Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 47: Opening Purgatory

His eyes were wide, the pupils blown out, a terrifying smile stretching his face into a mask of ecstasy.

"He’s mad," the Druid hissed, backing away. "He’s lost his preaching mind. Let’s kill him and find a way out."

"The Demon Lord does not care for your world," the Priest laughed, a wet, awful sound. "His loyalty is to his sister. He only storms the mortal realm to find Purgatory and release her."

"You’re spewing a whole lot of nonsense, old man," the Healer Mage shouted.

"I prayed to Azrael for thirty years!" the Priest spat, tears suddenly streaming down his face. "I begged for answers! I begged for purpose! And he gave me silence! But she... she heard me. From the dark! From the deep! She chose me!" 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

"Shut up!" the Knight roared, charging towards the Priest with a swing of his sword.

The Priest spread his arms wide, his robes fluttering as if caught in a storm.

"GRANT ME THE GLORIOUS CHAINS!"

Boom!

From his body, an energy rippled outward. Miraculous, blinding chains of golden mana snapping outwards like the tentacles of a monstrous octopus.

"What—?!"

It grabbed the charging Knight, and snatched the other four Awakeners, wrapped around their waists and chests, dragging them backward with irresistible force.

"NO!" the Elemental Mage shrieked.

They were slammed against the five stone slabs. The chains tightened, binding them flush against the cold rock, arms locked inside.

The Awakeners groaned, struggling against the bindings. But terror soon set in as they realized that they were not merely held by chains.

The slabs seemed to have magnetized their backs, fusing them to the stone.

They cried, yelled, and screamed for help, but only the cold ears of the walls of this cavern could hear.

The Priest walked to the center of the circle. He looked at each of them in turn, nodding with satisfaction.

"A Knight," he pointed to the heavily armored Awakener, "carrying the essence of Beltharion, God of War."

"A Druid," he pointed to the Dwarf in leaves, "carrying the essence of Mothiree, Goddess of Nature."

"An Elemental Mage," he pointed to the white haired girl, "carrying the essence of Lilithis, Goddess of Secrets."

"A Healer," he pointed to the red haired woman in silver, "carrying the essence of Azrael, God of Life."

"And a Summoner," he pointed to the trembling man, "carrying the essence of Azazel, God of Dominion."

The Priest drew a jagged, obsidian dagger from his sleeve. "I selected you precisely. Not for your bravery, your level, or your mastery of your meaningless Classes. But for the requirements of this delicate ritual."

"Ritual?" the Knight struggled against his chains. "What are you trying to do here, Priest?!"

"The Gods used their own essence to forge the lock of Purgatory," Thimoses whispered, stepping toward the Knight. "So only their essence can create the key."

"Please," the Healer begged, sobbing openly. "Please, don’t."

"Prepare yourselves," the Priest said, raising the dagger, his eyes burning with ecstatic madness.

"Prepare to welcome back the Creator of Creation."

"You... you’re insane," the Knight rasped, straining against the golden chains that pinned him to the cold stone slab.

The muscles he had honed through years of battle and leveling up were completely useless. His Skills were being blocked by a restrictive magic he could not comprehend.

"You are powerless." Thimoses said simply.

"Hey!" the Druid called, desperate to stall. "Are you being truthful about all this stuff? About the Goddess?"

The Priest paused to turn, the obsidian dagger gripped tight in his hanging hand. He looked at the Druid with a pity that was far colder than hate.

"Truthful?" He smiled. A disturbing, serene thing.

"You nescient imp. Do you not know that whatever you were going to do with your lives—win titles, hoard gold, level up—it is dust. It is ash."

"None of it would have ever compared to this. To be the key that turns the lock. To be the fuel for Her return."

"If this is true and you bring her back," the Elemental Mage cried, panic making her voice shrill, "won’t she want revenge? She’ll wipe out the gods’ creations! She’ll wipe out everything!"

"If she so desires," the Priest shrugged, testing the edge of the blade against his thumb.

"That means you’ll die too, you old fool!" the Knight growled, his face red with anger and fear. "She won’t spare you just because you opened the door!"

"I do not care."

The Priest’s voice dropped an octave, resonating with a terrifying conviction.

"I have been called to a higher purpose. I am the usher of the New Age. I will sacrifice anything—my breath, my blood, my soul—to ensure that the Gods pay for what they did to Her."

He walked up to the Knight first.

The warrior roared, thrashing violently, trying to summon his Aura Blade.

But nothing happened.

"Don’t bother," the Priest whispered, placing a hand on the Knight’s forehead. "The slab is siphoning your Skills. It is drinking your strength to prepare the vessel. You cannot harm me."

"Go to hell," the Knight spat.

"I am bringing Hell here."

SHKKT.

The obsidian blade moved.

Wet. Brutal.

The Knight’s throat opened in a spray of crimson.

He gurgled, his eyes widening in shock, as the lifeblood poured down his armor and into the etched grooves of the slab.

The Priest moved to the Druid next.

Then the Mage.

One by one.

There was no battle. No glory. Just their tears and pleas, the terrified whimpers of the powerful being reduced to cattle.

And the wet sound of tearing flesh.

The Summoner gasped as the Priest loomed over him, the last one left.

"Mercy..." he begged.

"I do have a tender spot you Summoners," Thimoses murmured softly. "Azazel’s essence does flow within your spirits, granting you dominion over your summons."

The boy sulked, his face full of tears.

"Nevertheless," the Priest’s eyes flashed with cold purpose. "Azazel’s essence was used in making the lock. Hence, you are a necessity for this ritual."

The Summoner burst into a new torrent of tears.

"Don’t weep, child of the Oldmother," Thimoses whispered, leaning close to the boy’s face. "Do not weep when your death serves a greater purpose. A purpose so herculean as the Creator’s return."

He drew the blade across the Summoner’s throat.

SLRRK!