The Gore #4 – Dreadful Temple - 1271 - The battlefield lay heavy under a dark, restless sky with British knights who have lost arms and legs by sword and relentless anger of the King who’s ready to crucify them at any given time, burned in seven hundred degree oil while invading France, mud clung to armor and boots, thick and cold, soaked through hell with the weight of countless goddamn fallen from God Almighty’s intense feelings. The clash of steel echoed sharply, carried on the wind that screamed to hell from Jesus Christ Almighty, faintly of smoke and earth. Deadly French knights moved with grim purpose, their faces set hard beneath bloody, battered helmets. The cries of the wounded and the roar of battle blended into a relentless damn rhythm—a song of struggle and survival. At the edge of the field, a group dragged a bound prisoner forward. His eyes burned with fierce resolve from torture oil, unbowed despite his worn and bruised body. Ahead loomed the Dreadful Temple, its stone walls scarred by time and conflict, standing silent and watchful as ever. The prisoner’s voice was steady. “Do what you damn must,” he said, the weight of years and defiance in every damn word. Torches flickered along the temple’s ramparts beneath the surface of hell, for which must the damned go, casting long shadows. The air was thick with tension, heavy with the unspoken promise of what was to come. The prisoner was pulled forward through the thick mud, chains chafing against his damn wrists raw from the journey to hell on Earth. His eyes held damn steady, burning with quiet defiance despite the weight of exhaustion and goddamn pain. Around him, knights moved hell with grim, bloody determination involving torture—their armor stained with mud and dried damn sweat, tears of Satan. The looming presence of the King’s anger pressed down on all of them like a dark cloud ready to burst. As they approached the temple gates, the prisoner spat toward the ground, a silent challenge that went unanswered. The priests waiting beyond watched with cold anticipation, ready to carry out their grim duties—chopping his head in three. A cold wind swept over the battlements, stirring the flickering torches and carrying whispers that seemed to echo through the bloody stone walls—whispers of suffering and secrets damn long buried. “Prepare him,” one knight said quietly. The prisoner gave a faint, bitter smile. “You don’t know what waits inside.” The heavy gates creaked open, and the prisoner was pulled into the darkness within, the weight of the past and the unknown pressing down like a stone. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind the prisoner with a thunderous, damn finality, sealing him inside the cold, hell-breathing heart of the Dreadful Temple. The air was thick as damn hell, soaked with the iron stench of blood and the damp chill of ancient stone that had been cursed by a thousand damn souls before him. Flickering torchlight threw damn grotesque shadows across the walls, twisting shapes into hellish forms that seemed to leer and whisper, damn whispers dripping with malice in the damn darkness. Chains rattled like the damn bells of hell as the prisoner was hauled through the damn narrow corridors, each damn step echoing like a damn death drum marking his goddamn descent into hell itself. The stones beneath his damn feet were worn smooth by centuries of damn cruelty, soaked through with the sweat, tears, and screams of those poor damned Satanic damners who had come before him. Every damn breath he took tasted like hell’s own bitterness, thick with despair and the damn promise of pain that was worse than hellfire. The distant chanting grew louder, a cold, damn hollow litany winding through the temple’s damn bowels like a damn serpent of damn shadow and doom. Faces blurred into the flickering damn torchlight—hooded priests with eyes colder than damn ice, their hands stained with the damn ink of prayers and the damn blood of the damned, their damn sinister purpose burning like the fires of hell itself. His damn wrists burned from the damn chains, but his damn gaze never damn faltered. He’d felt the cold bite of this damn place long before the damn guards dragged him in like a goddamn animal. The damn promise of torment, the inevitable damnation of pain—it was a dark, damn covenant carved into his flesh with every damn breath he took, a damn brand marking his soul for hell. They dragged him to the damn chamber, a vaulted, damn room carved deep beneath the temple’s damn foundations. The damn floor was slick with dark stains, the damn air thick with the coppery, damn sickly scent of damn old wounds and damn broken spirits. In the damn center stood a raised platform, rough-hewn and soaked in the damn blood of a thousand goddamn victims, beneath a rack of cruel, damn instruments that whispered damn secrets of unimaginable agony and damn suffering. A priest stepped forward, his face hidden beneath a damn cowl, his damn voice cold as the damn winds of damn hell. “The King demands justice, damn you. You will confess, or you will break like the damned.” The prisoner spat, a fine spray of hellfire and damn defiance. “Justice is a damn lie told by the cruel and the damned.” A cruel smile flickered beneath the damn priest’s damn hood. “Then the damn