[: 3rd POV :]

Though, the middle statue was the one that drew every gaze more than the rest.

From its crown to its feet, a slow, steady stream of blood trickled down, flowing like a river carved into its form.

The liquid was not dried nor stagnant, but fresh, its surface gleaming wetly beneath the torchlight, as though the statue itself bled without end.

The sound of the dripping was faint but relentless, echoing through the chamber with a sickening rhythm.

*Drip*

Unlike the others, this figure was shrouded in a cloak of stone, carved to appear as though its very form resisted being revealed.

The folds of the cloak clung to the figure unnaturally, swallowing any sign of arms or legs, leaving its shape undefined, faceless, formless, yet crushing in its presence.

But its eyes…

The sockets were carved with flawless precision, and within them sat stones of deep, crimson hue gems that pulsed faintly like embers in the dark.

They seemed alive, glimmering with an aura so alien it pressed against the hearts of those who dared meet their gaze.

A young mage staggered back, nearly tripping over a corpse.

His breathing came in ragged gasps.

"I-It's looking at me… those eyes… it's as though they're a-alive!"

The beastman warrior snarled under his breath, gripping the haft of his axe tighter.

His ears twitched, straining at the weight of the silence.

"What the hell is this..."

The dwarf spat on the floor, though his face was pale beneath his beard.

"I've seen cursed relics, I've fought through tombs of forgotten land, but this…"

He shook his head.

"This ain't the work of men nor gods"

"It's something else."

Even the hardened mercenaries shifted uncomfortably, some lowering their gazes, others whispering hurried prayers under their breath.

The oppressive aura seeped into their bones, tightening their chests, making the very air feel heavier with every passing second.

Daniel's eyes lingered on the statue, unflinching.

Yet even he could feel it—the faint thrum of power bleeding from those crimson stones.

It was not divine, nor demonic, but something far older, something his instincts warned him was not meant to be seen by mortal eyes.

'Blood that never dries… eyes that pulse like hearts… and a cloak that hides the truth of what lies beneath,'

He thought with his jaw tightening.

'This isn't worship. This is a seal. Or perhaps… a cage.'

Behind him, Arcturus stepped closer to the altar, his expression shadowed, torchlight flickering across his sharp features.

For the briefest moment, his lips parted, almost in reverence, as though he were looking upon a god rather than an abomination.

But when he turned back to the guild, his voice carried only steel.

"Do not fear the gaze"

Still, Daniel caught the flicker in his eyes.

The way his voice trembled not with dread, but with something else entirely.

'.....'

The blood continued its endless descent, the crimson river dripping into the cracks of the altar, feeding the chamber with a quiet, endless heartbeat.

And no matter how hard they tried, none of them could shake the feeling—

that those carved red eyes were not just watching.

They were waiting.

The middle statue exuded something no words could fully capture.

The steady flow of blood from crown to base was unnerving enough, but it was the aura that truly broke the resolve of those who stood before it.

It was not a simple weight pressing on the chest, nor the suffocating dread of a battlefield.

This was deeper—an instinctual terror that clawed into the marrow of their bones.

The moment anyone's gaze lingered too long on those crimson eyes, a primal urge surged within them.

It was telling them to run, leave and flee before it sees you too clearly.

The mage who had spoken earlier collapsed to his knees, clutching his head as sweat poured down his face.

"What the fuck is this statue supposed to be...!?"

An elven huntress stumbled back several steps before slamming into the wall.

Her hands trembled violently as she gripped her bow.

"This...is abomination"

Even the beastman, who had laughed in the face of cultist blades earlier, now found his legs quivering.

His tail bristled with instinctive fear, ears flat against his skull.

He muttered through clenched teeth, as if admitting the truth was a wound to his pride.

"My instincts are telling me to run"

The dwarf warrior slammed the butt of his hammer against the floor to steady himself, but his knuckles were white from gripping it.

His voice was hoarse.

"This ain't a battle we're standin' in"

"This is a warning or perhaps a curse"

"No man or beast should go near that thing."

