Trapped In Elysium: A Virtual Reality Nightmare-Chapter 89: Helpless

The moment the woman’s body slumped lifeless to the blood-soaked altar, the ritual transformed into something far more disturbing. There was no mourning. No reverence. Only hunger... and madness.

The native warriors surged forward like a tide unleashed, no longer chanting, no longer dancing. Their faces twisted with primal desire, driven by something ancient and dark—beyond even ritual. It was a frenzy.

One man, painted head to toe in red and white stripes, grabbed the woman’s arm and with a stone hatchet hacked it free in a single brutal swing. Bone cracked. Flesh tore. Blood spurted.

Another native woman used a sharpened bone blade to slice away at the woman’s thigh, carving thick, bloodied strips with practiced ease. One by one, the tribe descended on the corpse, hacking, tearing, slicing. The air filled with the wet, awful sound of meat being ripped from bone, of blades splitting tissue, of bone crunching beneath crude tools. It was not quick—it was a slow, systematic dissection, and the body, once human, was reduced to hunks of raw meat in minutes.

Some of them began to cook portions over small clay pots set nearby, while others simply bit into the flesh raw, red smearing across their teeth and chins like paint.

Sera turned away and vomited.

Eleanor, still kneeling on the altar, stared blankly at the horror unfolding beside her. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, as if her mind had shut down entirely to shield itself from what it was seeing.

Liam didn’t look away. He forced himself to watch, his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together until his neck ached. He needed to remember this. Every detail. Every horror. If there was ever a way to survive this—to escape it—it would begin by knowing what kind of monsters they were facing.

"Gods..." Marcus whispered hoarsely from where he was held. "This isn’t real... it can’t be real..."

Jason had turned pale, his fingers twitching as if trying to reach for a weapon he no longer had. Even Borik, the dwarf, had gone still and silent, his face drained of all expression.

As for Von—he didn’t look shocked. He just stared coldly at the butchery, his eyes narrowed, lips tight. "They’ll start cooking soon," he muttered under his breath. "They believe consuming the flesh strengthens them. It’s part of the ritual."

"And Threk’s next..." he added bitterly.

On the altar, Threk turned slowly toward Liam. His face, usually stoic, now betrayed a flicker of fear. Real fear. His jaw tensed. His eyes darted to the pile of remains that had once been a person... now just torn flesh and broken bones dumped like animal scraps to the side of the shrine.

He knew what was coming.

The drummers began again. Slower now, more rhythmic, like a heartbeat. A countdown.

The natives formed a circle around the altar once more, and the high priest raised his bloodied hands toward the sky, speaking in their harsh tongue. The words were guttural and brutal, each syllable sharp like stone.

Two warriors stepped forward, eyes locked on Threk.

He didn’t struggle. He simply lowered his head, exhaling long through his nose. But his fists clenched so hard that his knuckles turned bone white beneath the ropes.

"Threk..." Liam called softly.

Threk didn’t respond. He kept his eyes forward.

The crowd waited.

The next sacrifice was about to begin.

The moment came swiftly. There was no hesitation, no dramatics. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

The high priest stepped forward again, this time holding a longer blade—sharpened bone laced with jagged stone. His eyes were black and unreadable, painted with streaks of red that bled down his cheeks like crying blood. In the cold orange glow of the tribal fires, he looked like a phantom summoned from the darkest part of the jungle.

Threk didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch.

He sat there, his neck exposed, head tilted slightly forward, as though accepting what fate had dealt. His hands were tied, but his pride remained untouched. A silent warrior to the end.

Then came the blade.

With a single brutal slice, the stone blade ripped through sinew and spine. A fountain of blood sprayed from his neck, painting the altar in thick, crimson arcs. His body slumped forward instantly—lifeless, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

A gasp broke out from the group. Even the jungle seemed to hush in that moment. The drummers paused. The wind slowed.

And then Gorr fell to one knee.

His head bowed, fists clenched tight, trembling. The hulking brute who had rarely spoken or shown much emotion was now shaking—not with fear, but with grief.

Von turned away briefly, his jaw tightening. He exhaled and muttered a quiet phrase under his breath, the words low and almost lyrical. "May the Forest embrace him... May his soul walk free beneath the roots."

Gorr echoed in a rough, tear-choked voice, "May his strength remain in the earth. May he never be forgotten."

Mariel choked back a sob. She turned her face, unable to watch the natives begin to drag Threk’s body across the altar, same as the last. Blood smeared beneath it, soaking into the cracked stone.

Sophia clung to the bone stool she sat on, knuckles white. Her body trembled despite her efforts to appear strong. There was nothing she could do—no arrow, no dagger, no escape plan. Only helpless silence.

As for Eleanor... she broke.

Her legs shook as she tried to rise. Her hands, still bound, reached forward as if begging. Her eyes were wide and glassy, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"No... please no..." she whispered, her voice hoarse and cracking.

She had fought monsters, pirates, and near-death countless times—but this... this was something primal. Unstoppable. The raw inevitability of death... served on a blood-soaked altar.

Liam watched helplessly, heart hammering, hands balled into trembling fists at his side. Every instinct screamed at him to fight. To stand. To die trying. But he couldn’t—not yet. Not when Eleanor’s life still hung by a thread.

The priest turned his gaze now to Eleanor. And the crowd began to chant again.

The drums rose once more.

She was next.