The pyre burned into a fearsome column of black smoke. Miasma filled the sky and earth, plunging the area into a realm of poison and shadow. Mort could feel the corruption clawing at his body. Its aggressive nature allowed for no true allies—it consumed or twisted vessels into new sources of itself until nothing remained but corruption. Only the firm hand of divinity could wield such cursed power.

  The bat-bone effigy of his god hung from Mort’s neck, exuding a bloody aura that lured the dark power toward it. The thickening corruption surrounded them as the effigy opened its mouth—but Mort restrained it, preventing it from absorbing the still-thin miasma. They would need it intact to complete the ceremony.

  The malodor began to move like a living entity, whirling around Mort and Renata, twitching in response to their every motion. It dispersed, keeping a measured distance, before gathering again—forming a river of floating tar.

  Following the whispers of his god, Mort guided the mass. He spread his long arms, holding the growing cloud of miasma with an invisible force that drained him rapidly. He worked quickly, closing his hands and condensing the cloud as tightly as he could. Tens of black, amorphous cores formed—tadpole-like shapes swimming within the dense miasma. They strained against his control, rebelling, desperate to break free.

  Renata joined him, holding the writhing swarm in place. The same unseen force radiated from her small form, keeping the cores from scattering. They darted wildly, their excited movement making it difficult for her to maintain control as Mort began the next phase.

  He spread his fingers and seized ten seeds of corruption. With more precision than he believed himself capable of, he planted them into the burrows the spawn had created.

  Shrieks of pain echoed as the seeds bored into the spawn. Without pausing, Mort continued, coordinating with Renata—holding the swarm, then releasing them in groups of ten.

  The village center, long cleared of structures and coated in thin mucus at the ceremony’s beginning, was now a nightmare landscape. Foul-smelling veins covered the ground, still oozing slime. Amid them rose swelling mounds—spawn transforming within. Human sized pustules filled with revolting, pus-like fluid.

  The translucent gray tissue of the pustules stretched taut as they expanded rapidly. The black cores embedded within the spawn overtook their hearts, consuming them and sprouting roots that mirrored the black veins above. Their bodies shifted from pale translucence to a deep gray-purple as corruption thickened inside them.

  When their forms darkened fully, bruised purple and swollen, another transformation began.

  Mort shed his man-bat form and knelt beside Renata, gasping for breath. The effigy at his neck poured thick miasma into him, restoring his power—but far too slowly compared to the strain he had endured. Renata was exhausted as well, though her face betrayed nothing. Only her deep, steady breaths revealed her state.

  The next step would demand even more from Mort. He allowed himself this brief respite, letting the remaining black cloud regather.

  The pyre behind them also needed fuel, but their spawn were still mid-transformation. Mort inhaled deeply and obeyed the whispers once more.

  There were only a few piles left containing burnable remnants—including the drained buck. Its flesh, bones, and antlers would nourish the spawn well.

  They began the third phase of the ritual.

  Mort threw the remaining offerings into the pyre, stoking it until the flames rose high once more. Then he began to sing—a grim dirge of rebirth. The melody was slow and sorrowful, dedicated to the transforming spawn. Lowly creatures, beginning a new life of power. They would become the hands and feet of his god, extending divine dominion across the land.

  Corruption would usher in a new era—free of weakness, free of sickness.

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  Mort wrapped his arms around himself, thinking of how his god had remade him. How Renata had been changed. The divine was miraculous.

  Mort himself was a miracle.

  No longer would he be shunned. He would be welcomed. Adored.

  For he was chosen.

  Priest of Itzcamazotz.

  He sang high, then low—his husky voice drawing corruption toward him. It obeyed his song, rising and falling, spinning clockwise, then counterclockwise.

  Renata reached for him, and he took her hand, pulling her close to his chest. His massive palms formed a sanctuary around her.

  “We are monsters of flesh and blood.”

  “We suffer cruelty just to be loved.”

  “We are reborn inside this fetid cloud.”

  “To lay claim to this corrupt ground.”

  Mort sang and twirled, smiling brightly like the crescent moon overhead.

  An abyssal darkness spread from Mort and Renata, opening a gate to Itzcamazotz. The monstrous god peered through, gazing upon the swelling cysts that covered the land.

  It smiled—content.

  From the gate poured a glossy, skittering wave of dark bodies. The crawling mass untangled itself as it spread, leaving clumps of dead behind. The mucus dissolved them, black veins absorbing the remains like roots, transferring putrid matter into the noxious wombs.

  They pulsed and throbbed in a beating rhythm—

  the heartbeat of what was being born.

  With the partial presence of his god, Mort commenced the fourth and final phase of the ceremony.

  Renata released a powerful crimson aura, her small body channeling their god’s power to form a multitude of blood cores. Unlike the living, tadpole-like black cores, these remained immobile—solidifying into dark red crystals that dripped blood. Living energy wafted from them, drawing the lingering miasma into orbit like a starving predator circling its prey.

  They repeated a process similar to that used for the black cores, though it came with far greater ease now that their god supported them. Even so, they could feel the presence waning as the gate slowly began to close. They worked quickly, implanting the blood cores into the membranous cocoons as they hardened.

  The newly grown Tliltic warriors would emerge before long. Once they did, Mort would guide them toward the nearest village—one still devoid of protection. The meager population there would serve as a fitting addition to this growing influence.

  His god had already whispered countless plans to him, teaching patiently through endless repetition. The words denied Mort rest until he either understood or obeyed. Mort found it to be the perfect way to teach—there was no pain involved, and one could learn at their own pace. The whispers tugged gently at the back of the mind, easy enough to ignore if one truly wished.

  Though Mort never did.

  To feel his god within his mind was a wish fulfilled. To become a chosen priest—a complete dream come true.

  As the gate closed and their borrowed power ran dry, Mort laughed, overcome by a disorienting euphoria. It was intoxicating to be so utterly full, only to become completely hollow moments later—the void in his heart already aching to be filled again with the glory of his god.

  With every wash of his core, he grew in understanding and in power.

  This was his world to take. His god was the only true and merciful deity that existed on this plane. None could rival his glory.

  His eyes rolled back as his mind filled with visions of blood—hard bodies clad in thick carapace. Tliltic warriors swarmed forth, conquering the world in his name.

  Renata hugged the crazed Mort tightly, watching as the hard black shells of the eggs around them began to crack. The stench of rot was palpable on the skin, a humid miasma that clung to everything.

  The corruption in the air drove the already manic Mort to shriek with delight as each new egg split open, inky, clawed hands tearing their way into the world.