Deep Sea Embers

Before the chilling and hard-to-comprehend scene, the man was momentarily stunned for a brief second or two. Then, he let out a loud scream in horror. In his frenzy, he violently threw his wine glass away while lunging to the side to avoid some unseen threat.

The glass tumbled to the floor and shattered instantly. The remaining liquid spilled across the floor, resembling fresh blood. Every droplet seemed to momentarily reflect tiny sparks and grim, forbidding faces. Stumbling backwards, the man nearly tripped over a nearby sofa. He only managed to stabilize himself by leaning against a wall.

Gasping for air, he stared wide-eyed at the broken glass and spilled liquid on the floor. His heart raced as though it would burst. Beside him, his symbiotic Nightmare Jellyfish aimlessly floated in the air, eventually contracting into a peculiar spherical shape.

The terrifying reflection in the broken glass and liquid had vanished. The traumatic event seemed like nothing more than a horrifying illusion. Desperate for a sense of normalcy, the man took deep breaths, hoping that the fresh air would calm his nerves. An unsteady hope began to rise from within him, suggesting that maybe he had just hallucinated or maybe he was just too tense.

“It’s just an illusion, just an illusion… It’s a mental distortion caused by the effects of subspace…” He rapidly muttered to himself. Trying to mentally reassure himself, he began drawing power from his symbiotic dark entity, attempting to build a psychological barrier. “Stop imagining, stop recalling, avoid connections, avoid connections… Nether Lord descend and protect me, grant me eternal life in the abyss, Nether Lord descend…”

“I admire your optimism,” a voice whispered into his ear, “But blind optimism won’t solve the problem. Relax, I merely wish to gather some information from you.”

The man halted his prayers abruptly. The voice in his ear felt as if it originated from the terrifying murmurs of subspace, seizing his psyche. With stiffness, he slowly turned his head towards the source of the sound. His eyes settled on a liquor cabinet’s glass. Within the glass burned a soft green flame, which reflected the ghostly figure from subspace.

“Get away from me!”

A surge of courage arose from somewhere deep within. The devout of the Annihilation Cult fiercely summoned the power from his Nightmare Jellyfish, hurling a murky, dark sphere of decay towards the liquor cabinet. Accompanied by a deafening boom, the energy ball obliterated the entire cabinet, sending shards of glass flying across the room.

However, before the shards could even hit the ground, the terrifying figure appeared once again, this time in a mirror situated in the corner of the room. “Have you vented enough? If so, let’s talk properly.”

Within the confines of the room, the cultist finally discerned a pattern — it was the mirrors.

The ghostly apparition from subspace could infiltrate his reality through reflective surfaces!

Without hesitation, the next moment saw him violently shatter the mirror in the corner of the room. His fear and anxiety then drove him to wildly smash every glass ornament on the nearby shelves and destroy every object within his sight that could serve as a reflective surface.

In addition, he obscured anything he couldn’t break with newspapers, clothes, or whatever else he could grab. His fear rapidly evolved into anger, which was then molded into a false sense of bravery. Empowered by this “courage,” the cultist moved swiftly, attempting to eliminate or block all mediums that could possibly act as a conduit for the subspace ghost. But through it all, the haunting green flames and the ghostly reflections seemed to relentlessly pursue him.

New reflective surfaces would appear, new voices would echo, and new faces would materialize, all staring at him with dark, foreboding eyes.

Yet, after what felt like hours, the relentless assault began to subside.

He had almost obliterated or obscured every possible reflecting object in the room and even drawn thick curtains across all windows. With the last glass vase thrown into the trash bin, silence once again engulfed the building.

Dusk had settled outside, casting a gloomy atmosphere in the room that was devoid of the eerie green hue. Amidst the chaos, the cultist stood panting heavily, on high alert, surrounded by the encroaching darkness and tranquility.

From the surface, it seemed the haunting had truly ceased for the man.

Even his symbiotic entity, the Nightmare Jellyfish, seemed at peace. But it looked weakened, its smoke-like body more translucent and thin, indicating it had expended considerable energy during the confrontation and was struggling to maintain its form in this reality.

The man stood motionless in the engulfing darkness for what felt like an eternity, seemingly assessing the situation. After a considerable time, he took a deep breath and quickly draped the black coat that lay on the sofa around him.

The commotion in the room might have drawn the neighbors’ attention. Although in this remote neighborhood, law enforcement typically responded sluggishly, there was always a risk if someone reported the disturbance.

Moreover, now that the room had been marked by that subspace ghost, it was no longer safe. Destroying or blocking the mirrors might have cut off the ghost’s immediate access, but it did not fundamentally eradicate its looming presence.

For now, the ghostly entity was barred from the realm of reality, held at bay by the cultist’s efforts. Before law enforcement could intervene or before the spectral menace found another way into this realm, the obvious choice was to evacuate the premises immediately.