truth will be carved from your damn flesh, piece by damn piece, until you’re nothing but damn screams in the damn darkness.” The damn chamber doors slammed shut with a damn thunder that shook the damn very stones, sealing the prisoner’s damn fate in a cage of damn darkness and damn pain. Outside, the damn temple pulsed like the damn heart of hell itself, a damn beast breathing the damn echoes of suffering into the damn night air—walls that had damn witnessed a thousand broken souls, a thousand shattered bodies, and a thousand goddamn cries lost to damn time. And still, the damn rage of men and the damn wrath of kings burned on, damn unrelenting and damn merciless as damn hell itself. The damn air inside the chamber reeked of hell’s own breath, thick and suffocating like the cursed damn smoke rising from the fires of damned God’s own fury. Every damn second dragged like a thousand years trapped in hell’s cold grip. The prisoner’s wrists throbbed, raw and burning from the damn chains that bit like hellhounds, and his damn heart hammered with a fury that would damn well outlast the King’s wrath itself. “By Christ Almighty,” a priest muttered, his voice low and dripping with the venom of a thousand damn sermons, “this damned soul thinks he can defy the King and the damned God above.” The prisoner’s eyes, blazing like hellfire, met the priest’s with a hell-bent stubbornness that would damn the heavens themselves. “I answer to no damned God. Only to the hell that burns within me.” The priests circled like the damned wolves of hell, whispering damn prayers and chanting cursed hymns to their damned God, calling down the wrath of hell itself to break this cursed soul. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating, breathing the damn spirit of hell’s torment. “Damn you to hell,” one priest hissed, raising a cruel instrument that gleamed with the promise of damnation. “Christ Almighty will not save you. Only the damned God can judge you now.” The prisoner spat, damn hellfire flying like a curse. “The only judgment I know is the damn pain I carry—and I carry it better than any damned priest here.” A howl echoed through the chamber, a sound that could damn well chill the bones of Christ Almighty himself. The instruments were readied, the air thick with the damn stench of hell and human agony. Time stretched and bent, every damn moment a hellish eternity where damnation was not just a promise but a damn reality. The prisoner’s spirit burned bright, a beacon of damn defiance in a world ruled by the damned God and the wrath of Christ Almighty. And as the first cruel blow fell, the damned dance with hell had truly begun. The chamber was thick with the weight of damnation, air heavy and suffocating like the breath of hell itself. Shadows clung to the stone walls, flickering in torchlight that barely held back the endless dark. The prisoner lay bound and broken, wrists chafing against cold, unyielding chains—their bite a constant reminder of the damnation closing in like a merciless tide. Around him, figures moved silently, faces hidden beneath dark cowls, voices low and harsh as they murmured prayers and curses alike—damnations sent straight from a God who had long since turned his face away. The room seemed to pulse with an ancient, unholy rhythm—the pounding of countless hearts broken here before him, the echoes of a thousand souls lost to the hell that reigned beneath the temple’s stone. He tasted the iron in the air, thick and unrelenting, a bitter promise whispered in every breath. The silence was shattered only by the faintest scrape, the quiet clink of tools long soaked in the suffering of the damned. Every damn second stretched, a slow spiral into a darkness deeper than night itself. The prisoner’s spirit burned—wild and fierce—a blaze of defiance that no chain, no prayer, no damn curse could smother. His eyes met those of the priests—cold and hollow, void of mercy, filled only with the certainty of damnation. Yet he stood unbroken, a flicker of hellfire amid the crushing dark. A cold wind stirred the torches, casting monstrous shadows that danced like demons upon the walls. The chants began again—soft, relentless, carrying the weight of a thousand damned souls crying out to a God who seemed deaf to their prayers. In that endless chamber beneath the dreadful temple, the prisoner faced the darkness not with despair, but with a fire forged in the deepest hell—ready to damn the very heavens if that was what it took to survive. A tall man with a large crown walks down the hall inside of the temple. It’s the merciless king who is not afraid to damn off someone to hell from the head. He grabs an axe and goes for it. No mercy, no goddamn forgiveness, just a pure cold-heart of an action. Blood dripping, eyes crossed out, three parts of the head, two of them on the ground, both arms and legs treated as food for the wolves. The prisoners who had come before had known this fate—the endless damn cycle of pain and shadow, a dance with death beneath the watchful eyes of gods long forgotten and kings consumed by their own hellish wrath. Yet even as the king turned away, his cold gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade forged in the fires of damnation, the prisoner’s spirit did not break. The hellfire in his eyes