Chapter 15: The City of Tormentors

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"Breath of Hood... Nascarl has also fallen into a deep slumber in the nightmare," a deep, hoarse voice said, "Hound of Claudius, let me confirm with you once more, how much longer until the controller of the Dream Warren manifests?"

This terrifying man floated in the air above the hall, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of swarming flies, forming a nauseating thick black fog. They replaced the man's skin, making contact with the air, senselessly crawling all over him like maggots on a rotting corpse, endlessly wriggling back and forth, ceaselessly boiling like oil in a pan. They would sometimes bulge out in violently undulating lumps, sometimes sink into a mass of deformed gaps, and at times even suddenly drop a large, horrifying pile of flies, which would splatter on the ground with a loud smack, scattering in all directions before flying back to the man's body and merging with it. 

Priests of Hood.

Only they would still use this prayer, which has gradually faded away from the memory of mortals, now that the God of Death had been lost for so long.

How long has it been since the last Season of Rot? How many new mansions of greedy nobles have risen upon the remnants of Hood's desecrated temples? The blood once used to nourish the fairies of gods—the blood from the Roman Colosseum—now all squandered in dried-up sewers?

No one cares about these things except themselves.

"I do have a name, Priest of Hood, repeat after me, O—L—GA," said the woman leaning against the wall, "In return, I can also call you by your name, Mr. Gascalo."

She looked quite young, about twenty years old, very beautiful; her facial features were as delicate and soft as those of a noble, truly as fair as a fairytale princess. She was tall and slender, with light blue eyes and lustrous black hair that flowed smoothly like water, though it was cut short, just covering her ears, which was a pity. The woman spoke clear Latin with a slight tongue-rolling accent, and as she spoke, a faint smile played at the corners of her mouth, giving her a somewhat mocking appearance.

But her attire was truly unpresentable—a sweater so dirty that it turned black, worn over by a coat that smelled slightly burnt; the cuffs of her light gray trousers were torn, exposing half of her calf; her bare feet were indifferently stepping on a pile of swollen, festering corpses on the ground.

Looking around, the dark and gloomy hall was filled with remains of monsters: black horses with a pale human faces embedded where their necks should be, short old women carrying baskets of human hands, pale women with hair past their knees and no facial features—all creatures from folk legends that appear only in nightmares, defying the ancient history of species evolution. And without exception, they all died horribly: some eaten by insects until only skin and bones remained, some cut in half at the waist, some with their entire heads blown off, and some twisted into rags by a monstrous spell, a variety that could rival the scene just after the Colosseum closed. 

"We usually don't address each other by name... Hound of Claudius," the priest of Hood replied to her in a tone devoid of emotion, thousands of compound eyes swirling in the air focusing on Olga, buzzing, “You merely need to inform me—how much longer until the master of the Dream Warren manifests."

"You're really dull, and while most hounds are dull, and most Hood's priests are dull too, you're the dullest person I've ever encountered," Olga shrugged, "Actually, the name Gascalo is pretty good, I must say. But... anyway, let's cut to the chase."

Gascalo did not respond, but the buzzing of the flies seemed to change in tone.

A half-dead faceless spirit howled like a beast in the wall, its upper body was dragged into the hall, barely recognizable as a female when it was still alive. At the same time, hundreds of shiny black beetles gnawed at its skin and soul from all directions. The Ascendant’s fairies chewed its formless and massless body like bread, crawling over it with a rustling sound, like a gleaming black shroud.

Olga watched the dissipating vengeful spirit with the eyes of someone watching a farce. 

"As per the records of those believers, when the Blood Moon rises, the master of the Dream Warren—the Moon Goddess, shall manifest in the City of Tormentors," she said in a melodramatic tone like reciting poetry, "And during its fleeting descent and departure, a door directly linked to reality will also momentarily open, welcoming new inhabitants for this city, cast in by those believers."

"How much longer?"

"Hmm—about half a month? There might be some deviation, but not much," Olga switched back to a normal tone, "But I'm getting bored, I can't help but want to find some fun, but all this city has are lunatics with muddled minds, and... things that have come out of the dreams of those lunatics ."

"Then see you in half a month."

"Hey—"

Olga was about to say something, but the priest of Hood left directly. The swarm of flies scattered with a bang, like a bottle of ink poured into a rushing river. They flew out through the gaps in the doors and windows, and the central figure... there was no figure.

"By Hood's sole! These damn priests are just so dull..."

"It appears your aspiration to engage in discourse with a Hood's priest has not been realized, Olga. Should I harbor sympathy for you?"

This was a man's voice, thin as a straw, and tinged with a subtle mockery.

"Hey, I'm immune to your sarcasm, Tuskar. Just think about it—making acquaintance with a coworker, how ordinary, not to mention a mysterious priest of Hood," she shrugged nonchalantly, "The Year of Purge is nearly over, and I still haven't figured out how the Empress got involved with the Temple of Shadow, let alone Hood."

"The Empire's fate is beyond our reach, Olga. I am unconcerned with affairs outside my  jurisdiction," the man said, "The crucial point is, there are followers of the Holy Cross Church who have trailed us from the direction of the dungeon, and I suspect they've already established a camp in another house of the tormented."

"So I'm going to scout?" she blinked.

"You're quite clever, Olga."

"Will you give me a raise when we get back, boss?"

"I don't like jokes."

"I'll file a complaint against you, Tuskar."

After the complaint, she began to tremble all over, her waist arching back, her body twisting like a wave, her bones seeming to curl and bend like softened rubber bands. Her skin and clothes began to melt, her muscles deforming in concave and convex shapes, and soon, she compressed into a ball-shaped object about the height of a calf. And at this moment, this ball was still curling up, becoming like an inverted triangle... until she wrapped herself in a layer of soft white feathers.

A snow-white owl.

The owl made a half-human, half-bird sound, darting towards the man's face.

He was completely wrapped in a black robe, his face also hidden in the shadows, only extending a long, pale hand to brush off the owl's claws, "Olga, should you attempt to scratch my face with your claws once more, I will compel you to drink swill for three months upon our exit."

"Just kidding."

The owl hooted a couple of times, flapped its wings and circled a few times over Tuskar's head, then flew out from the main door.

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