Chapter 5: Cultists & Chaos

The tension had settled—at least somewhat. The students were still wary, still whispering, still glancing at Azar like he was some walking, talking sin against the heavens. But class had to continue.

The instructor sighed, stepping to the front of the room where the golden projection still floated in the air. With a flick of his wrist, the words "Cultist" shimmered and expanded.

"Alright," the instructor began, his voice firm. "Funnily enough, today’s lesson is about cultists—or rather, the few that are still alive."

The room stiffened again. Some students shot nervous glances at Azar, others muttered curses under their breath.

The instructor ignored them and continued.

"To understand cultists, you first need to know their origin. Thousands of years ago, cultists weren’t what they are today. They weren’t all deranged lunatics making blood sacrifices to eldritch horrors. No—cultism was once a sacred path. A way to commune with the unknown, to tap into power beyond the divine. They were scholars, pioneers of the forbidden, individuals who sought enlightenment through entities and forces beyond mortal understanding."

He flicked his hand again, and the golden projection shifted, revealing an ancient mural of hooded figures surrounding a cosmic gate. The imagery alone sent a chill through the class.

"However, as time passed, things changed. The more they delved into the unknown, the more they lost themselves. The forces they communed with did not grant wisdom freely—they demanded tribute. That tribute, as you can probably guess, was often blood, life, and suffering."

The students nodded grimly, taking in the information.

Then—

"Pfft, wrong," Azar muttered.

The instructor twitched. He slowly turned his head. "What?"

Azar leaned back, waving a hand dismissively. "You’re painting it all like some tragic descent into darkness. C’mon, man, cultism is way more interesting than that."

The instructor narrowed his eyes. "Would you care to enlighten us, then?"

Azar grinned beneath his mask. "Sure. First off, the whole 'cultists lost their way' thing? That’s just saint propaganda. You guys act like we were some group of harmless nerds who accidentally stumbled into horror movies. But the truth? We knew exactly what we were doing."

The room fell silent again.

Azar leaned forward, tapping a gloved finger against the desk. "We weren’t ‘pioneers of the unknown’—we were architects of reality. We figured out how to rewrite existence itself. But here’s the thing—nothing is free."

The projection shifted again, this time showing a diagram of how cultists drew power.

The instructor regained his composure. "Which brings us to the next point—how cultists gain power. Unlike saints, who cultivate divine essence, or martial artists, who refine their physical bodies, cultists thrive off karma and sacrifice. They extract power from rituals, pacts, and offerings to higher entities."

Azar clicked his tongue. "Half-right. We also eat a lot of protein. Very important."

The instructor ignored him. "The greater the sacrifice, the greater the boon granted. However, in return, cultists bind themselves to forces that they may never truly understand—forces that may one day consume them entirely."

Azar snorted. "Oh please, they don’t ‘consume’ us. It’s more like… a very intense friendship."

The instructor shot him a sharp glare before sighing and waving his hand.

The projection shifted again—this time, to an image of Azar himself.

In an instant, all the tension from the class spiked again.

But Azar?

Azar lit up like a child on their birthday.

"OHHHH! DAS ME!" he exclaimed, clapped his hands together in excitement.

The projection showcased multiple pictures of Azar. But instead of looking like mugshots or evidence photos, every single image looked like a professional photoshoot.

One had him standing on a pile of bones, his hoodie stylishly unzipped, hands in his pockets, silver strands of hair catching the wind. Another showed him sitting on a throne of black tentacles, one leg casually crossed over the other, his mask tilted just enough to show a teasing smirk.

The last one? A direct close-up of his masked face, but with dramatic lighting and his fingers playfully making a peace sign.

Dante, who had been silent this whole time, stared at the images.

Then he turned his head to Azar.

"...How the hell do you have professional portraits of yourself in a government database?"

Azar chuckled, placing a hand over his heart. "I have fans.”

Dante, thoroughly disturbed, massaged his temples. "I hate this."

Then, after a moment, he took a deep breath and just asked the question on everyone's mind.

"Azar. How many people have you actually sacrificed?"

The room went dead silent.

All eyes turned to Azar.

The cultist leaned back in his tentacle chair, tapping his chin as if he were counting.

"Hmmm… like 125,000?" he said casually.

The room tensed. Some students visibly recoiled. Others stared in horror.

Then—

Azar suddenly tilted his head, as if listening to someone who wasn’t there.

"...Mmm. Yeah? No, no, I know. Oh? Really? Huh. Double that, hehe."

He then turned back to Dante, sticking out his tongue playfully. "So, actually, more like 250,000!"

Dante’s eye twitched.

Then, without hesitation—

He punched Azar in the face.

Or at least, he tried to.

SHLKT.

In an instant, black tentacles lashed out, wrapping around Dante’s body and squeezing him tightly, suspending him in the air.

Azar, shocked, immediately turned and slapped the tentacle chair.

"Bad eldritch horror!" he scolded. "This isn’t how we treat friends! Let go!"

The tentacles quivered, seemingly hesitant.

Azar crossed his arms. "Do it. Or no cookies."

The tentacles shuddered violently before, with a reluctant noise, they unraveled and dropped Dante unceremoniously onto the desk.

Dante sat up, rubbing his neck, glaring at Azar. "I hate you so much."

Azar patted him on the shoulder. "Aww, buddy. You’ll learn to love me."