# Chapter 277: The Laboratory of Horrors
The silence in the tunnel was a physical weight, pressing in on them from all sides. It was broken only by the scrape of their boots on the gritty stone and the ragged edge of their own breathing. The collapse that had entombed Isolde had also torn open a new passage, a wound in the Sanctum's foundation that bled a cold, sterile air. Soren led the way, his hand trailing along the rough rock wall for balance. The grief was a cold stone in his gut, but the fury it had birthed was a hot coal, searing away the exhaustion, burning through the ever-present ache of the Cinder Cost. He moved with a singular, chilling purpose. Each step was a promise. Each breath a vow.
Nyra followed close behind, her gaze flickering between Soren's rigid back and the oppressive darkness ahead. She had seen this coldness in him before, a shield he built from loss, but this was different. This was not the stoicism of a survivor; it was the predatory focus of an avenger. She feared what it would cost him, what it would cost them all, but she knew there was no turning back. To try and pull him back from this ledge now would be to lose him entirely. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, not for the shadows that might lurk ahead, but for the storm she walked beside.
Captain Bren brought up the rear, his heavy frame a solid, reassuring presence. His face, usually a mask of grim pragmatism, was etched with a sorrow that ran bone-deep. He had seen too many good soldiers fall, but Isolde's sacrifice felt different. It was a waste, a brutal, unnecessary price paid by a soul just beginning to find its way. He clutched his axe tighter, the worn leather grip a familiar comfort. He would see her sacrifice honored. He would ensure the man responsible paid in blood.
The passage widened, the rough-hewn rock giving way to polished, seamless tiles of a sickly, yellowed ivory. The air grew colder, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of ozone and the cloying sweetness of antiseptic fluids. A low, rhythmic hum began to vibrate through the floor, a sound that seemed to bypass the ears and resonate directly in the chest. It was a sound of immense power, of something vast and unnatural being brought to bear. Torvin, who had been moving with a limping, dogged determination, held up a hand.
"The sub-levels," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper. "Valerius's private workshops. Be ready. The things he creates down here… they don't follow the laws of nature or God."
They emerged into a corridor that was less a hallway and more a fleshy artery. The walls seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light, and the floor was slick with a viscous, clear fluid. Glass-fronted alcoves lined the walls, but they did not contain prisoners. They contained horrors. A pair of wings, feathered but made of sharpened metal, twitched in a nutrient bath. A cluster of eyes, all a milky, unseeing white, swiveled on a disembodied nerve cluster. A single, massive heart, crisscrossed with glowing wires, beat a slow, arrhythmic drum against the glass. The hum grew louder here, a thrumming bass note that vibrated in their teeth.
Soren felt his own Gift stir in response, a painful, sympathetic resonance. The cinder-tattoos on his arms, already dark and webbed with the cost of his power, began to itch, a deep, unsettling sensation beneath his skin. He ignored it, his focus narrowing to a single point at the end of the corridor. A massive, circular blast door, forged from a black metal that seemed to drink the light. It was seamless save for a small, thick-glass porthole at eye level. The rhythmic thrumming was strongest here, a palpable force that made the air shiver.
He approached the door, the others fanning out behind him, their weapons ready. He placed his hand on the cold, unyielding surface, the vibration from beyond traveling up his arm and into his bones. It was a siren song of power and pain, a call to the very core of his being. He leaned forward, peering through the reinforced porthole.
The scene beyond was a nightmare brought to life. The laboratory was a vast, circular chamber, dominated by a monstrous machine of brass, steel, and glowing crystal that occupied its center. Vats of the same sickly green liquid they had seen in the alcoves lined the curved walls, their contents churning with indistinct, monstrous shapes. The air inside looked thick, shimmering with heat and raw energy. And strapped to the central machine, his massive body convulsing with each powerful pulse, was a figure so large it could only be one person.
ruku bez.
A strangled gasp escaped Nyra's lips. Bren muttered a low curse.
The gentle giant from the wastes, their quiet, steadfast friend, was splayed out like a dissected animal. Thick, armored cables, pulsing with a malevolent green light, were plunged directly into his flesh at his temples, his chest, his spine. Dozens of thinner wires, like metallic veins, ran from his body into the machine's core. His skin was pale, stretched taut over his immense frame, and it glowed with the same stolen energy, a faint, sickly luminescence. His face, usually so placid and kind, was a mask of agony, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open in a silent, endless scream.
The machine itself was a thing of diabolical purpose. It was a massive, multi-layered sphere of interlocking rings and spinning gyroscopes, all built around a central orb that blazed with the captured light of a star. With every convulsion of ruku's body, the machine would pulse, drawing a wave of raw, untamed power from him. The energy would flow through the cables, be refined and amplified by the machine's arcane mechanisms, and then pour into the central orb. The orb was the Divine Bulwark's core. The ritual wasn't just a ceremony; it was a process. And ruku bez was the fuel.
The rhythmic hum wasn't just a machine; it was the sound of a life being drained away, a soul being shredded to power a weapon of oppression.
Soren's grief for Isolde was instantly consumed by a new, white-hot fury. It was a clean, pure, and terrible thing. It burned away the pain, the doubt, the fear. There was only the door, the monster on the other side, and the friend being tortured to death within his sight. They had found the source of the ritual. And they had found the reason to see it torn to the ground.
