Trapped In Elysium: A Virtual Reality Nightmare-Chapter 88: Blood of the offering

The stone felt warm in Liam’s palm. Almost alive. He didn’t look at it immediately. Instead, he stared ahead for a long, quiet moment, his hand closed tight, refusing to acknowledge what he already knew.

The silence around him was deafening, and then—he opened his fingers.

Black.

For a second, there was nothing. No breath. No noise. Just stillness.

Then it came—gasps, cries, a guttural cheer from the natives, and a sinking weight that dropped into the stomachs of every single one of his companions.

"No," Sera murmured, clutching onto Marcus’s arm.

Mariel looked like she’d been struck, her whole body trembling. "No, no, no..."

Sophia stared blankly, her lips slightly parted in disbelief.

Jason shook his head in helpless frustration. "Damn it... no..."

Liam still stood there, unmoving. Strangely enough, the fear that gripped him earlier wasn’t there anymore. It was like he’d been pushed past the edge of terror and into something quieter. He felt numb... but somewhere deep beneath the numbness, something simmered—thoughts already turning, searching, hoping.

Maybe... just maybe... he could do something. Maybe it had to be him. Maybe he was chosen for a reason.

The guards didn’t give him time to think much longer. Rough hands shoved him forward. Spear tips nudged at his back as he was led to the altar where Threk already knelt, silent and calm. Beside him, Eleanor was stiff, her jaw clenched hard, but tears trailed silently down her cheek. The woman from the earlier group, the one who had drawn black before anyone else, was shaking violently—her hands bound in front of her as she murmured prayers to gods unknown.

The Sacrificial Altar was carved from dark stone and dried with what could only be blood. Symbols were etched deeply across it—spirals and jagged lines that glowed faintly red in the sunlight. Around the altar stood totems made from bones, feathers, and skulls—trophies of long-forgotten offerings.

The four of them were forced to kneel in a row, backs straight, their hands bound behind them with thick, rough vines that scraped their skin raw.

Meanwhile, across the shrine, something else was happening—something perhaps even more disturbing.

Two native guards emerged from the shade of the tall jungle trees, leading Sophia and Mariel in slow, ceremonial steps. Their bodies were adorned in leaves and vines shaped carefully to cover their most private parts—though not much else. White paint streaked their arms, thighs, and faces, with strange circular symbols drawn on their bellies and shoulders. They walked with heads bowed, but their expressions were twisted in emotion—Mariel’s tear-stained face filled with shame and heartbreak; Sophia’s harder, but equally devastated.

The crowd of natives howled in excitement as the two girls were brought forward. They were not brought to the altar, but to two bone-carved thrones set a few feet away from the sacrificial platform. The seats were crudely made from rib bones and femurs, held together with vines, each one crowned with a circlet crafted from small animal skulls and carved wood.

Von, standing with the rest of the group who had been spared, seethed in silence. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw working. He didn’t speak—but the fire in his eyes spoke volumes. If there was a moment to act, it wasn’t now. But it would come. He’d make damn sure of that.

Liam, bound at the altar, raised his eyes slowly. He saw the girls—his eyes lingered on them both. Mariel caught his gaze and broke down, silently mouthing his name. Sophia’s eyes met his next, and though her face was pale, her expression was fierce, proud. Angry.

Liam smiled faintly.

Not because he wasn’t afraid.

But because now, he had something to fight for.

The sun had climbed higher into the jungle sky, filtering through the thick canopy above in scattered rays of gold and fire. Smoke drifted lazily from the ceremonial torches that ringed the altar, curling into the heavy, humid air like spirits being summoned. Drums beat steadily now—low, thunderous, and primal—echoing in the bones and hearts of every captive. The rhythm was maddening, entrancing, like the heartbeat of some ancient god waking beneath the soil.

Liam knelt in silence, his eyes tracing the stone markings beneath him, etched by countless blades, likely sharpened by time and tragedy. His wrists, bound behind his back, ached from the tight vines, and sweat trickled down his face. He could feel the pulsing fear beside him—Eleanor barely breathed. Her eyes were forward, unfocused, like she was no longer here.

Threk knelt stoically, resigned. The strange woman from the first group whimpered softly. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, her arms trembling.

Then they came.

The natives approached in a line, painted from head to toe in bone white and blood red. Their eyes were fierce, wild, glittering with feverish intensity. Around their necks hung necklaces of teeth and claws, and some wore headdresses made of animal hides. The chief, if one could call him that, wore a thick collar of dark feathers and walked with a crooked staff carved from a single twisted branch. His body was covered in scars, some fresh, others faded into pale ridges across his chest.

He said something in their harsh, guttural language—a cry of ritual—answered immediately by a wild cheer from the crowd. The other natives pounded their chests and stomped the earth, sending vibrations through the soft jungle soil.

Then came the oils.

Three of the women—young, strong, and eerily silent—approached the captives. Each held a small wooden bowl of some dark, gleaming liquid. Without ceremony, they began smearing it across Liam and the others—across their faces, arms, chests. The oil was thick and strangely cold, giving off a sharp, bitter smell that stung the nose. Then came the powders—crushed herbs and ground bone, slapped onto the skin until they clung like ash.

Mariel and Sophia, still seated on the thrones of bone, could only watch in horror. They had not been allowed to move, their arms lightly bound to the chairs by delicate vines. The crowns of bones rested still upon their heads, and though neither spoke, their eyes were wide with emotion—helplessness, rage, sorrow.

Liam met their eyes only once more. Then, he turned away.

The drums stopped suddenly.

Silence fell.

Then, from the crowd, the woman who had drawn black before anyone else was dragged forward. She shrieked and kicked, but they held her firm. Two native warriors, their muscles painted in charcoal and blood, seized her by the arms and forced her to kneel before the altar.

One of the elder priests approached, holding a stone knife. It was jagged, chipped, and sharp, stained already with the dried remnants of previous ceremonies. He stepped behind her. The crowd began to chant—rhythmic, rising in fever.

The woman screamed once more, calling out in desperation—but no one came for her.

And then—

The knife slashed clean across her throat.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, spattering the stone and soaking the earth. Her body twitched violently, then slumped forward. The cheers of the natives became thunderous. They danced wildly around the altar, some smearing blood across their cheeks, others bowing toward the rising sun.

Liam closed his eyes, jaw clenched tight. Eleanor gasped, frozen in place, her hands trembling in their bindings. Even Threk looked shaken—his usual calm cracked just slightly.

On the thrones, Mariel turned her face away, weeping silently. Sophia stared forward with a fury in her eyes that could burn the jungle down.

The sacrifice had begun.

And they were next.