Below them, nestled in a shallow, shadow-filled basin, lay the ghastly reality of Lowcorpse.

It was a settlement smaller, more wretchedly dilapidated than fragmented reports had suggested.

A desperate scattering of dilapidated wooden huts formed the village, leaning precariously against one another as if for mutual support against slow decay. Roofs sagged, patched haphazardly with unevenly stretched animal hides and rusted scraps of metal.

A crumbling, skeletal fence, covered by encroaching, insidious weeds, marked a forgotten perimeter.

And the silence… it was absolute, a chilling stillness. No smoke curled from crude chimneys, no figures moved along the muddy, rutted track serving as a central thoroughfare, no livestock stirred in crude, ramshackle pens.

Lowcorpse wasn't merely abandoned; it felt utterly desolate, as if life itself had been surgically, brutally cut out from the blighted landscape, leaving only a hollow, echoing emptiness.

The faint, emerald green Lifestream flow Henry had sensed earlier, deep beneath his feet, seemed to gain subtle clarity as they cautiously entered the periphery of this ghost village. It was still a weak presence, a fragile whisper of life in a place filled with death, but its existence was now undeniable to his heightened senses.

The Sanctuary Seal on his chest throbbed with a stronger, more insistent vibration, a vague, almost incomprehensible urge beginning to form in his mind, a pull towards something unseen.

"Gods..." Halb breathed, the expletive lost in the oppressive silence. The sheer desolation clearly horrified him. "Looks like it's been dead for a century, not just a few weeks."

Neil's face hardened into a mask of stone as he signaled caution with a raised hand. "Maintain approach. Brena, initiate a magical assessment. Cole and Halb, you'll sweep the perimeter, checking structures on the flanks. Henry, you're with me. We'll target the central structure. Be wary of traps, magical and conventional. Move."

The team advanced with careful caution into the village's oppressive openness, the silence amplifying the crunch of their boots on the forgotten, weed-choked path.

Henry kept his Mystic Sense extended, passively mapping the surroundings, probing the shadows. Still no sign of living inhabitants. But the lingering scents he had detected in the forest were stronger here, a confusing, discordant mix of contradictory aromas. And the emotional residue… overwhelming waves of it washed over him, vivid echoes of profound, extreme fear, the searing agony of excruciating pain, and a soul-crushing despair that seemed to fill the ground, strongest towards the western edge of the wretched huts.

The emerald Lifestream, though still faint, was no longer a mere trace; it pulsed with clearer, more defined energy, like an underground river slowly awakening. And the insistent urge from the Sanctuary Seal intensified, a silent invitation, a definite guidance towards that western edge.

Cole and Halb split off as directed, moving like shadows towards the outermost huts. Henry saw Cole kick open a rickety, decaying door. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the interior - overturned, broken furniture, scattered, filthy rags, and the small, pathetically crude wooden shape of a carved animal lying sadly in the thick dust. Silent testament to lives interrupted, abandoned in unimaginable haste and terror.

Neil, meanwhile, advanced towards the larger, marginally less dilapidated structure dominating the village center, presumably the dwelling of whatever leadership had existed here. He signaled Henry to guard the entrance, hand resting on his greatsword's hilt, while he slipped cautiously inside. A few tense moments later, he reappeared, his face a mask of disgust.

"Empty," he reported, his voice low and harsh. "Signs of a violent struggle. Floorboards near the back wall have been pried up... leading down into some sort of cellar. There's a foul stench coming from it. Like a beast's lair, rank with old, dried blood." He pointed towards a heavy trapdoor, its wood splintered, clearly recently forced open. "That's probably where they kept the captured monsters before… processing them for their illicit trade."

