[This section contains a lot of blood, horror and sexuality. Readers who are disturbed can continue from the next section if they wish.]
The ritual chamber of the Holy Mother Church was not a temple but a tomb. Gothic arches sank into darkness; stone walls were stained with the echoes of centuries-old screams. The ceiling was a starless black night, illuminated only by the flickering blue-flamed candles on the altar. The air was thick with the sharp scent of incense, the damp weight of mold, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Chains clinked on the stone floor, each movement echoing like a moan. The altar rose at the heart of the room—black, rough, its surface marked with strange, mossy grooves and dried bloodstains. Around it, rusty iron rings were nailed to the ground, some stained with fresh red marks. The reliefs on the walls—screaming faces, severed hands, wilting red flowers—seemed to writhe in the candlelight as if alive.
Michael Hollowedan sat on the stone throne. Rusty nails adorned its edges; with each breath, the cold stone seeped into his bones. His blond hair was matted with sweat; his robe, though silk, weighed like chains. His heart pounded like a war drum in his chest. The First Nun, Marie Montclair, stood in the shadows; her black robe dragged on the floor like a shroud. The Second Nun, nameless, stood beside her, motionless as a statue. Their silence was sharp as a blade, heavy as a curse. Their eyes gleamed in the shadows of their hoods, but their faces were devoid of humanity—as if their souls had long been surrendered to the Church's shadows.
On the altar lay the white-haired girl. 20, perhaps 21, her body was like a statue carved from a nightmare. Her eyes were bound with a black cloth; tears had soaked it, streaming down her cheeks. Her hands, arms, and feet were tightly bound with thick ropes, the cords digging into her flesh, leaving red marks. Her body was smooth but bore a revolting purity—as if a freshly plucked chicken, yet defiled. Her vagina was sealed with rusty iron nails; thick, crude metal pierced her flesh, closing her organ like a prison gate. The surrounding skin was blackened, rotting; in some places, it sagged grotesquely, unnatural for her age, diseased. With each breath, her body trembled; her raspy gasps pierced the room's silence. Her tears dripped onto the stone floor, each drop echoing like a plea. But her mouth was sealed as if stitched—not a sound escaped. That silent terror filled the room's air like poison.
The Second Nun moved suddenly. She approached the girl slowly, her steps soundless on the stone—as if she were a shadow. Her bony, pale hands reached for the girl's eye band. When she pulled it away, the girl's eyes were revealed—white, with lashes, as if no other color existed in her body. Her eyes were watery, tears flowing like a river. She looked at Michael, her gaze filled with pure pleading, a hope for mercy. But Michael was frozen. What is this? His mind was a swamp—fear, revulsion, confusion. He wanted to reach for the girl, but Marie moved like lightning. Her hand forced Michael back onto the throne; her nails dug into his shoulder, gripping his flesh. "Still," she whispered, her voice hissing like a snake.
The Second Nun reached for the girl's irons. The rusty nails were pulled from her flesh; a sickening crack echoed in the room. The girl's skin tore; blood, hot and red, flowed onto the altar. A muffled groan escaped her throat—pain, a scream beyond words. Michael's stomach churned; his heart clenched in his chest. Stop! he wanted to scream, but his mouth was sealed by some force. His eyes locked onto the girl; tears began to stream down his own cheeks. The taste of salt filled his mouth. Why am I crying? From fear? From her pain? He remembered his family's execution—shadows, ashes, Domine, me ignosce. But this was more grotesque. His breathing quickened, his chest tightened; fear gnawed at him.
The Focus Stone sat on the altar—black, mossy, its surface pulsing with a strange, heartbeat-like glow. The girl's blood coated the stone; a red, sticky layer covered its surface. The Second Nun suddenly stopped. She released the girl; her body collapsed on the altar, chains rattling. But then, the nun's nails gleamed like knives. With a single motion, she split the girl's body in two. Her vaginal lips parted symmetrically; flesh, bone, everything tore with a revolting ripping sound. Blood flooded the stone like a river; the hot, metallic smell engulfed the room. The girl's eyes remained open, but life had drained from them. Michael froze. Fear iced his bones; his mind plummeted into an abyss. What is this? The black-clad man's laughter echoed in his mind: Poor Michea.