flickered, a beacon in the crushing damn blackness. From somewhere deeper in the temple, faint echoes of damn chants rose, a twisted hymn to the cruel gods of pain and despair. There was another prisoner in there, hiding. Had been lost for fourteen years. The prisoner’s breath was ragged, each damn inhale a sharp reminder that the fight was far from over. The priests, shadows themselves, closed in like the damned wolves of the abyss—ready to unleash their torturous damn rites, steeped in ancient cruelty and blood-soaked damn tradition. Yet within that hell-breathing chamber, amid the stench of iron and damnation, defiance still burned. The prisoner would damn well face whatever hell awaited—not with surrender, but with the raw fury of a soul damned to resist until the last breath. Priest #1 (whispering, eyes cold as ice): “The King’s wrath is not easily satisfied. This soul thinks defiance is strength… but it is only the first step toward ruin.” Priest #2 (grinning beneath his cowl): “Every scream carves a lesson into the flesh. Soon, his will will shatter, and the truth will spill like blood from a wound.” High Priest (voice like a blade, cutting through the silence): “Remember, the King demands obedience. The gods demand sacrifice. This man’s suffering is the price of his sins.” Knight Guard (gruff, impatient): “Enough prayers. Let the instruments speak. Mercy is a word for the weak, and we are no servants of weakness.” The King (stepping forward, cold and resolute): “Justice is not a favor. It is the blade that cleanses the impure. I will see this rebel’s head fall—and let his remains feed the wolves that hunger for treason.” Priest #3 (softly, almost mournful): “Yet, in his eyes… a fire still burns. A defiance that will either damn him utterly or… ignite something far darker.” The King (snarling): “Then let that fire be crushed. Let the darkness consume him before he dares challenge the crown again.” Priest #1 (nodding): “We shall see, my King. Hell itself shall bear witness to his undoing.” Prisoner (voice hoarse but fierce, every word dripping with rage): “Damn your God to the deepest pit of hell! A false God who crowns tyrants and lets the innocent burn. A God who turns his blind eye while kings feast on suffering and prayers are swallowed by silence. I spit on your heavens and curse the throne where your merciless God sits, wrapped in chains of hypocrisy and blood.” Priest (voice trembling with cold fury): “You blaspheme the very foundation of all that is holy. To curse God is to summon eternal damnation upon your soul!” Prisoner (laughing bitterly, voice echoing in the stone chamber): “Then damn me! I’d rather burn forever with open eyes than kneel before a God who is deaf to cries for justice. Your faith is a shackle, a poison that breeds only fear and pain. I reject your God, your kings, and your false salvation!” The High Priest (voice booming, filled with wrath): “Then you shall know true torment— Not just of flesh, but of the soul, forever lost in the darkness you choose!” The High Priest raised his hands, palms open, dripping with the blood of a thousand damned, his voice a thunder of damnation that shook the stone walls to their damn core. “By the fires of the damn abyss, by the curse that drips from God’s own damn throne, your soul is forged to suffer! Every damn breath you steal from this world is a theft from the divine wrath that hungers for your agony. You damn fool! Your rebellion is but the spark that will ignite a thousand hellfires to consume you utterly!” Chains rattled like the screams of a million damned souls trapped forever beneath the weight of celestial cruelty. The walls themselves seemed to sweat with the raw, foul heat of damnation, the ancient stones soaked in sin, pain, and curses long forgotten by mortal men but not by the cruel gods of hell and despair. The prisoner laughed, a sound sharp and bitter, cracked with the flame of defiance that no chains, no curses, no hellish torment could snuff out. “Damn your gods to the void where they drown in their own lies! Damn the king who wears his crown like a noose around the necks of the innocent! Damn the priests who bleed the souls of men dry for their own hollow salvation! I carry a hellfire inside me, brighter than your damn prayers, hotter than your pitiful screams!” A priest lunged forward, a serrated blade forged in the blackest fires of damnation, its edge dripping with the blood of saints and sinners alike. The prisoner’s eyes flickered—hell’s own fire dancing—narrow and fierce, unblinking even as cold steel bit deep. But he spat, the spray tasting of iron and ash. “You will not carve my spirit into silence.” The blade fell, a cruel promise, but the prisoner’s scream was not of pain—it was a war cry, a damnation hurled back into the faces of gods and men. “Hell is not my end!” he roared. “It is my forge! I am born of fire and defiance! Let your damnation come—let it shatter my bones, scorch my flesh, tear out my soul—each blow only feeds the blaze within! Your God’s silence is the fuel for my rebellion. I am the cursed flame that no prayer can douse!” The chamber trembled as if the very foundations of hell itself had been struck by his fury. The torches flared, casting hellish shadows that twisted and writhed like demons