Brena, having completed her magical scan of the main storehouse, rejoined them, her expression a mixture of confusion and revulsion. "My assessment confirms residual energy signatures of significant quantities of stored alchemical reagents, some highly restricted preservation compounds. Also, large amounts of various raw, unprocessed ores, and numerous bundles of potent hallucinogenic herbs. All consistent with large-scale monster processing, and potentially… other, less savory activities." Her scan results, Henry noted with a flicker of internal confusion and growing intrigue, made no mention whatsoever of the Lifestream he so clearly sensed, making the mystery of its presence and his unique perception of it even deeper.

Henry nodded distractedly, his gaze drawn irresistibly towards the small, unassuming hut on the western edge of the village. It was the epicenter of the overwhelming spiritual despair pressing in on him, the focal point of the dread that saturated Lowcorpse.

The emerald Lifestream flow beneath his feet was strongest there, a current that seemed to physically pull him. The Sanctuary Seal pulsed violently now, almost painfully, a silent, desperate scream in his chest.

"This way," his voice barely disturbing the heavy silence as he gestured towards the hut. "The feeling... the wrongness... it's strongest there." He led them, the others following his intuitive lead, their own senses likely registering the subtle shifts in the oppressive atmosphere. The air grew colder as they approached the small hut, the silence deeper, more profound.

He placed his hand on the rough, weathered wooden door. A chilling jolt, spiritual pain, shot up his arm, making him pull back instinctively. Steeling himself, he pushed the door open.

The single room inside was almost bare, stark in its squalor. A crude wooden table stood pushed against one wall. Its surface was coated with a thick, dark, inexplicably sticky substance that seemed to absorb the faint, grimy light filtering through the single, dirt-caked window.

The air tasted metallic, overlaid with that cloying, sickly sweetness that now made Henry's stomach churn with revulsion. His eyes scanned the small, oppressive room, finally stopping on a thick, matted rug woven from some unidentifiable dark fur. It lay upon the beaten earth floor - an incongruously luxurious item amidst such extreme poverty.

He knew, with a deep certainty, what lay beneath that rug. The emerald Lifestream seemed to converge most powerfully there. The Sanctuary Seal was now screaming in his chest, a frantic, silent alarm.

Kneeling, his hand trembling, he lifted the heavy, foul-smelling rug. A square wooden trapdoor, set flush with the earthen floor, was revealed. As he grasped the cold iron ring bolted to the wood, a wave of pure, complete despair washed up from the darkness below. It was so potent, so overwhelming, it made him stagger back, gasping for breath. This wasn't mere psychic residue; it was the concentrated, Pure essence of countless terrified, broken souls. This wasn't just a cellar. This was a place of execution, a place of unimaginable, prolonged suffering.

He drew his signal stone, the small device feeling insignificant in his trembling hand. He activated the green emergency pulse. Its light seemed faint, almost swallowed by the darkness coming from the now-open trapdoor. His voice strained, choked with a horror he couldn't articulate, he called out to his comrades: "Neil. Brena. Get over here. Now." The raw terror in his voice needed no further explanation.

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They had found Lowcorpse's dark, secret heart. And perhaps, a cold certainty settled in his soul, his connection to the Lifestream resonating with the pain of this defiled place, they had also found the reason for its faint, struggling, unnatural presence in this cursed, forgotten village.

The team quickly gathered at the wretched hut on the western edge, where Henry had unsealed the trapdoor leading to what could only be described as a living hell.

The atmosphere above ground was already suffocating, thick with the stench of death and an invisible cloud of despair. But the cold, damp air that now rose from the dark opening carried a more concentrated foulness, a spiritual and physical decay that made even the most hardened investigators shudder involuntarily.

The emerald Lifestream Henry sensed seemed profoundly affected by the sheer evil of this place. It was no longer a weak stream of energy. Here, it felt muddied, corrupted, twisting with great effort beneath the layers of earth and stone, as if it were desperately trying to resist being drawn into the black hole of negative spiritual energy radiating from the cellar below.

