Reverse Dungeon

‘If they weren’t Devil Worshippers, I wouldn’t be going this far.’

Ian clicked his tongue inwardly.

There was one trait all Devil Worshippers shared without exception.

They were absurdly good at running away.

The instant something felt wrong, they fled. Years of living as the continent’s public enemy had practically engraved escape instincts into their bones.

Ian hated dealing with them.

They wasted time.

Back in the game, he’d often gone out of his way to clear quests through alternate methods just to avoid the Devil Worshipper routes entirely.

But if obtaining Genea required this questline, then he had no choice.

The prisoners were herded along like strings of dried fish. Other dwarves joined the escort along the way, muttering things like:

“So these are the final sacrifices?”

“They look useful enough.”

Keith walked at the front of the line while Ian remained near the back.

After passing through the forest for some time, the trees suddenly opened into a vast clearing.

Humans.

Elves.

Even dwarves.

All of them bound hand and foot, dragged there just like the others, standing in endless rows.

CRACK!

One of the guard dwarves lashed a whip across the back of a woman barely able to stay upright.

She collapsed instantly.

The dwarf kicked her viciously.

“Quit pretending to faint! Move! If you stop again, the people behind you die first!”

A young boy walking behind her flinched violently.

The prisoners moved numbly, following the person ahead of them as they circled something at the center of the clearing in one enormous procession.

THUD. THUD.

A drumbeat echoed through the night.

At first, the rhythm was slow, matching the cadence of a heartbeat.

Then it gradually accelerated.

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUD—

Ian’s own heartbeat began syncing with it unconsciously.

Leaning slightly forward, he whispered:

“Everyone, keep your heads down. Just glance toward the cliff. See those men in black robes?”

“Yes. I see them.”

Keith answered calmly.

That calmness unsettled Ian all over again.

Keith was behaving as though nothing had happened between them, and the fact that Ian still had to keep warning him made Ian deeply uncomfortable.

But he had no choice.

Among everyone present, Keith was one of the most dangerous.

Sema was dangerous too, but in an entirely different way.

“Keith. Listen carefully. Don’t attack until I give the signal.”

“Yes.”

“They’re Devil Worshippers.”

“Yes. That was obvious enough.”

‘...That’s it?’

Ian almost frowned.

Normally, hearing the words Devil Worshippers was enough to send Keith into a rage.

If this had been the playable character Keith—

Keith stood ahead of Ian in line, his back concealing his expression completely.

The night sky was thick with clouds.

Darkness blanketed the clearing, broken only by the massive bonfire burning at its center.

The bound prisoners circled around it like sacrifices in some grotesque festival, their shadows writhing across the ground.

The forest surrounding them was unnaturally silent.

No insects.

No wind.

Only the intermittent sound of flutes weaving through the drums.

Ian never bothered turning on background music while gaming, but if he had, this would have been exactly the moment when the soundtrack shifted into:

A major event is about to begin.

“Faithful Gorea... step forward...”

An aged voice drifted down from atop the cliff.

Gorea, chief of the slave village, immediately lowered his head toward the figures above.

“Yes!”

“The sacred ritual has begun. Are you prepared to embrace your greed and be reborn into a new existence?”

“Without hesitation.”

The ominous ceremony continued.

‘Is Gorea about to evolve?’

Ian had already confirmed that cursed items had amplified Gorea’s stats, but the atmosphere unfolding before him felt far more sinister than simple equipment buffs.

“The Devil Worshippers will stay in the rear acting as mages,” Ian whispered quietly. “Gorea and the dwarves will lead the front line. Gorea may forcibly trigger a mutation or enter a berserk state, so stay alert.”

He rapidly organized his thoughts.

“One person needs to draw attention while the others circle around the cliff and block the Devil Worshippers’ escape route.”

“I’ll handle the distraction.”

Keith volunteered immediately.

As though nothing at all had happened earlier.

Still—

He never looked Ian in the eye.

‘Damn it...’

Ian forced himself to answer casually.

“Good. Move when their attention is weakest.”