The aura was suffocating—like a storm of unseen hands pressing against their hearts, whispering in a thousand voices that their souls were not welcome here.

It wasn't rage.

It wasn't malice.

It was something worse.

Rejection.

The very presence of the statue declared to all who saw it.

'You do not belong. Leave now… or be unmade'

Daniel alone stood unshaken, though the flicker in his eyes betrayed the weight even he felt.

His voice was calm, but quiet, low enough that only those closest could hear.

"This isn't power meant to be worshiped… it's power meant to drive us away."

Behind him, Arcturus's shadow lengthened as he stared upon the blood-soaked figure, his expression caught somewhere between grim focus and… familiarity.

For a heartbeat, his lips curved in a shape too subtle to be called a smile, too strange to be simple composure.

Then he spoke, his tone commanding, his words cutting through the terror like a blade.

"Do not yield to fear. Whatever this is, it cannot harm us unless we allow it."

But though the mercenaries forced themselves to steady their breathing and remain still, none could deny the truth thrumming in their veins.

Every instinct screamed the same.

That statue was not just wrong.

It was a presence no living being should ever approach.

And yet… they were already inside its chamber.

The silence in the chamber was thick, broken only by the soft drip of blood that slid down the central statue like a river.

The mercenaries shifted uneasily, their armor creaking, their breaths shallow.

Even the most seasoned among them could not ignore the gnawing dread clawing at their nerves.

One of the younger guild members, voice trembling, finally spoke.

"Guildmaster… what is this? This… altar… these statues… they feel… wrong."

Another mercenary spat to the side, though the motion was hollow, his face pale.

He gripped his sword so tightly the veins in his hand bulged.

"I've seen cult dens before and sacrificial pits, blood altars and cultist shrines—but nothing like this"

"This feels like standing in the jaws of something waiting to swallow us whole."

An older healer clutched her staff to her chest, her voice weak.

"Are they… gods? These statues… are they meant to be worshipped?"

The questions echoed, one after another, bouncing off the cold stone walls.

Fear, disbelief, and a suffocating uncertainty hung over the group.

At the center of them all, Arcturus stood before the altar, torchlight painting his face in shifting shadows.

He did not falter under the countless crimson stares of the statues.

His voice came low, calm, almost too calm.

"This is where the Zero Organization conducts their rituals."

The words landed like a stone in still water—ripples of unease spread through the chamber.

One of the mercenaries, sweat trailing down his brow, frowned.

"Rituals? What kind of rituals demand this many bodies? This much blood?"

Another snapped, panic edging into his voice.

"This isn't just sacrifice"

"This is something else—something bigger"

"Look at the way the blood flows… it's feeding the statue!"

The dwarf warrior stepped forward, his hammer head trembling as though it wanted to strike.

"Guildmaster… I've seen rites of flame and death, aye, but this… this feels older"

"Like it don't belong to this world. Are ye sure it's only their doing?"

Arcturus's gaze lingered on the altar too long before he turned to face them.

His expression was composed, but his eyes gleamed faintly, betraying an unreadable weight.

"Zero is devoted to blasphemy"

"They bind their rituals in symbols none of us should hope to understand"

"That is all you need to know...for now..."

But his tone carried no outrage, no righteous fury.

Instead, it was matter-of-fact, almost as if he were reciting something he already knew too well.

The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances.

Whispers fluttered like insects in the silence.

"Doesn't he seem… calm?"

"Too calm. Like he's been here before…"

"Don't say that! He's the Guildmaster—he's led us this far!"

Yet Daniel's eyes never left Arcturus.

His aura remained quiet, controlled, but deep within, his instincts stirred.

'The way he speaks… it isn't disgust. It isn't shock. It's… familiarity.'

The blood dripping from the statue quickened, as though responding to the weight of their stares.

The faint glow in the red stone eyes pulsed once—like the beat of a heart.

A cold chill swept the chamber.

And though the Guildmaster's explanation was simple, the unease it left in their hearts only grew.

Something about his words… felt like a veil pulled over the truth.

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