Trapped In Elysium: A Virtual Reality Nightmare-Chapter 91: Chaos

Just as the priest inhaled deeply, his blade ready to descend, the jungle held its breath. The rhythmic chants of the natives rose to a fevered pitch, their eyes shining with bloodlust and wild devotion. The priest’s face twisted in a fanatical grin, his painted body shimmering with oil and streaked with red pigments, symbols of their gods and death. His hand moved—swift, practiced—and the sharp stone knife came down in a clean arc toward Eleanor’s throat.

Blood sprayed onto the altar.

Eleanor gasped—eyes wide, heart halting. She felt the warmth of liquid splashing against her chest, the iron stench of blood flooding her nostrils. Her body froze. Then she closed her eyes, waiting for the sharp, final pain. But... it never came.

Screams erupted—shrill, chaotic, not of victory but confusion and outrage. The kind of scream a pack of wolves makes when something unexpected threatens their feast.

Eleanor opened her eyes slowly, trembling. Her gaze darted down—her body was untouched. No gash, no wound, no pain. But beside her, the high priest was swaying strangely. His mouth opened in a choked gurgle. Blood was pouring from his neck in thick, hot rivers. The sacred stone blade clattered from his grip and tumbled down the steps of the altar, forgotten.

The priest staggered, reaching toward the sky, perhaps hoping his gods would save him. They didn’t. He collapsed forward in a lifeless heap, his blood washing over the carved symbols on the stone, soaking into the cracks.

The altar was stunned into silence.

All heads turned—natives, warriors, guards, even the drummers. There, standing shakily, chest heaving, face battered and bloodied, was Liam. His right hand still slightly extended from the throw. His wrists were raw and torn from the binds he’d sliced through. Sweat clung to his skin like a second layer, mixed with dried blood and dirt. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes—those eyes burned like fire through the smoke of incense and horror.

The knife—he’d taken it during the scuffle when the natives had subdued him and Von earlier. No one had noticed. He hadn’t moved much after they beat him down, let them think he was broken. But in the silence, in the desperation, he had watched, waited, and chosen his moment with the patience of a starving predator.

Eleanor stared at him, mouth trembling. She didn’t know whether to cry or scream his name. The weight of what just happened hadn’t yet settled in her chest. Her body still remembered death’s breath on her neck.

Chaos erupted.

The native guards at the base of the altar rushed forward, some shouting, others howling like animals. Spears were raised, knives brandished. Some of the villagers wailed, clutching their heads or pounding the earth. The drummers pounded their skins faster, louder—no longer rhythmic, just frantic noise.

Liam turned slowly, eyeing the steps. He didn’t have another weapon. He didn’t have a plan. But he knew one thing—he wasn’t going to let another friend die.

From the crowd, Marcus shoved a native down with brute strength, grabbing a fallen spear and flinging it toward Liam. It didn’t make it all the way, but it skittered up a few steps and Liam dove for it, his body protesting with every movement. The moment he got hold of it, the first of the natives reached the altar.

Eleanor lunged backward, finally breaking free of the stunned guard that still held her. Liam stepped in front of her, driving the spear into the first attacker’s shoulder. The man screamed and fell, rolling down the side of the altar.

Screams and war cries echoed as more warriors stormed the steps.

From where she sat, her hands still bound and adorned in bones and war paint, Sophia screamed Liam’s name. Her voice cracked, filled with horror and something else—pure helplessness. Mariel beside her wept openly now, her tears streaking the white paint on her cheeks. She tried to stand, but a guard held her down, knife drawn.

Jason and Marcus sprang into action next, somehow breaking their own bindings in the confusion. Borik, still bruised and limping, kicked up a rock and smashed it into a native’s face who had gotten too close.

Von, blood trailing from the side of his head, staggered to his feet. His eyes, though blurred with pain, locked onto Liam and the scene at the altar. He grunted something in his native tongue—maybe a curse, maybe a prayer—and lunged at a nearby warrior, ripping the man’s club from his hand.

"Get Eleanor out of there!" Von roared, voice cracked and hoarse.