The man had already swiftly charted out his next steps. Slipping on his coat and concealing his symbiotic demon, he began to stride towards the exit.

But just as he was about to leave, he paused, and his gaze landed on the pile of debris covered with newspapers and rags in the middle of the room. After a moment of contemplation, he summoned a dark burst of energy with a wave of his hand. Newspapers and rags flew across the room, revealing the shattered remnants of mirrors and glass on the floor. The fragments glinted with a cold, eerie luminance in the dim light.

“Let them report it if they must,” he muttered, a smug smile playing on his lips. Without casting another glance at the treacherous shards, he swiftly opened the door and vanished into the cloak of night.

Stealthily, he wove through the alleyways, taking cover in the shadows of buildings. Occasionally, he’d use magical incantations to camouflage himself as he hurriedly distanced himself from the now-compromised location, aiming for the lower districts via familiar routes.

The curfew was already in effect, with guards now patrolling the streets. Any overt movement might lead to detention and questioning. However, this was a minor inconvenience for a cultist who had navigated this city-state for years and had become accustomed to the nocturnal lifestyle. As long as he didn’t cause too much disturbance, there were plenty of blind spots even under the watchful eyes of the church’s guardians.

Like a wraith, he skillfully bypassed the sentries between city districts, slipping into the ancient, labyrinthine alleys of the lower city. After navigating countless forks and turns, he eventually came to a halt in front of an inconspicuous, age-worn building.

Surveying his surroundings with a vigilant eye, and once more ensuring that there were no traces of the ghostly green light or any suspicious noises echoing in his mind, he finally allowed himself a sigh of relief. He then rapped on the door in a coded rhythm.

Patiently, he stood waiting until footsteps approached from the other side. A muffled voice called out, “It’s late. Whatever it is, come back tomorrow.”

“The night is too deep,” the man responded cryptically, “my companion and I merely seek shelter for our weary feet — and in exchange, we bring intriguing tales from afar.”

Silence ensued on the other side. After a tense pause that felt like an eternity, the faint sound of locks being undone was heard. The door then silently swung open to reveal a diminutive figure standing in the dim light.

“Come in,” the figure whispered, “and keep it quiet.”

The man nodded in acknowledgment, quickly sidestepping into the house and promptly shutting the door behind him. With the soft click of the door’s lock settling into place, he visibly relaxed, relief washing over his face as if he had narrowly escaped a looming peril.

“Why are you here at this hour?” The slender figure who had opened the door studied the newcomer with a blend of familiarity and caution. Even though the man was recognized as a ‘brother’ in their clandestine circle, his unexpected appearance at such an hour was irregular and set off alarm bells. “We had no prior notice of your arrival.”

“Things took an unexpected turn,” responded the man, his voice hushed under the weight of his dark, thick coat. “My mission was compromised. An unforeseen higher entity has intervened, and now it’s after me. But fear not, I’ve temporarily sealed its entry into our realm. Our immediate priority is to report this incident…”

Upon hearing this, the slender cultist’s demeanor shifted to one of grave concern. Gesturing for the other to stop speaking, he grabbed a lantern from a nearby table and whispered, “Follow me, we’ll talk underground. We mustn’t discuss our affairs under the gaze of the Four Gods.”

“Understood.”

The slender figure then opened a concealed door in the room’s corner, leading the way down a secret slope to the building’s depths. Following closely, the cloaked man descended the passageway.

Soon, they arrived at what appeared to be a gathering space underneath the structure. Labeling it a ‘gathering space’ might be too grand; it was simply a covertly excavated basement. The modest-sized room featured several chairs arranged around a round table, atop which a few lanterns flickered, their dim glow casting shadows over a chaotic collection of ritualistic tools and materials for their forbidden worship.

At the far end of the room stood a chilling sculpture resembling a grotesquely formed “tree”. Its pitch-black trunk branched out into a myriad of dizzying, thorn-like tendrils, emitting a disconcerting aura.

Descending the staircase, the cloaked man noticed a few figures already present, fellow ‘brothers’ who had evidently retreated to this underground sanctum upon hearing his earlier knock. As his gaze met theirs, each cultist looked up, their expressions scrutinizing the late-night visitor.

After an extended, tension-filled pause, the atmosphere lightened just a tad. Taking a deep breath, the cloaked man walked over and seated himself at the round table.

Close by, a gaunt man with sallow hair and a sickly pallor raised an eyebrow at the newcomer. After a lingering silence, he finally inquired, “Ran into trouble?”

“I couldn’t breach the ‘Dreamscape’. The intel provided by those damned doomsday Enders must have been flawed. Damn it all! I should have known better. Apart from the followers of the great Nether Lord, no one else can be trusted…”

“Take a moment to gather yourself,” the sallow-haired man interrupted, forcing a semblance of a smile. He slid a cup of water across the table. “Here, have a drink.”

Taking the cup, the cloaked man sighed in gratitude. “Thank you, Duncan.”