Heart Devil [OP Yandere Schizo Ramble LitRPG XD]

The forbidden forest beyond Greeds Capital was quieter than it had any right to be. Even the insects were holding their breath.

A single procession moved through its shadowed canopy, silent and deliberate. Eight hooded acolytes bore a massive black-and-gold sedan on their shoulders, each robe adorned with the insignia of the Vainheart faction; a pink rose inside a gilded cage. Hanging lanterns swayed from the corners of the palanquin, their warm glow revealing the faint shimmer of illusion magic across the sedan's veils. The one inside preferred her privacy tonight.

At the head of the line, warrior-acolytes marched with ceremonial spears in hand, eyes sweeping the trees with ritual paranoia. They were followed closely by a figure in gleaming armor, the frozen knight Shela, second to no one in martial skill, first in loyalty and authority among Hannya's faction.

Except, perhaps, for those three new demons, one of which currently walked like a ghost in her sedan's shadow.

Shela glanced toward the sedan as they made their way deeper into the forbidden zone of Greed's territory. They weren't near any known trail. Even the trees felt off; too old, too twisted. The woods here had forgotten sunlight. Which made the sudden excursion even stranger.

Something about the air itself hinted at trespass.

Shela slowed her pace and approached the veiled sedan. She wasn't one to question orders, but the secrecy of this mission had been gnawing at her since they left the safety of Ragescar. Salthitha had remained behind to manage the domain in their absence, which meant Shela was the ranking enforcer on this mission. Whatever it was.

She was just about to speak when a figure appeared in front of her.

Rose.

The pain demon's skin gleamed hot pink beneath her black veil, and her tightly fitted maid uniform bore the marks of elegant functionality, a sword-whip coiled at her waist, the handle already loose in her hand. Rumors whispered her kind were called Cherrymaids, pain demons born of despair and tragedy, servants not of vengeance and chaos, as once assumed, but of something else entirely.

Hannya. Apparently.

And Shela could only describe them with a single phrase.

Irredeemable zealots.

"I was hoping to speak with Hannya." Shela said, her voice steady.

Rose didn't move. Her tone was measured but flat. "Does something trouble you, Knight?"

"It's about the mission," Shela replied. "We've marched deep into forbidden territory without any clear directive. I think some clarity is owed-"

"No." Rose's smile curled behind the veil. "A knight needn't know more than what she must obey. Your job is to walk and swing when told."

Shela frowned. "I'm not a servant. Nor a follower. I'm her companion."

Rose scoffed lightly. "And yet you speak above your station, overstepping the authority." She turned her head slightly, brushing her fingertips against the grip of her weapon. "Unbecoming behavior… for one who claims such closeness. Perhaps you've never known enough pain to understand where you truly stand."

A pause.

The procession stopped.

A cold wind threaded through the forest as Shela's aura ignited; subtle, silver, dangerous. The pressure of it bent the light, the trees, the dirt beneath their boots.

But before either could escalate, a delicate, pale hand extended from behind the veiled sedan.

"Stop. Shela may approach." Hannya's voice rang soft, but final.

Rose backed away with a graceful bow, unaffected. "Forgive me, my Queen." she murmured.

Shela stepped forward and drew near the sedan. As she did, something strange happened, her hair stood on end, feeling some odd sense of trespass. Hannya's presence was unusually sharp today, her usual haze of mystery threaded with… irritation?

Hannya shifted behind the curtain, unseen.

Truthfully, the tyrannical queen was indeed irritated, not just at Shela, but at the entire procession. This was meant to be a solo mission, an unholy pilgrimage, a dramatic surprise visit, a climactic reveal at the edge of a sealed abyss.

But now?

She had a whole peanut gallery marching behind her to witness her lofty entrance.

She was going to meet Vainglory, the god sealed below. The co-leader of her Court. The one she dreamed of. The one she schemed for. The one she wanted to impress.

And now she was worried her voice would crack at the first hello.

Shela spoke. "Why are we traveling so deep into Greed's territory? I thought we were here to claim it… but this feels like something else."

Hannya answered coolly, "There's something more important than conquest. Something that must be freed when dessert is served."