"I’ll die before I let them take her again," Liam snarled back, sweat dripping down his brow, his grip on the spear tightening.

The altar was no longer sacred—it was now a battlefield. The jungle watched silently as the clash of wills began under the canopy of trees and the flickering torchlight.

And the gods, whoever they were, remained silent.

With a furious growl, Von spat blood from his mouth, looked around, and spotted one of the dead warriors’ discarded clubs. Without hesitation, he reached down, snatched it up, then looked at the one in his hand—the weapon of his enemy. He let it drop.

"No borrowed strength," he muttered to himself. "Only mine."

He turned, planted his feet into the earth, and shouted at the approaching giants in their bone-laced war skirts and painted faces, their hulking figures cutting through the fire-lit madness like demons from a dying god’s dream. Von tightened his grip and let out a deep, war-thirsty bellow that echoed through the clearing.

Meanwhile, Borik, unnoticed in the chaos, had slipped away from the scene. His small frame moved quickly between shadows and smoke, heart pounding with both fear and determination. He knew where they had stashed the weapons—he had seen it when they were dragged in last night.

He reached a carved-out section at the side of the shrine, shoved aside a drape of animal hide, and found their gear. The weapons were there, scattered but intact—thank the gods. With trembling hands, he grabbed Liam’s sword first and turned back toward the others.

"Liam!" he shouted.

Liam turned just in time to catch his blade, the familiar weight grounding him as if the world had just reminded him who he was.

Borik didn’t stop—he tossed the golden staff toward Jason, who caught it mid-run, already charging toward a pair of natives with fire in his eyes. Next, Borik hurled Eleanor’s twin daggers. She snatched them out of the air and pivoted sharply, slashing at a nearby attacker who had almost reached Mariel.

Marcus’s eyes lit up with fury as Borik rolled his massive axe across the ground toward him. He picked it up with a loud grunt and turned toward a group of natives rushing in from the side.

"Bout damn time!" Marcus roared and charged.

The clearing had turned into a battlefield.

Borik, gasping and soaked with sweat, dashed across the smoke-hazed ground toward Sophia and Mariel. Both girls were still dressed in the native leaf garments, stunned and crouched near the altar. The leaf crowns had been knocked askew in the chaos, and paint dripped from their skin like melting snow.

He skidded to a halt in front of them, nearly tripping on a fallen limb.

"Sophia! Catch!"

He threw the bow and a quiver of arrows to her. She snatched them, almost without thinking, and instantly turned to stand protectively in front of Mariel.

Sophia nocked an arrow and released it in one fluid motion. The shaft struck a native charging toward Liam, piercing him clean through the throat. Another shot followed, then another, each as swift and precise as a falcon’s dive.

Mariel, behind her, held her short sword in a trembling hand. She hadn’t moved to attack yet—but she hadn’t run either.

Liam tore through the gathering with his blade, blood and smoke painting his figure in streaks of chaos. He moved like a man who had died and come back burning with something dark and unstoppable. He didn’t fight with fury—he fought with purpose.

Every native that charged him fell under his sword, and each kill made the crowd scream louder.

From the edges, Von was roaring as he dueled one of the giants, his massive club clashing with the thick club of the beastlike warrior. Jason, now glowing faintly from his staff’s charge, swept beams of light and force into the attackers, shielding Eleanor when she stumbled near the altar.

But then... something massive shifted in the smoke.

Liam turned—and saw him.

Another giant.

Different from the others. This one was taller, broader, with deep red streaks of paint across his face and body. He wore a bone mask pushed up on his forehead, revealing a wide, flat face scarred from dozens of battles. A necklace of fingers—some human, some not—hung from his neck.

They locked eyes.

The giant took a slow, deliberate step forward, dragging a jagged bone axe behind him. It scraped the ground with a high-pitched sound that made the hairs on Liam’s neck rise.

Liam exhaled.

The world around him faded—the screams, the shouts, the clash of weapons—it all blurred into a low hum. He lifted his sword, tightening his fingers around the hilt.

He didn’t look away.

The giant pointed his axe at him, a slow, heavy gesture. A challenge.

Liam stepped forward, they would fightm

And only one of them would survive.