An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

The girl's body hung by her hair, pain flaring across her scalp, down her spine, sinking deep into her limbs.

Her breath hitched. Her arms trembled. Her malnourished frame was too weak for this. And yet...

She swung.

The blade carved a shallow arc through the air, awkward in her hands, guided by pure instinct.

It struck the mercenary's cheek—a grazing blow, barely drawing blood.

He didn't flinch. Just laughed—a mocking sound.

"Is that it?" he sneered, fingers tightening in her hair, yanking hard enough to rip strands from her scalp.

The girl swung again, this time aiming for the arm that held her hair.

He seemed to say something more, eyes flickering with anger.

She dared to resist, and that incited his rage. She should have been obedient—should have let him do as he pleased.

He watched the blade approach, expecting it to graze his skin like before. "Listen, kid—"

He never finished.

He couldn't process what happened—or where the change had come from.

But the falling child and the rush of blood told him everything.

Gone was his lower hand. In its place was a stump so clean, that blood flowed like a river.

"ARGHHHHHHH!" he roared like a beast. The pain—more real than anything he had ever felt—consumed him.

The girl stared at the blade in her hand, as if seeing it for the first time.

He clutched the bleeding stump, barely able to think. Mercenaries were trained to endure pain—but this pain… was something else.

Her eyes met his—and something stirred within her. Not fear. Not hate.

Something colder. Older.

A whisper caressed her ear.

"Aim for his throat while he's distracted..." The voice was playful, almost teasing. "Do it now—or you won't get the chance again."

The girl moved.

She ran forward, while the man remained blinded by pain.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her—but his mind was muddled, lost in agony.

The blade swung again—this time, it sang.

It sliced across his throat, clean and bright.

He staggered, eyes wide. His remaining hand clutched at his throat, trying to stop his life from slipping away like sand.

He even forgot about his severed hand—it lay there, bathing in his blood.

The blood spilled—not red, but sickly black, tinged with oil and smoke as if tainted by something profane.

He collapsed to his knees.

The girl fell too, knees buckling, chest heaving.

Her hand—still gripping the dagger—was slick with her strange blood.

Crystalline gray, shimmering under the dome's eerie light. It reflected not just the world—but something inside her.

But she wasn't done.

As if releasing frustration she didn't know she had, she approached him again.

She lodged the blade deeper into his neck, then plunged it again and again. Something had taken hold of her.

She stabbed him repeatedly, barely giving the blood time to spill. Black and oily, it showered her from head to toe. Only her cracked eyes remained visible within the mess.

The man didn't even die from blood loss. He drowned in his blood.

Her breathing was erratic and labored. All she could see was blood.

She let a feral grin stretch across her lips.

This was... liberating.

The emptiness within her craved more—to be filled with screams, to watch the light in their eyes die out, slowly, until only the coldness of death was absolute.

Warmth filled her mind and body, growing with every pierce. His warm, corrupted blood against her skin was comforting, almost familiar.

Her heart pounded louder, adrenaline cutting through the haze.

She felt alive.

She stood slowly. The blade's weight no longer felt alien. It felt warm, almost caring.

She didn't know to whom it belonged. She only hoped she'd get to keep it.

Her body trembled—not just from weakness, but from the power stirring inside her.

Memories not her own—flashes of rituals, symbols, a throne of bone and stars. A sea of souls, an ocean of blood, skies of calamity, the looming back of a mighty being. They burned across her mind in fragments.

She didn't understand. But it didn't matter.

Just as she drifted into the euphoria of her first kill, a voice cut through.

"Hey, peasant… don't forget the heart. And don't ruin the head too much… otherwise, you might not wake up tomorrow."

The count's excited voice snapped her back.

A small part of her felt fear—fear for what she had become.

But a larger part? Wondered how it would feel to do this again.

Too bad there were only twenty of them...

She looked down at the mangled corpse. Her stomach turned. The walls closed in, memories flooding in—the way her parents' bodies had looked, twisted, and broken.

But soon, even that feeling vanished.

With unsettling ease, she struggled to sever the head.

She pierced his chest where she thought the heart would be.

"You'll ruin it with that sloppy attitude..." The count's voice lashed her like a whip.

It took longer than expected, a messy task, but she got the heart. Still warm.

She placed both head and heart in the basket. She thought they wouldn't fit—but they disappeared into the depths.

The mercenaries stared at her.

The others trembled—what had they witnessed?

A little girl, bathing in blood, her eyes empty, her smile ghostly.

They'd seen her fall. Now they saw her rise—bloodied, terrifying.

She stood, holding a picnic basket in one hand and a dagger in the other, as if this were a morbid version of a children's fairy tale; she looked at them as if she stared through them, not at them.

Outside the dome, Krael's eyes sparkled.

"Ohhh… look at her," he whispered, almost lovingly. "Who knew someone so bland could be this exciting? At her age, I couldn't even look at blood without flinching… now look—breaking hearts and rolling heads."

Beside him, Adler remained stoic, but Krael felt his concern, his confusion at her transformation.

Even the dome quivered, reacting to the power in her blood.

In the mindscape, Sael laughed from his throne of ruin.

"Ahhh... I see you now, little monster. Show me more."

Inside the dome, two more mercenaries were forced into her space. The mutilated body was gone. Only the bloodstained slope remained.

The girl stood atop it, eyes cracked and hollow.

They shivered.

But they didn't let fear win. They knew now—she wasn't to be underestimated.

The first man died because he let arrogance blind him. They would not make the same mistake.

One of them eyed the dagger.

"If I take that from her, I can end her. And maybe escape this dome… No way the butler can maintain this effortlessly."

But Adler saw him—and smiled, amused...

The second mercenary just wanted it to end.

Krael had never been more entertained.

The girl's ruthlessness gave him more joy than watching his uncle's schemes fail.

He wanted to see more—wanted to see her break, lose herself in the pleasure of killing, to fight for every breath.

The two mercenaries stood, bodies taut, fists clenched, murderous intent radiating off them—towering over a child barely reaching their waists.

She stood bathed in blood, holding a basket and dagger, looking… clueless.

To Krael, it was art.

This scene would have made dark artists weep with envy.

Too bad he'd enjoy it alone.

He leaned forward.

"Let's see if she survives this one."