The Sanctuary Seal on his chest no longer just vibrated; it throbbed with an insistent, almost unbearable ache, a physical manifestation of its pain, as if it were trying to shield itself from the extreme defilement.

Neil, his face a mask of stone, drew his greatsword without a word. The familiar blue aether flame erupted along its length, its light a feeble, defiant beacon against the oppressive darkness.

He said nothing. Merely gestured with the burning blade, then led the way down the crude, perilously slippery stone steps. Brena followed immediately, a sphere of white light already summoned in her hand, hovering ahead, dispelling the clinging shadows little by little. Its ethereal glow revealed damp, earthen walls, thick, ancient cobwebs hanging like macabre decorations, and air so stagnant it felt like breathing dust.

The Lifestream beneath Henry's feet was now like a thin, struggling thread, barely perceptible, fighting to penetrate the thick, oppressive layer of negative energy that surrounded the cellar.

With each step deeper into the darkness, his connection to it became more difficult, more disturbed, the emerald light flickering like a candle about to be extinguished by a foul wind. But the urge from the Sanctuary Seal, conversely, grew more intense, more insistent, almost screaming in his chest now - a desperate, primal resistance against the presence of something utterly horrific lurking in this unhallowed place.

Henry followed Neil closely, his hand gripping his sword's hilt, his Mystic Sense pushed to its absolute limit. Cole and Halb brought up the rear, weapons ready, their silence more terrifying than any spoken words.

The cellar itself was small, brutally dug from the cold, unforgiving earth. Brena's sphere of light, though powerful, struggled to pierce the gloom Yet it illuminated a scene that made even these battle-hardened individuals feel sick with nausea and disbelief.

On the damp earthen walls, spaced with chilling, methodical evenness and fixed close to the ground, were rows upon rows of rusted iron shackles. They were terrifyingly small, clearly not designed for restraining adult humans or containing captured beasts, but for the tender, fragile wrists and ankles of young children.

The beaten earth beneath each set of shackles was stained a dark, viscous black. The earth itself seemed saturated, a testament to spilled blood and unimaginable suffering soaked deep into the ground over many long days and agonizing months.

In one shadowed corner, a pile of ragged, filthy children's clothes - small, crudely sewn tunics torn and stained with unidentifiable, disturbing substances, roughspun trousers worn completely through at the knees, a tiny, pathetic leather shoe missing its lace - lay discarded like so much refuse.

Beside the pile of clothes were several crude wooden cages, perhaps only a square meter wide. Their broken slats bearing the frantic, desperate teeth marks of trapped animals, spaces far too small to comfortably hold even a small dog, let alone a terrified child imprisoned in darkness and fear.

"Merciful Angels" Halb stammered, his voice choked with a mixture of nausea and horrified disbelief. He stumbled back against the damp wall, his face pale green under the stark, unforgiving white light of Brena's magic sphere. "What devil's place is this? Who could do such a thing?"

The Lifestream beneath his feet was almost completely extinguished here, swallowed by the dense, suffocating darkness of evil.

Cole didn't speak. His reaction was a terrifying, stillness, a compressed, violent pressure that seemed to suck the air from the small, claustrophobic space.

His knuckles were bone-white as he clenched the spiked chain wrapped tightly around his forearm, the metal barbs digging deep into his flesh, drawing beads of blood.

His unwavering focus swept over the horrific scene, memorizing every sickening detail. His jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle twitched repeatedly beneath his taut skin.

He spotted something almost hidden amidst the pile of rags - a small, handmade cloth doll, clumsily sewn from faded scraps of fabric, its yarn hair matted with a dark, sticky, unidentifiable liquid.

One button eye was missing; the other stared blankly from a brutally torn, ravaged face. He slowly bent down, his large frame seeming out of place in this small space of suffering.

He picked up the pathetic, broken toy with a surprising, almost reverent gentleness. His calloused hand making it look even smaller, more pitiful. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound more animal than human.