Marie lifted Michael from the throne and flung him onto the blood-soaked stone. Hot blood seeped into his robe; sticky, revolting, it burned his skin. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was heavy as stone. His body wouldn't move—as if invisible chains had nailed him to the altar. His breathing was raspy; his heart throbbed in his ears. Marie stood before him slowly. She shed her black robe; her body, like the girl's, was smooth, a plucked statue. Her curves were flawless but grotesque—not human, like a puppet. Her breasts were cold and white; her vagina gleamed like porcelain. Michael's eyes trembled with fear. What is this? But his body betrayed him. Marie looked at his penis; her fingers, with a slow, cold touch, brushed its tip. Instantly, an involuntary reaction—his penis stiffened. Pleasure shot through his body like lightning, but fear choked him. No! He wanted to writhe, but the chains were tighter. He wanted to flee, but his legs were stone. Tears streamed down his cheeks; salt mixed with blood.
Marie rose above the stone. Her height surpassed two meters; she loomed like a giant, a goddess, but grotesque. Her vagina, stark white, gleamed in the candlelight. Slowly, she took Michael's penis inside her. Her face was expressionless—her eyes empty, soulless. Michael let out a moan, but his voice was stifled in his throat. For a moment, the room held only the two of them. Marie began to move rhythmically. Her vaginal walls, unnaturally long, enveloped his penis; each rise and fall brought a hot, slick grip that amplified the pleasure. But this pleasure was revolting. Blood splattered with wet slaps; each movement echoed with a slick crack on the stone floor. Marie's breasts swayed with each bounce, her body rocking back and forth. Her feet were coated in the girl's blood; her toes left sticky, red marks. Her hands rested on Michael's chest, her nails digging into his flesh. The smell—blood, sweat, incense—poisoned the air. The sounds—Marie's raspy breaths, the splatter of blood, the clink of chains—formed a nightmare symphony.
Michael's body surrendered to the pleasure. Each movement sent a wave crashing through him; a hot, revolting ecstasy built in his penis. But his mind screamed. This is wrong! The girl's blood still clung to his skin; her eyes still pleaded. His family's ashes danced in his mind. I'm the guilty one! But his body betrayed him. Pleasure crushed fear; guilt stabbed like a knife. His tears didn't stop; his breaths mixed with sobs. Marie quickened. Her vagina reddened; its porcelain white was stained with a red mark. Suddenly, Michael's semen flooded into her. The pleasure was explosive—revolting, forbidden, but irresistible. Marie's eyes changed for a moment. Emptiness gave way to savage hunger. Her vaginal fluids dripped; she didn't notice, but her body trembled.
Abruptly, she pulled his penis out. Her hands reached to her vagina; she gathered the semen, her fingers sticky and red. Slowly, she brought it to her mouth and swallowed. A sinister smile spread across her face—her teeth gleamed in the candlelight. "NONE MUST BE WASTED," she screamed, her voice not human but monstrous. She lunged at Michael, her nails elongated, her eyes crazed. Michael froze; fear consumed his mind. But the Second Nun moved like lightning. She grabbed Marie by the neck, knocking her out with a sharp blow. Her body collapsed onto the stone floor; blood pooled around her.
The Second Nun lifted Michael into her arms and sat him back on the throne. Her cold, bony hands chilled his skin. She dragged Marie into the darkness. Shadows swallowed them. The room sank into silence—only Michael's raspy breaths and the drip of blood remained.
In the darkness, a storm raged within Michael. Pleasure still burned in his veins; his body trembled with the echoes of that revolting ecstasy. His eyes sought the darkness, craving more of that forbidden, grotesque sensation. But his mind screamed. The girl's eyes, the crack of the irons, the splatter of blood—all crushed his soul. She died. Because of me. He knew he would complete the Maternal Ritual by taking the virginity of the 324th Female Nun. But a girl's death… Is this holy? Guilt poisoned him. Yet the pleasure, that revolting pleasure, lingered.
The blue-flamed candles on the altar flickered, casting dancing shadows on the stone floor—screaming faces, severed hands, wilting red flowers writhed in the wall reliefs. The air was stifling with the sharp smoke of incense, the sickly sweet rot of flesh, and the metallic scent of fresh blood. Chains clinked on the floor, each movement echoing like a moan. The altar was still drenched in the girl's blood—red, sticky, rippling on its surface. The Focus Stone sat on the altar; its mossy surface glowed with a pulsing, heartbeat-like light, as if alive.