"Dessert?" Shela echoed.

"Tax day," Hannya said flatly. "Midnight. Gula has prepared a feast. I'd rather we arrive before the table's overturned."

Shela hesitated, sensing there was more to this cryptic answer. "And what is it we're trying to achieve?"

Before Hannya could answer, Rose interjected. "You already know enough. More would burden our Queen."

Shela's eyes narrowed, but Rose only gave her a knowing look.

"If she wished to tell you," Rose said softly, "she would've revealed it."

The word struck Shela like a hammer.

She had forgotten, if Hannya wanted her to know, she would. She always had. Their paths aligned not because of chance, but because Hannya knew. Or so Shela thought.

She lowered her eyes, reluctantly conceding. "Understood."

She turned and returned to her place in the procession.

Rose approached the sedan and bowed low. "My Queen, forgive the interruption. The knight was unruly. I will ensure no more distractions."

But Hannya only waved her off.

"You're doing fine. Keep the noise away. I need my head clear for the battle ahead."

A battle of love, of course. Though no one but her knew that.

Rose glowed quietly at the praise, masking her glee behind humble posture. She and her sisters had trained relentlessly for a year to be here, swords of despair, protectors of the one who gave them purpose. This moment was validation.

"Your orders when we arrive?" Rose asked, voice poised.

Hannya was silent for a moment, then replied behind the veil. "Guard the entrance. I go alone. If you hear anything…strange… do not enter."

Rose bowed, the gravity in her eyes fierce. "Understood."

"And?" Hannya added.

Rose straightened. "Lily has completed the mirror transition node in Greed's capital. Their underground portal to Neel is ready. Hidden and functional. Penelope is… cleaning up the capital. Finalizing your message to the defectors."

Hannya nodded. "Efficient."

But inwardly, she frowned.

'A couple of housewives doing this kind of work… really?'

She had intended for Shela to go set up the relay ritual and tracking sigil, but those three busy bodies had gotten wind of it like hellhounds on charred bones. They elected themselves for the operation and moved out without another word.

As for the defector nonsense… she didn't even know what she was referring to…

She still remembered the day she met them. Frail, weepy, emotionally scrambled. Soy, she would call it. Apparently, a few months of survival training had toughened them up.

She glanced at the system window only she could see. Their potential limits had risen. Currently A rank 'pain demons' now, she supposed that meant something.

'Guess this is a good test,' she thought. 'Let's see if they're useful outside of chores and feeding me.'

The procession continued.

And beneath their feet, Greed's soil grew thinner.