Brena moved with stiff, artificially controlled movements, her scientific objectivity a thin, fragile shield against the overwhelming, visceral horror. She knelt, examining the blood-soaked ground near one set of shackles, her gloved fingers lightly touching the dark, crusted stains, her brow wrinkled in intense concentration.

"Blood traces confirmed," she stated, her voice curt, professional. Yet, Henry could detect the tremor beneath the forced calm. "Multiple individuals. Preliminary analysis suggests prolonged confinement, likely involving repeated exsanguination." She pointed to faint, almost invisible powder traces near another set of shackles. "And this sophisticated sedative compounds. Potent. Used repeatedly, systemically."

Henry knelt beside a different set of shackles, the cold, rusted iron radiating an almost aura of imprisoned suffering. His Mystic Sense confirmed Brena's damning findings, adding a layer of horrifying spiritual detail to the already damning physical evidence.

He sensed the lingering echoes of unimaginable terror, the biting agony of relentless pain, the gnawing, unending ache of starvation, and the suffocating, crushing weight of absolute despair. But beneath it all, another, more potent resonance clung to the cold metal - a fierce, burning, helpless hatred, the silent, powerless rage of the utterly powerless trapped by absolute, remorseless cruelty.

The Lifestream beneath his feet, though heavily suppressed, still tried to flicker a faint, defiant light right at this spot, as if the instinct of life was fighting a desperate, losing battle against annihilation. The Sanctuary Seal reacted violently, no longer a vague urge, but a clear, undeniable impulse - absorb this suffering, purify this defilement.

"Recent use," Henry said, his voice dangerously quiet, echoing Brena's earlier clinical assessment, though his conclusion was drawn from the horrifying freshness of the psychic imprint clinging to the air, the walls, the earth. He touched the cold metal of the shackle. "On multiple children. For a long time."

It was Brena, her face a mask of controlled fury, who found the scattered parchment sheets. They were hidden carefully beneath a pile of soiled, decaying straw in the darkest corner of the cellar, perhaps overlooked in a hasty departure. She carefully collected them, her fingers steady despite the tremor Henry knew she must be feeling. She brushed away clinging dirt, smoothing the yellowed, brittle pages under the harsh white light of her magic sphere.

The first sheet contained the crude, disturbing drawing mentioned in earlier intelligence reports - a stylized, menacing black crow, its wings spread wide in a predatory stance, surrounded by strange, wavy symbols that seemed to writhe and shift at the edge of perception, hinting at forbidden, sanity-twisting lore. Beneath the unsettling image, a single name was scrawled in angular, angry, blood-red letters: 'RAUM'

The other pages were ledgers, meticulous and horrific in their cold, dispassionate detail. They recorded "acquisitions" - chillingly mundane notes referring to specific impoverished villages in distant, forgotten provinces, the number of "units" obtained from each, categorized by age and vague, dehumanizing "quality" assessments.

They detailed "shipments" - dates, wagon numbers, clandestine routes carved through the treacherous Verodawn forest, confirming that Lowcorpse and the recently discovered Tombstone were merely transit stations in a vast, horrific network.

And most chillingly, the ledgers recorded "deliveries" - precise dates and quantities of "units" transferred to a final, ominous destination, consistently, terrifyingly referred to only as 'The Altar'.

Interspersed throughout these monstrous records were notes of payments received - not in coin, but in large, valuable quantities of monster parts, rare and exotic ores, and highly restricted alchemical supplies, all provided by Raum's extensive network, the lifeblood that fueled the illicit prosperity of the complicit villages.

"They weren't just trading in monster parts..." Brena whispered again, her voice trembling now, not with fear, but with a burning, Intense rage. She crumpled one of the hideous, blood-stained ledgers in her hand, her knuckles white. "They bought their wretched prosperity with the stolen lives of innocent children. A network. A horrific, unimaginable supply chain, all feeding this... this monster, Raum. And his damned Altar."

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