Lightning didn't crackle—it roared, blue arcs ripping the air with a deafening explosion, shattering rocks, distorting reality.

His eyes glowed—electric blue, sparks dancing in pupils, twin storms illuminating his blood-streaked face.

"I WILL MAKE YOU PAY!" His scream shook the night—raw, unhinged.

Annie stepped back—whistling, grinning. "Well, well... full of surprises."

Joy clicked his tongue—unimpressed. "Bring out the throne."

A guttural chorus echoed—malice spilling from the trees. Goblins swarmed—dozens, twisted bodies scuttling, greenish-gray skin glistening, jagged teeth bared, saliva dripping.

They dragged a makeshift throne—bones, rotting wood, scraps of metal, stained with old blood, a tattered red cloth fluttering atop it, a grotesque mockery.

They chanted—howling, kneeling before Rio like a god. Joy clapped—laughing. "Your Majesty, your throne's ready!"

Rio smirked—brushing his cloak, sitting casually, leg crossed, chin on knuckles. His eyes glowed—arrogance, cruelty. "Ahhh... now this is more like it."

Goblins cheered—weapons clanging in chaotic revelry.

Beno's breath heaved—eyes locked, lightning crackling around fists.

He snapped.

A burst of speed—a storm of death tearing through goblins, lightning trailing in sizzling arcs. Skulls shattered—wet cracks, torsos split, guts spilling—screams cut short as blood sprayed, painting the ground red.

Rio settled deeper—bones creaking under him, smirking with sadistic delight. "Joy, bring me a toy to entertain me."

Joy grinned—wide, wicked. "As you command, my king."

Annie cackled—sharp, gleeful, reveling in the mockery.

Joy lifted a hand to the dark forest. "Come forth, Goblin King."

The air thickened—suffocating, footsteps shaking the earth with deep thuds.

A ten-foot shadow emerged—muscular, scarred, bloodshot eyes glowing feral, jagged teeth dripping venom.

Beno felt it—terror, a primal scream to run pulsing through him.

But he couldn't—Charles's blood dripped, a lifeline he wouldn't abandon.

The Goblin King roared—trees trembling, swinging a massive trunk like a club.

BOOM!

Beno darted—Lightning Step crackling, the trunk smashing down with a crunch, dirt exploding. The King moved—faster, a blur of rage.

Beno struck—lightning surging, targeting throat, chest, eyes—thunder cracking, flesh sizzling.

Useless.

Silence fell—burnt flesh and blood choking the air. The Goblin King regenerated—wounds sealing with a sickening squish, unharmed, unyielding.

Annie yawned—golden eyes glowing amusement, watching Beno dodge—lightning flickering, narrowly evading massive fists.

"Boring," she drawled—mocking. "He only knows how to run."

She flicked her fingers—casual, dismissive.

CRASH!

Beno slammed down—an unseen force crushing him. Ribs snapped—sharp pops, lungs caving, air forced out in a wheeze. Bones creaked—grinding under pressure, dirt fracturing beneath him.

Agony hit— instantaneous, blinding. His ears rang—his body locked, fingers twitching uselessly. He couldn't breathe—blood bubbling at his mouth, chest burning.

Annie smirked—voice cutting. "Poor Beno. That's just 1/3 of Mercury's gravity. Can't move? How sad."

Her laughter pierced—cruel, sharp.

The Goblin King roared—eyes glinting triumph.

BOOM!

A colossal fist descended—judgment slamming down.

CRACK!

Pain—unimaginable. His skull fractured—a crunch as bone caved, a gash splitting his forehead. His head snapped back—thudding into dirt, spine reverberating.

Blood gushed—crimson flooding his face, pooling in eyes and mouth, copper choking him. His ears screamed—nerves misfiring, limbs spasming, clawing dirt. Pain radiated—molten lava in his bones, thoughts scattering, mind fading.

Rio's laughter—cold, triumphant—echoed as darkness swallowed him.

Beno didn't scream.

[To Be Continued...]