My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest. The girl's bisected body flashed in my mind—her white eyes, her tearing flesh, the splatter of blood. Marie's porcelain body, that revolting pleasure, mingled with guilt. I renounce this cursed Shell! But my body had betrayed me. My will was chained by the Church's shadows.
The darkness parted like a wave. The Second Nun glided from the shadows, holding a large stone bowl. Her robe was stained with blood; her hood hid her face like a grave. The soup in the bowl was like a vile swamp—dark red blood, white, thread-like liquid floating within, and chunks of raw flesh, some still twitching. Thick, black hairs drifted on the surface, some clinging to the bowl's edge. The smell was nauseating—the metallic sharpness of blood, the sickly sweet rot of flesh, and something else, perhaps the sour, diseased stench of the white liquid. Michael's stomach churned; his throat clogged with a lump. What is this? No, enough!
The nun pressed the bowl's edge to Michael's lips. But first, she leaned in slowly. Her bony, cold fingers gripped Michael's blond hair. With a gentle but revolting intimacy.Concurrent with this, she gathered his hair back, her fingers brushing his skin. The movement seemed tender but sinister—as if adorning a sacrifice or caressing a lover, yet her empty eyes carried a butcher's coldness. As her fingers tightly bound his hair, her nails dug into his scalp; a thin trickle of blood ran down his neck. It was like a perverse sexual symbol—the ritual's depravity masked as tender intimacy. Michael's skin crawled with revulsion; fear coiled inside him like a snake.
"EAT!" The nun's voice cracked like a whip. Michael wanted to resist, but his body moved like a puppet. His hands, betraying his will, grasped the bowl; his lips touched the vile liquid. The first sip burned his throat—hot, sticky, metallic. Blood filled his mouth; the white liquid, sour and revolting, spread like a stain on his palate. Chunks of flesh, raw and slick, crushed between his teeth; some still pulsed faintly. A thick hair caught in his throat, making him gag. Michael stopped, pushing the bowl away. "No!" he whispered, his voice trembling, weak. He wanted to vomit; his stomach rioted like a storm. But the nun didn't stop. Her hand clamped his jaw like a vise; her nails dug into his flesh. "EAT!" she repeated, her voice a curse.
Michael swallowed. Each bite was torture. The flesh chewed in his mouth; a revolting crunch echoed in his teeth. Hairs scraped his throat, some sticking to his palate. The white liquid filled his sinuses like poison; its sour, vile taste knotted his stomach. He paused, gagged; bile rose to his mouth, but he couldn't vomit. His stomach seemed to allow only entry—no exit. The nun grew impatient. Her hand yanked his hair harder; his scalp burned as if tearing. The bowl's edge was forced to his lips; the liquid poured into his mouth, some spilling down his chin. Blood, hot and sticky, dripped onto his neck; the white liquid left a revolting trail. Michael sobbed but kept eating. Each sip crushed his soul. This is vile! Tears streamed down his cheeks; salt mixed with blood.
The final bite passed his throat. The bowl was empty. Michael begged to vomit, but his stomach was heavy as stone. The nun moved suddenly. Her hand gripped his head; she forced his face into the bloodied dregs at the bowl's bottom. Hot, revolting liquid filled his nostrils; his breath stopped. He was drowning. His hands clawed at the stone throne; his nails broke on the rusty nails. Blood and the white liquid flooded his mouth, his sinuses; it burned his throat. He thrashed, but the nun's strength was inhuman. Time stretched like a swamp—seconds became hours. Finally, the nun pulled back. Michael gasped; a raspy, wet breath filled the room. His blond hair, coated in red, was sticky; his robe was soaked with blood and liquid. His skin bore a revolting film—as if only flaying it could cleanse him. His eyes were blurry; his mind was trapped in a nightmare's claws.
In that moment, the Focus Stone erupted in a blinding glow. Its mossy surface pulsed with red and white light; the room's shadows gathered in the stone, like the heart of a beast. The nun stepped back slowly. She knelt, her hood touching the floor. "Gratias agimus Deo," she whispered, her voice a hymn, but grotesque. Michael's vision blurred. Darkness swallowed him like a wave. Then, everything fell silent.