“When’s that?” Sema asked.

“Now.”

Ian drove his foot into the dwarf guarding them.

WHUMP.

The dwarf folded with a strangled groan after taking the kick directly to the solar plexus.

Keith and Louise immediately finished off the others.

Between the endless marching prisoners, the drums, and the deranged ritual music, the tiny disturbance vanished into the chaos unnoticed.

‘Good.’

Ian signaled the others.

At some point, Louise had acquired a dagger. With practiced precision, he sliced through the ropes binding their wrists.

Keith simply tore free with brute force.

THUD.

The shackles around their ankles were even easier. Earlier, Ian had stolen an entire ring of keys from one of the prison guards.

Click.

Ian rolled his wrists and ankles once freedom returned to them.

Then he pointed toward the forest, signaling the others to circle around the cliff.

The party split apart.

Only Keith remained behind.

One hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD—

The drums grew frenzied.

“Stop!”

Suddenly—

Silence.

“Offer the sacrifices!”

“Spread the blood of the offerings!”

“Drench the Demon King’s altar in crimson!”

“Open a path for His Majesty!”

The Devil Worshippers screamed their chants.

The prisoners circling the bonfire abruptly began convulsing.

“AAGH!”

“Urgh... ghhk...!”

Blood poured from every opening on their faces.

The blood-soaked victims collapsed and writhed across the ground like puppets with shattered bones.

Spines twisted grotesquely.

Limbs bent at impossible angles.

Yet none of them seemed capable of even comprehending their own agony.

They merely trembled in absolute terror.

“......!”

Sema clamped a hand over his mouth.

Ian couldn’t blame him.

The first time Ian had failed to stop a Devil Worshipper ritual in-game, this exact sequence had triggered.

Watching it through a phone screen had been disturbing enough.

Seeing it in person was something else entirely.

The smell.

The screams.

The wet sound of blood splashing against dirt.

It felt too real.

‘...What even counts as real anymore?’

Ian forced himself back to his senses, swallowing the bile rising in his throat beneath the overpowering stench of blood.

Then he assessed the situation coldly.

‘Did we arrive too late?’

No.

Devil Worshipper rituals required several categories of sacrifice.

The first was ordinary lives, like the people currently dying around the bonfire.

The second was beauty.

And the final offering—the essential core of the ritual—was noble blood.

Demons adored life.

Blood.

Beauty untouched by impurity.

Noble existence.

A royal, perhaps.

Or, if they used an elf, not merely an ordinary elf but a high elf.

Something precious enough to tempt demons.

Including—

‘The bloodline of the founding family of the traitor tribe.’

In Ian’s route, Devil Worshippers weren’t central to the main story, but every encounter with them became a nightmare because Ian himself carried royal blood.

Apparently, they had managed to capture someone suitable this time as well.

‘They haven’t spilled the blood of the beautiful sacrifices yet.’

Which explained why Ian’s group had been ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) preserved separately as “special sacrifices.”

Keith was undeniably handsome.

Louise, despite still being young, had been designed as one of the game’s carefully crafted characters.

Neither of them had been brought onto the altar yet.

Meaning—

Their turn was approaching.

“Where are the special sacrifices? Haven’t they been brought here yet?”

Gorea’s voice hissed sharply with irritation.

“Huh? I-I thought I sent for them...”

“They’re nowhere in sight!”

Keith was supposed to be buying them time there.

‘But who’s the primary sacrifice?’

Surely not another playable character—

Ian’s gaze shifted toward the altar at the center of the clearing.

Flames surged behind it.

Someone was tied there.

Bound tightly against the altar—

‘...What the hell are you doing there?!’

Ian instantly recognized the elf.

Thin white hair.

Pale skin.

Long pointed ears protruding through disheveled strands of hair.

That perpetually absent-minded expression.

Even now, the elf still clutched the merchant’s bag Ian had once handed him like a treasured possession.

If not for the hellfire blazing behind him, the scene would have looked almost peaceful.

So—

Dorian was the sacrifice tied to the altar.