"Stand back," Soren growled, his voice low and dangerous. He stepped back from the door, raising his gauntleted fists. The Bloom-Forged metal began to glow, a faint, angry red light that mirrored the fire in his eyes.
"Soren, wait," Nyra urged, her hand on his arm. "We don't know what kind of defenses it has. A direct assault could trigger—"
He shook her off, his gaze fixed on the door. "There is no time for plans. Every second we wait, he dies."
He didn't give her another chance to argue. He drove his fist forward. The air cracked, the sound of a thunderclap in the confined space. His Bloom-Forged gauntlet, an artifact of the world's apocalypse, struck the black metal of the blast door. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a spiderweb of crimson light erupted from the point of impact. The metal groaned, shrieked, and then, with a deafening roar, tore inwards. The door, a foot-thick slab of enchanted alloy, was ripped from its hinges and hurled into the laboratory, crashing into a bank of humming consoles in a shower of sparks and shattering glass.
The wave of energy that washed over them was staggering. It was pure, unfiltered Cinder Cost, the distilled agony of a Gifted being torn apart. It hit Soren like a physical blow, driving him to one knee. He gasped, his vision swimming, the tattoos on his arms flaring with a sudden, searing pain. He felt the echo of ruku's suffering, a phantom agony that threatened to overwhelm his senses.
Bren and Nyra staggered back, shielding their faces. The air in the lab was thick, choking, making it hard to breathe. The hum of the machine had spiked to a deafening shriek, and the lights flickered wildly.
They rushed into the chamber, the scene of horror even more appalling up close. The smell was overwhelming—a nauseating cocktail of burnt ozone, sterilizing fluid, and the coppery scent of blood. The heat from the machine was intense, a blistering wave that made the air shimmer.
"Bren, on the conduits!" Nyra yelled, her tactical mind taking over. "Sever the cables! Soren, get him free!"
Bren didn't hesitate. He charged toward the base of the machine, his axe held high. He swung at the thickest cable, a pulsating, armored tube as thick as his waist. The axe bit deep, sparks flying, but the cable held, its enchanted fibers tougher than steel.
Soren ran to ruku's side. Up close, he could see the full extent of the horror. The giant's body was covered in a lattice of scars and fresh wounds where the cables had been inserted. His skin was hot to the touch, and the faint glow beneath it was erratic, flickering like a dying candle.
"ruku," Soren said, his voice rough. "It's Soren. We're here."
There was no response. The giant's body was locked in a perpetual spasm, his muscles knotted and rigid. Soren grabbed one of the wires, a thin filament embedded in ruku's forearm. He pulled. It was anchored deep, and the giant's body convulsed violently, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips.
"Hold him steady!" Nyra shouted, running to Soren's side. She pulled a pair of heavy-duty cutters from her pack, the kind used for severing enchanted restraints. "I'll try to cut the connections, but you have to keep him still!"
Soren wrapped his arms around ruku's chest, bracing himself against the machine. The giant's strength, even in his tormented state, was immense. Every shudder and spasm threatened to throw Soren across the room. The hum of the machine grew louder, more frantic, as if sensing the intrusion. The central orb blazed brighter, its light turning from a brilliant white to a violent, angry red.
Bren roared in frustration, raining blow after blow on the unyielding cables. "These things are enchanted! I can't get through them!"
"Then find the power source!" Nyra yelled back, her voice strained as she wrestled with a particularly thick wire. The cutter's blades sparked against the filament, but it wouldn't sever.
It was then that the machine's guardian awoke.
It rose from a pool of shadow and discarded parts at the machine's base, a monstrosity of flesh and metal that should not have been able to move. It was tall, easily matching ruku's height, but its form was a grotesque parody. One arm was a massive, hydraulic piston, whirring with latent power. The other was a cluster of writhing, metallic tentacles. Its legs were reverse-jointed, ending in talons that scraped against the floor. Its torso was a cage of iron bars, and within it, a heart of glowing crystal beat in time with the machine.
But the worst part was its face.
It was a twisted, melted mockery of ruku bez's own. The same broad, heavy features. The same placid brow. But the skin was stretched and scarred, the eyes were glowing, soulless embers, and the mouth was a gaping, silent scream. It was a clone, a thing grown and built in a lab, given just enough of its template's form to be a perfect, cruel insult.
The creature took a shuddering step forward, its piston arm hissing. Its head tilted, the glowing eyes fixing on Soren and Nyra, who were still struggling with the cables attached to the original. A low, guttural sound emanated from its chest, a noise of pure, mindless agony and rage.
"Soren!" Bren bellowed, abandoning his futile attack on the cables and turning to face the new threat. "We've got company!"
Soren looked from the tortured face of the guardian to the tormented form of his friend. The fury inside him curdled into a cold, hard resolve. This was the Synod's ultimate depravity. Not just to use a man as a battery, but to create a monster from his image, a slave to guard his own prison.
He gently laid ruku back against the machine and turned to face the creature. The red light from the orb cast long, dancing shadows across the laboratory, turning the scene into a vision of hell. The guardian took another step, its metal talons screeching on the floor, its piston arm raising to strike. The fight for ruku's soul had just begun.