Punk, the one orchestrating the storm brewing in town, had already ventured deep into the Spider Cave.
The stalactites were gone, as was the writhing purple moss that once covered the ground. It wasn't a natural absence but a deliberate erasure—flattened, wiped clean, as if someone had methodically purged all signs of life.
Crouching behind a jagged rock, Punk observed the scene with his golem at his side. With the blessing of Soothing, their movements remained silent, allowing Punk to analyze the environment without alerting any hidden threats. His sharp gaze fell upon the cave floor—its unnatural smoothness suggested recent and repeated passage.
Summoning an Eye of Secret Magic, Punk sent the invisible probe drifting into the chamber. Guided by a system of precision control and analysis, it skillfully navigated around three warning magic circles, slipping through a blind spot in their formation.
The chamber beyond was vast, roughly the size of a basketball court, its darkness illuminated by dozens of floating magical orbs. At the center lay an extravagant carpet—its design and craftsmanship marked it as an artistic treasure, woven from precious materials. Yet time had reduced it to a moldy, rancid filth-ridden mess.
Most striking of all were the figures standing upon it.
Roughly fifty of them, clad in tattered gray-red robes, arranged in solemn rows. But these were not ordinary humans.
Their upper bodies remained mostly human, but from the waist down, their flesh had been grotesquely reshaped into spider-like abominations. A bulbous, chitin-covered abdomen had replaced their torsos, while eight spindly legs had taken the place of their human limbs. Their twisted bodies radiated chaotic, repulsive energy—evidence of some horrific transformation.
They stood motionless, their eerie, rasping prayers directed toward a massive spider-shaped statue.
Yet despite the fervor of their worship, Punk found nothing familiar about this so-called god. Even after searching his extensive knowledge, the entity remained a mystery.
"Some nameless outer-plane aberration that somehow gained a godhead?" Punk mused, dismissing the thought just as quickly.
In the multiverse, gods were bound by strict rules—few dared to personally descend upon the Faerûn plane. Their influence was limited to their churches and devout followers. Even if a church were annihilated, divine retribution was rare unless one provoked multiple factions at once.
And as for these lesser-known "gods" that thrived in the shadows? They rarely had the means or the courage to strike back.
Ignoring the cultists, Punk continued maneuvering the Eye of Secret Magic, scanning the chamber for anything of interest.
At the far end stood a massive iron gate, its surface wrapped in heavy chains. It was clear this door led deeper into the cave's core. Several smaller doors lined the side walls—likely leading to living quarters or storage areas. Scattered cookware and piles of ragged clothing suggested these cultists lived here permanently.
It made sense. Their grotesque transformations had stripped away any chance of blending into society. They couldn't exactly stroll into a market to buy food—not without sparking panic and bloodshed.
What puzzled Punk most, however, was the transformation itself.
Unlike typical biological enhancements, these spider-like alterations seemed entirely impractical. Through his magical vision, he confirmed that their new forms lacked any exceptional speed or strength. Their so-called carapace was brittle, inferior even to mundane steel plating.
"This is ridiculous," Punk thought, watching them stumble about awkwardly. "No sane person would willingly cripple themselves like this. What purpose could such a transformation serve?"
Unfortunately, the cave's protective wards blocked any divination magic, preventing Punk from prying deeper into their nature. His best guess? These creatures were experimental subjects—test cases for something more refined.
As he pondered, the cultists' prayers concluded. One by one, they struggled to their feet, their ungainly spider legs jerking awkwardly beneath them, resembling a group of intoxicated drunks.
Punk had seen enough.
"Eliminate them all—quickly, cleanly. No loose ends."
His goal was simple: extract whatever information he could, without alerting the true masterminds lurking deeper within.
Dismissing the Eye of Secret Magic, Punk made his move.
Interrogation would be necessary, though he doubted most of these fanatics would break easily. But among them, surely there were cowards—those who feared death and pain more than they loved their faith. And those would provide answers.
Adjusting his high-mage armor, ensuring his spells were primed and his positioning optimal, Punk prepared for the attack.
The golem tensed, ready to block the iron gate and prevent any escape.
"Faith is a powerful thing," Punk muttered under his breath, eyes cold. "It gathers people together… just in time for me to wipe them out in one stroke."
With that, he stepped out from behind the rock.
Indifferent. Unstoppable.
And ready to begin the slaughter.