An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

In the world outside, mere seconds had passed. Yet, to the little girl, it might as well have been eons—both in the first and second legacy worlds.

But she was not the only one undergoing a trial of her own.

The Count, too, was facing what would be a pivotal shift in his very being—or perhaps, what was awakening had always been there, merely hidden from the world, within the depths of his perceived self.

Did he deserve this? Maybe not. But this was a world where even the smallest circumstances could have world-ending consequences for another.

And while this was certainly not world-ending—okay, maybe to a certain extent, but that was beside the point.

What had taken place in mere moments of the day? The day had certainly not yet ended, and the things that had taken place would leave many shocked, the powerful feeling inferior as the lives of two characters were transformed. It was a story that would strike the hearts of the unprivileged, those at the bottom of the ladder—a peasant girl, smiled upon by fate, earning the mercy of a noble who takes her in. A chance of a lifetime, allowing her to step into the realm of gods, to break free from the mold of poverty and misery.

Many would call it ascending the heavens in a single step.

But to the Count, this was as painful as it could get.

The world was sinking deeper into the night. The light of Astrea grew softer, more luminous, casting an eerie warmth despite the creeping cold. It was like the glow of a bonfire on a desolate shore—comforting yet distant.

Within the chamber, things remained tense.

Krael stood in the shadows, his gaze fixed on the unfolding scene, though he barely saw it anymore.

His eyes rested upon her throne—the craftsmanship, the splendor, the reverence with which it had been made. It was barely taller than him, and yet, it loomed over him like a monolith, pressing upon his soul.

But nothing was more painful than the serene girl asleep upon it.

He knew little about legacy awakenings, but he knew this much—sleep was not the way others endured them.

Even death was never ruled out, and yet, the peasant girl slept like a queen. As though she were born for majesty. Her body was almost lifeless, and if not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he might have thought her dead.

Even after her roar—when his very blood had drilled into her like serpents, when he finally thought she had earned retribution for coveting things her meager existence could not handle—yet she remained unaffected.

In fact, with every passing moment, she only seemed to grow more beautiful.

Her malnourished body filled out without sustenance. Her features softened, becoming unnaturally perfect. Her hair turned to silken strands.

And perhaps worst of all, he could feel the adoration radiating from his butler.

He and the priest had become feverish, reverent.

He had spent his whole life believing he was the center—that even though his name was the lowest among nobility, it would one day rise to the heights where reverence was all that remained. That people would one day call out his name—Krael Maesta—with nothing but awe or fear, he didn't really mind which it was.

Believing that his bloodline was something sacred. Something worth worshiping. Something destined to be remembered.

Yet now, he was watching a stranger—a mere peasant—do what he could not.

In mere moments, she had stepped into his life and become a queen. Her throne built for her.

And yet, he could not bring himself to hate her.

Why?

Why couldn't he hate her?

Why? Why… why…

It felt like a suffocating hand against his throat, like madness clawing at the edges of his sanity. It drove him insane that he felt more for the girl, not less.

He wanted to blame her. Wanted to resent her for taking what was meant to be his.

For ruining his chances.

But he couldn't.

Instead, his eyes watered as though he was gazing upon something precious. A sorrow was welling inside him—one he did not fully understand, but one that was undeniably there.

His fingers trembled under the weight of his own powerlessness. A hollowness he had never noticed before gaped open inside him.

Every move they made—every chant, every drop of blood spilled—felt like it was happening in a reality where he no longer existed.

This power had chosen its wielder.

Not him.

Not the Count.

Not Krael.

And all he could feel was joy.

A joy he would rather feel anything but.

He was not the one with agency anymore.

And now, at this moment, the girl—who had once been as helpless as he—was set to rise higher than he ever could.

The voice that had mocked him was silent now, as if its purpose had been fulfilled.

But he was too far gone to care.

Krael swallowed, his fists clenched, his teeth grinding.

Rage threatened to surface.

But it was nothing more than a dull ache.

A pit slowly swallowing him whole.

How dare she be the one to carry the power he desired?

He wanted this question to take root in his heart.

But it wouldn't.

Instead, he wanted to see her rise.

He wanted to protect her.

He wanted to see her smile—not the broken, empty thing it once was, but a real, joyous smile.

He wanted to see her tear men and women apart, to watch her bathe in the blood of nobles, to witness her firsts—her first kill, her first act of dominance.

And that he had seen, with the death of the mercenaries, she had earned a place in his heart; he felt a pride watching her take on brutality like it were second nature to her, to see her despair for the fact that she would not be able to finish her kill.

Watching her tear out the hearts of her opponents was maybe the best of all, desecrating their lifeless bodies like they were trash.

And he realized, with a slow, horrifying clarity, that it was less about the spectacle and more about her.

He felt like a father watching his child take her first steps—afraid she would fall, yet steeling himself not to help when she did.

That was what he had been all along.

He had not acknowledged it before, but now, as his mind cleared, he saw it for what it was.

From the very beginning, there had been joy in watching her.

Her pain had become his.

Her sorrow had become his.

He did not know when the change had occurred.

But it had.

And now, all he felt was exhaustion.

He had sacrificed so much and gained so little.

He had sold his soul, and yet, he knew—if it meant seeing something other than the empty husk she had been when he found her—he would do it again.

Twice over.

He should have been furious.

Rage should have consumed him.

But all he felt was silence.

A growing distance between himself and the things he once fought for.

Yet within that silence, a quiet pride stirred.

A pride in watching the little girl become a queen. Become one worthy of the throne they built in his house.

His mind was a haze.

His vision blurred.

His thoughts incoherent.

But outwardly, he remained cold. Unmoved.

And yet, the other two in the room knew exactly what was happening.

They did not interfere.

Even though Adler wanted to.

But a power held him back—one he could not disobey.

The priest was not someone he could offend.

"Don't interfere, young one… This is a trial he must walk alone. If you intervene, you will not have your young master back—only a husk of sin."

And so, Adler stopped trying.

He did what he was made to do.

He did not dare to look back at the Count's blank face, for fear that he would lose control.

Instead, he devoted himself to assisting the ritual, as though he were still serving the Count.

For that had become something of the truth the moment his blood had entered her.

And if one looked closely at the girl…

They would notice a certain resemblance to the Count, her features softer, her beauty noble and majestic, her aura refined, her skin glittering with dark undertones similar to the Count.

Marking shifted within as reality sought to etch something onto her body, but it failed; its power was not enough to encompass what the girl had become...

Her edges cut, and a bone-deep pride was born from within. One that sought to take the skies as a footstool. She had become something many would call the Count's own blood, even if he himself did not know of it.

What that meant for him…

... Would be interesting to see.

This was not his power awakening.

This was not his ritual.

But it might as well have been, for the girl had become someone the Count would not be able to do without....