In the shadows of the S Ranked Main character
Chapter 57: June’s path(3)

Chapter 57: June’s path(3)

The church grew louder by the minute.

June didn’t move from his position near the wall, sword held low, blood crusted along the blade’s edge, dirt and sweat drying on his arms. His eyes locked forward, fixed on the pulsing, broken altar. The corpse of the man still lay flat atop it—arms at his sides, charred, cracked, unmoving.

But the bodies in the pews didn’t stop.

More had entered. A steady stream.

First, they came from the street—burnt villagers, fighters, some still wrapped in ruined bits of armor, others in melted cloth robes. Then the doors opened again and another wave arrived. Larger. Heavier. The floor trembled beneath them.

Monsters.

Not beasts. Not mindless.

They had once been something else—knights, guardians, figures of authority. But like the villagers, they too were scorched, hollowed, twisted by time or battle or something worse. Spines bent, plates of rusted steel fused with flesh. Some had no heads. Others dragged long weapons behind them, blades dulled into lumps of metal.

And still, they moved with control.

They entered without question, without hesitation, and joined the others on the floor. Many dropped to their knees. Some simply stood behind the rows, their bodies too large or broken to kneel. All of them faced the altar.

More followed.

Winged corpses with leathery, torn appendages. Slithering things with fused arms and legs, crawling on their bellies. Thin, animal-like bodies that might have once been human. The space grew crowded. Then packed. Then suffocating.

The chant rose with them.

Not a scream, not a shout. The prayer continued at the same tempo, the same rhythm. But the number of voices multiplied, turning the chant into a rumble. June could feel it through the soles of his boots. A constant vibration, like the sound of machinery grinding against stone.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t interrupt.

He knew, in some deeply rooted instinct, that whatever this was—it was bigger than him.

The chanting hit a new pitch.

It wasn’t clearer. It wasn’t louder in volume. It was heavier. Thicker. As if each voice added another layer of weight, dragging the sound downward like stone sinking in water.

Every figure inside was now engaged. Kneeling. Bowed. Still chanting. Nothing blinked. Nothing breathed. No one moved out of rhythm.

And then the doors at the far end of the church buckled.

The sound snapped June’s eyes up.

Wood cracked. The hinges shrieked.

Something slammed into them from outside. Again.

A second later, they burst inward.

Not open. Inward.

The doors shattered like brittle bone as a flood of yet more forms poured through the entrance.

They were not human.

Not even distorted versions of humans.

Their shapes didn’t make sense—tall, thin bodies twisted at wrong angles, dozens of arms or none at all, glowing sockets across their torsos where faces should have been. Their movements were jerky but intentional. Each one entered, crossed the ruined threshold, then dropped to the floor like the rest.

Their mouths or whatever passed for mouths opened, and the chant continued.

Now it filled the entire space. Like water rising in a sealed tank.

June’s chest tightened.

His instincts screamed at him to leave, but he couldn’t move. Not just from fatigue. Not just from confusion. But from the understanding that if he moved now—if he interrupted this—something irreversible might happen.

The chanting deepened again. Not louder, but lower.

Every syllable came with vibration now. The walls trembled. The broken glass at the far ends of the church quivered in place. Cracks widened in the already collapsed ceiling.

Still, the corpse at the altar did not move.

Still, the voices kept going.

Dozens became hundreds. Hundreds edged toward a thousand. Figures piled into the room and simply found space along the walls, in the aisles, hanging from the rafters in twisted positions each one perfectly still and facing the altar.

The air had grown thick. Not from heat, not from magic there was no sensation of spellcraft here.

Only sound. Dense, pulsing sound.

June stared forward, every nerve tense.

His hands didn’t leave his weapon. But he knew he was no longer part of this room. Not really.

This was a ritual far older than him Older than anything he’d seen since waking in this nightmare.

And it wasn’t over

The tone shifted

It was sudden, but not chaotic. Not loud. Not yet. The thousands of voices twisted, dry, raspy, broken all began to synchronize. The steady, incomprehensible muttering that had blanketed the ruined church for what felt like hours collapsed into one clear phrase.

"Help her."

It started as a whisper. A single voice among the dead.

"Help her..."

Then a second voice.

"Help her..."

Then dozens.

"Help her... help her..."

June’s eyes narrowed. His fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his sword.

They kept chanting.

"Help her. Help her. Help her. Help her."

Again. Again. Again.

The corpses didn’t change position. They didn’t raise their heads. They didn’t look at him. But they spoke in unison, in rhythm, in desperation that echoed across every decaying wall of the ruined church.

"Help her. Help her. Help her."

The sound dug into the bones.

The voices weren’t screaming but the desperation was suffocating. Not emotional. Not human. It was mechanical. A demand from something ancient and deeply wounded. Something unrelenting.

"Help her. Help her. Help her. Help her."

Their limbs twitched now.

June saw it.

One corpse near the front row the charred knight missing half his face his fingers scraped across the floor, again and again, in time with the chant. As if clawing toward the altar.

"Help her. Help her. Help her."

Then the others moved.

Heads tilted slightly. Backs arched, shoulders locked into tighter positions. Still kneeling, still praying, still staring at nothing.

June took one cautious step back.

The air pressed against his chest like a weight.

He didn’t know who her was.

He didn’t want to.

But he couldn’t look away from the corpse on the altar.

Still unmoving. Still lifeless.

Until, finally a single droplet of black liquid slid from its eye socket.

And the voices roared, all at once not louder, but heavier, more urgent:

"HELP HER!"

The entire church shook. Cracks exploded outward from the altar. The stained walls pulsed. June felt his ears ring.

Every body bowed deeper.

Hands pressed to the ground.

Heads scraped the floor.

"Help her. Help her. Help her."

Like a drumbeat. Like a ritual Like something was being summoned.

And June, alone among them, still standing, finally said aloud:

"...Who?"