After finishing his customary routine, that was, exchanging warm words with “Isidora”, Benjamin descended once more into the depths of the basement.

  As his steps carried him through the narrow passage, the hallway seemed to stir awake at his presence.

  One after another, the oil lamps along the walls flared to life with a low hiss, their glow spreading in ripples along the walls like obedient servants bowing in reverence.

  Shadows recoiled from the floor, retreating hastily into corners as though fearful of brushing against their master.

  He reached the end of the hallway where the metallic door stood. As the mechanism shifted, the slow grind of metal upon metal filled the hallway like the rumble. Without hesitation, he stepped through the widening maw and crossed its threshold.

  What lay beyond was a spiral staircase coiling downward in dizzying loops like the throat of a monstrous serpent, descending into a darkness. The air was colder here, clinging to the skin like cobwebs.

  Without faltering, Benjamin lifted his lantern as its flame sputtered to life at the snap of his fingers and began his descent.

  The light traced a narrow ring around him as he moved downward, its glow shuddering with each uneven step. Shadows rippled and danced along the walls, creating an eerie tapestry of light and dark.

  The air thickened gradually, laden with the scent of something fouler.

  At last, his boots struck the solid floor of the lowest level, and before him unfolded a vast and grim chamber, an underworld sealed beneath the mansion’s foundation.

  To describe it bluntly, it was pure hell.

  Iron cages and barred cells lined the walls, tier upon tier like stacked coffins. Rust gnawed through their jagged bars, leaving them so crooked and brittle that they looked ready to snap.

  Everywhere was the evidence of despair. Straw bedding lay scattered in damp, filthy clumps, mold spreading through the yellowed tufts inside each cell. Chains dangled heavily from the walls, their ends terminating in rusted collars tossed carelessly upon the ground.

  In one far corner, a grotesque mountain of bones piled high haphazardly, a chaotic jumble of skeletal remains thrown together with a terrible disregard.

  Bones were tangled in cruel heaps, femurs jutting outward like spears, skulls leered through the gaps, their hollow sockets glimmering faintly whenever lantern light swept past.

  The bones were small and delicate, their crania looked fragile, as if the remains belonged to those who had never reached adulthood.

  The stench here was an assault, it crawled down the throat and nested in the lungs, a mix of decay and metallic blood long since dried but never forgotten by the stones.

  Benjamin’s lantern threw its glow upon the floor, revealing scars etched by age and perhaps by nails once dragged in desperation.

  At the farthest end of this charnel den, a wooden door stood, almost too humble against the iron savagery around it.

  Too accustomed to such horrors, Benjamin moved past the rows of cages and iron-grated cells with practiced indifference. The stench of blood and decay clung to his skin, but he ignored it, stepping lightly over scattered bone shards and rusted chains.

  His pale hand reached for the humble wooden door’s cold handle and pulled it open, revealing what was hidden within.

  Inside was a dark and small chamber compared to the prison hall outside, as the glow of his lantern was soon swallowed by thick shadows.

  The air inside was weighted with the cloying residue of old wax, mingled with the faint but unmistakable foul smell of metal blood and something worse.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  At the heart of the room rose a solitary altar, elevated upon a short flight of steps like a throne.

  Atop the altar stood a crimson X-shaped statue, its two jagged arms crossing in a cruel mimicry of swords locked in eternal combat. Its top edges gleamed sharply in the lantern’s glow. Pierced through the center was a skull with two hollow sockets and two slender horns protruding from its forehead.

  On either side of the statue rested glass candle holders. With a flick of his finger, Benjamin ignited the candles from afar. The thin flames burst to life instantly, sending threads of smoke spiraling upward, casting a distorted shadow that danced across the altar.

  Laid with reverence before the statue was an exquisite dagger, a kind of sacrifice dagger that exuded elegance yet cruelty.

  Its blade curved in an arc like the fang of a hungry beast, honed to a merciless gleam. Its hilt was no less extravagant, blooming with intricate carvings, encrusted with crimson stones that shimmered faintly.

  Behind the altar stretched a long sacrificial table. Its surface filled with dried blood, engraved on it was a complex pattern, their lines were dark with congealed blood.

  Upon the table lay a fresh corpse with tangled black hair spilled like ink around the head, forming a dark halo across the stone table.

  Her frail form bore the marks of endless torture, stripped bare, her pale skin turned into a canvas of suffering with lashes, lacerations and bruises.

  Blood stained her skin, traced a path as if into the channels of the engraved pattern like an offering.

  A reeky smell lingered in the air, it carried a pungent stench of urine and sweat, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

  And yet, atop the body rested a delicate and pristine doll, as though the filth around it could not touch its form.

  Its porcelain, flawless skin shimmered pale in the candlelight like moonlight. Silken strands of gray hair fell past the doll’s slender shoulders, framing its expressionless yet beautiful face.

  The dress it wore was crafted with elegance. It was layered in lace, an ornate gown befitting a maiden, and embroidered with careful stitches and shimmering thread.

  Lying on the desecration of flesh, the doll’s navy eyes were still serene and tranquil, filled with emptiness that completely contrasted the horror below, as if to mock the corpse that had gone through a nightmare.

  Benjamin stepped across the chamber, his boots utterly soundless upon the cold flagstones, his figure cutting a shadow that stretched long toward the sacrificial table.

  He did not even spare a glance at the lifeless corpse laid on the cold stone of engraved pattern, nor the pristine doll that lay upon her chest. All of it was to him but a familiar background.

  His attention was drawn wholly to the altar at the center of the room.

  As Benjamin approached the altar, he reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew two slender glass bottles, their surfaces tinted an orange color that shimmered faintly.

  With a solemn expression, he placed one bottle on each side of the altar carefully and opened their lids with a gentle pop.

  Instantly, a warm breeze spilled into the room as he started to murmur an incantation in an unfamiliar language:

  “Blessing of the Demon of Dispute,

  The New War on the Red Horse,

  The Twin Sword of Destruction,

  The Real Monarch of all Living,

  I pray for your grace,

  In the name of Benjamin, I request a connection to the Herald of Winterin!”

  As the final syllables fell from his tongue, the air shuddered violently. A blast of heat surged outward from the altar, scouring the chamber like the breath of a furnace.

  The chamber’s temperature rose sharply, and the candle flames bucked and writhed, casting frantic shadows that danced across the walls.

  *crack*

  The bottles shattered with a sharp crack and broke, their shards scattering across the altar in glittering fragments.

  Benjamin’s brow twitched, his gaze flickering briefly toward its remnants as a shadow of displeasure crossed his face. But he remained silent, waiting for the ritual to reach its climax naturally.

  ‘They cost 10 Alan coins…’

  The orange mist that had been contained within the bottles, now freed from its glass confinement, began to swirl and coil around, drawn toward the X-shaped statue at the altar’s heart.

  Before long, it condensed itself into a concentrated vortex above the altar.

  Afterward, it slowly began to take form, condensing into the vague outline of a torso, and finally into the upper body of a figure.

  Yet its head, where a face should be, was a mist of featureless orange, save for two burning eyes that flared in crimson light, exhaling heat into the trembling air.

  Should i reduce the Gore and Sensitive Content writing, or this is good enough?