The System Mecha is so unscientific

The air was thick with tension as the Cultists of Uitzilcapac gathered deep within the shadows of Blood Valley. Their dark robes swept across the uneven ground, the fabric whispering secrets long forgotten. The flickering glow of candles illuminated their haggard faces, highlighting the fervor in their eyes—eyes that gleamed with dark ambition and hunger for power.

At the center of their circle stood Malkor, the High Priest, an imposing figure adorned with the symbols of Uitzilcapac. His presence commanded attention as he raised his hands, channeling the energy of the ancient dark spirits lingering in this very valley. The hushed chants of the cultists grew louder, a melody of desperate devotion to their Lord of Pain.

"We have been waiting for you, Grimheart," Malkor intoned, his voice rich with dark promise. The rumors of the Grimheart family’s movements had seeped into their secluded sanctum like oil on water. The cultists had prepared for this moment, each word spoken an invocation meant to draw the intruders into their grasp. As the golems rampaged in the cavern above, it was all going according to plan.

Around the circle, the cultists joined hands, their hands trembling with anticipation. "Our Lord desires pain, and so we shall bring it. Their lives shall fuel the darkness, forging a bridge to the realms beyond. They will become our vessels—tools for the invasion." Malkor’s eyes brightened with zeal as he imagined the chaos that would unfold with the power of the Grimheart soldiers at their disposal.

The words of the ritual flowed easier now, each syllable like a gash in the air, a beckoning to the spirits of anguish that lingered in the shadows. A chorus of voices filled the chamber—a cacophony of longing and dread, an echo of the sacrifices made before.

Outside the sanctum, the sounds of battle reverberated. Malkor could hear the gunfire cracking like thunder, a heat rising in his chest. The Grimheart soldiers were drawn in like moths to a flame, and with them came their resolve—all the courage and hope that had been painstakingly nurtured.

"Prepare the Circle of Pain!" he commanded, and the cultists began to arrange themselves in a tighter formation. They prepared small obsidian altars decorated with the grotesque sigils of their dark god, memories of previous sacrifices etched into their stones.

Malkor turned his gaze upward, piercing the cavern ceiling with his will. The scent of fear wafted through the air, potent and intoxicating. There was something exquisite about knowing they were being watched, that their enemies believed they had the upper hand, while in truth, they were but pawns in a larger game.

“Allow the Golems to draw them near; let the battlefield be soaked in their blood.” Malkor’s voice thundered through the cave, resonating with a dark harmonization that sent tremors down the cultists’ spines. Their excitement was palpable; they grinned at the thought of spilling blood, of allowing it to fuse with the dark energies that rent the air.

One of the younger cultists, a woman named Elara, hesitated, a shadow of doubt crossing her features. “But High Priest, what if—”

“Do not question the plan!” Malkor roared, his inflection laced with fury. “These soldiers are but vessels of flesh; they exist for the moment of our greatest triumph. Their lives will meld with our offering to Uitzilcapac, igniting our mighty invasion. Choose now: surrender your weakness or embrace the power that comes with sacrifice.”

Elara’s resolve faltered, but the heat of Malkor’s conviction ignited something within her—a hunger for the promise of power, raw and unfettered. She grasped the hands of those beside her, their eyes darkened by ritualistic fervor.

“We act as one,” Malkor commanded, and the cultists lifted their voices in unison, their chant rising higher, echoing through the cavern, underlining the heartbeat of the dark spirits that thrummed beneath the surface.

"First, the blood; then, the pain—let the offerings come forth!" Malkor’s chant seemed to resonate with the shadows themselves, summoning forth energy that slithered and sparked along the edges of the circle.

As the Golems continued their fray with the Grimheart soldiers, it became clear—the cultists were tightening their grip. Soon, they could draw enough of the soldiers into their fold, weaving them into the fabric of darkness and pain. The exact moment when flesh and spirit would coalesce into a singularity, creating a powerful vessel for their dark lord.

Just then, one of their watchers outside returned, his face pale. “High Priest! They’ve split! Some are retreating, but others charge deeper into the cave! They’re coming for us!”

Malkor’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Let them come! We shall greet them with open arms and sever their threads of life!”

The energy in the chamber swelled, and the air crackled as chaos reigned outside. Malkor focused, eyes blazing with intensity. With every ounce of his being, he called upon the spirits, the powerful entities lying restless beneath the surface.

“Uitzilcapac! We offer you the blood of the invaders! The pain of their souls shall pave the way to our ascension!” His voice rang through the cavern, rising above the sounds of battle.

As the cultists’ chants reached a fever pitch, a dark energy enveloped the circle. Shadows leaped and flickered, twisting into grotesque shapes as the forces of dark magic coalesced. In that moment, Malkor knew that soon they would taste victory—a union of flesh and spirit, a new era of dominion would dawn from the ashes of their enemies.

The Circle of Pain was set—an offering rather than a mere act of violence; a means to an end that would alter the fabric of reality itself.

And with that, the ritual to summon Uitzilcapac had begun. Now, they just needed the Grimheart soldiers to fuel their ambition… and the lives of those who dared intrude upon their sanctum would become the very shackles that would bind their enemies to the darkest servitude ever known.@@novelbin@@