unleashed. The priests recoiled, fear flickering in their eyes—fear of a damn spirit untamed, of a soul wrenched free from the shackles of divine tyranny. A cold wind howled through the vaulted chamber, carrying with it the screams of the damned and the curses of the forsaken. The air thickened, suffocating, ripe with the bitter stench of burned offerings and broken faith. The High Priest’s voice rose, a roar of holy fury twisted by hell’s own poison. “You blaspheme the heavens, you spit upon the altar of salvation, you damn devil! The wrath of God is a tempest, and you are but a flicker before the storm. We will grind your will to dust, shred your soul with the cruelest instruments forged in the pit, and cast your broken spirit into the eternal oubliette where even hell dares not reach!” The prisoners who came before him had screamed—oh, how they screamed, their voices lost in the vast, unyielding silence of oblivion. But this one—this cursed spark—was a wildfire. The priests could feel it sear the air, their chants faltering against the heat of his fury. The King, towering and merciless, stepped forward, his cold eyes like twin stars of damnation burning through the shadows. He lifted his cruel axe, its blade soaked with the sins of countless traitors. “Then damn you, rebel,” he growled, voice a blade slicing through the thick air. “I will break you so completely that even hell itself will turn away in horror. Your name will be forgotten, buried beneath the bones of your kin and the ashes of your treason. Let this be your last damn moment on this cursed earth.” But the prisoner’s laugh cracked the silence—a sound of bitter triumph and absolute defiance. “Your threats are the chains I wear with pride! Every blow you deliver is a wound on your own soul, every drop of my blood a stain on your false crown! Damn your kings, damn your gods, damn the hell you serve! I am the storm that shatters your false peace, the damnation you refuse to see!” The chamber exploded with chaos—priest and guard lunging forward with cruel tools designed for agony. But the prisoner’s voice rose above the din, a blazing inferno that scorched the darkness itself. “Let the hell-breathing temple witness this: I choose damnation over submission! I choose fire over silence! I will burn in hell a thousand times over before I bow to the tyranny of gods or kings!” Blood spilled like rivers, screams tore through the stone, and the dance of agony began anew. Yet, amidst the pain and the darkness, the prisoner’s fire blazed, an unquenchable inferno that would damn well burn through the ages. The chamber swelled with damnation, thick and suffocating like hell’s own breath—a cursed furnace where souls were boiled and broken beneath the damn weight of gods who had long since turned their damn faces to rot in silence. The prisoner lay shattered but unyielding, his spirit a damn wildfire blazing through the blackened night of holy hypocrisy. “Damn your God,” he spat, venom dripping like acid-fire from cracked lips, “A false tyrant cloaked in lies and blood, a god damned to hell by his own cowardice, deaf to prayers, blind to justice, deaf to the cries of the innocent swallowed whole by his merciless damn throne!” The priests recoiled, faces masks of frozen damn horror, their faith cracked and bleeding beneath the assault of his blasphemous fire. “Blasphemer!” they hissed, tongues twisted in damnation, “You summon the eternal pit! Hell shall claim your soul and burn your name from all that breathes!” But the prisoner’s laugh tore through their damned prayers like a sword forged in the deepest pit of hell itself. “Then damn me! Cast me down to the abyss where your God fears to tread! I will rise, damned and unbroken, a demon forged from your hatred and scorn. Your heaven is a cage, your hell is a lie, and I am the damn truth that shatters them both!” The walls themselves groaned, stone cracked like the bones of saints crushed beneath the weight of damn falsehoods. The air ignited with the fire of curses, prayers twisted into screams, and the unholy symphony of torment rising like a black wave to drown the very stars. The King’s voice thundered, cold and merciless, “You will break beneath the wrath of kings and gods alike. Your damn soul is the debt of treason, paid in agony, soaked in blood, and sealed with eternal torment.” But the prisoner’s eyes blazed with hell’s fury, a storm that no damn king or god could quell. “I owe no god, no king, no tyrant. My damnation is my own, and I will wear it like a crown of fire. Let hell have me, but know this—the fire I carry will damn well burn their false heavens to ash!” And as the first blow fell, the prisoner roared a curse so fierce it echoed through the temple’s cursed halls— “Damn you all—to hell, to oblivion, to the dark pit where your gods dare not follow!” “Nobody is to be damned, YOU SATANIC REBEL!” “You are to be damned. Everyone but me is to be damned. The gods are to be damned. The souls are to be damned, but not the sold ones. I am to be damned under my wish, which I don’t feel a need for yet. I might as well be Satan. A goddamning creature forged and burned in eternal flames from hell of the damned.” “Shut the hell up, go damn yourself.” “Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. I am not damned…”