The abyss waited.

~~~

The moon over Hellnia's devil capital was a dim silver coin, its light dulled by the black haze drifting over the city. Southeast of Greed's borders, the noble district glittered in quiet defiance of the darkness, Its proud towers and gilded rooftops radiating the wealth and influence of their owners. Tonight, however, the wealthiest households were anything but relaxed.

Thin, intricate shielding arrays shimmered faintly above the estates like soap bubbles on the verge of bursting. Ward circles pulsed faintly at every gate. Merchant houses had their own protective lattices wrapped tight as cocoons, while more superstitious nobles had gone even further, sealing their mansions behind stacked talismans, sound-dampening veils, and family heirloom charms.

They were not fending off a siege from an army. They were guarding against something far more insidious… The slow, invasive seep of Gula's power.

They all knew the signs. The telltale fluctuations of the monitoring crystals stationed throughout the city had spiked earlier that afternoon. And whenever those readings jumped, the air across Hellnia grew heavier, the whispers of hunger curling into the minds of every devil like smoke through an open window.

They had learned to respect those warnings.

The last time they had ignored them. The last time they had underestimated the Feast. Three duchies in the western provinces had literally eaten themselves into bankruptcy as the laws gradually seeped in. Stores of food, reserves of wine, even livestock and seed grain, consumed in a frenzy until nothing was left but bare earth and sick, bloated bodies.

The capital's elite had no interest in repeating that mistake.

Gula's ritual, when she chose to hold it, made the plane itself hungrier than normal. Demons and devils who could resist such compulsions through sheer cultivation were rare; most required magical protections to maintain their sanity and their stores during the Feast.

And tonight, every array was up.

Well…Almost every array.

In the south corner of the district, one small noble estate sat in darkness, its wards conspicuously absent.

Yet there was no feasting within those walls.

There was no music, no indulgent laughter, no clinking of goblets over rich meats and warm bread.

Instead, there was silence. A thick, funereal silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind through the estate's outer gardens.

Bodies lay where they had fallen.

Guards sprawled across gravel paths, torsos twisted unnaturally. The grass was wet with more than just dew, and the air smelled of copper and ash. Along the carved stone halls, the black dust of devil respawn essence clung to the walls in patches, whispering of souls forcibly returned to their anchor points elsewhere in the city.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Whoever had come here had not simply killed. They had executed.

The sharp, measured click of heels on stone echoed through the inner sanctum of the mansion, each step unhurried yet certain. The sound was followed, after a pause, by a wet scrape, the sound of something dragging itself across marble in desperation.

Penelope walked as though she owned the place.

The Cherrymaid's skin was the same lustrous hot pink as her sisters', but where Rose radiated an airy poise, Penelope carried herself like a gentle cactus, quite prickly if you lack the right touch, and most did. Her black-veiled mask left her eyes visible; cold, unwavering, with a faint edge of disdain.

Her whip-sword hung loosely in her hand, droplets of crimson sliding lazily from its segmented edge. The faint tang of blood in the air only sharpened her composure.

Ahead of her, a devil crawled, leaving a smeared trail of red across the white stone floor.

He was a handsome one, almost fragile in appearance, with golden lashes that framed soft eyes and a voice, when he used it, that carried like wind chimes. Tonight, however, his beauty was marred by terror. His fine clothes were shredded, his pale skin painted in blood, and where his knees should have been there were only ragged, bleeding stumps.

He had never met Penelope before.

And he had no idea how to survive her.

He clawed at the polished floor, trying to drag himself away from her steady advance. The effort was hopeless, but panic had stripped him of logic.

Finally, his trembling voice broke the deafening silence.

"W-why…? Why are you doing this?" he gasped. "Why kill my household? Why… why all of them?"

Penelope tilted her head, almost curious, before answering.

"Tell me," she said softly, "do you remember who you serve… who you abandoned?"

The words seemed to strike him harder than her whip-blade had.

Recognition dawned on his face like a slow, creeping shadow.

Once, at the very start of Hannya's rise, he had joined the newly formed Vainheart faction. It had been, in his mind, a daring rebellion against the stifling traditions of his family. Hannya's charisma had drawn him in, the allure of something new, something bold.

In short, he was a wastrel.

But building a stronghold on Hazy Mountain had not been the indulgent paradise he imagined. The work was constant, the conditions harsh, and the glamour quickly faded for someone with a taste for idle pleasures.

It was in those restless days that she had found him.

A white-veiled devil of the Luxuria faction, meeting him in a brothel down the slopes. She was beauty and temptation woven into one, her voice a silken net. And when her magic slid into him, whispering compulsion, he had not resisted.

She had told him what to do.

So he had done it.

When the faction moved to Ragescar Valley, he relayed their movements to her in secret. He had not thought too deeply about it, the meetings were intoxicating, and the attention she gave him was worth far more to his vanity than loyalty to a faction leader he barely knew.

Then came the ambush.

Dozens of Purge Knights descending on the valley. He had fled before the first blow was struck, running home to the capital without looking back.

He had never gone back.

And when word reached him later that the Vainheart faction had survived, he had simply… ignored it.

The parties here in the capital were far more to his taste.

Now, with his back pressed against the cold marble, he stammered, "I… I was compelled. She put a spell on me."

Penelope's expression didn't change.

"Compelled?" she repeated, her voice a cool blade. "You were compelled for days before the incident, right? And in all that time, you said nothing?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Hannya's charm alone should have weakened such magic. If you wanted to resist, you could have. You didn't."

The truth hit him harder than her words, because she was right. The compulsion had faded long before the attack. But he had kept going back to the veiled devil regardless, drawn by something far more pitiful than magic.

Desire.

Now, under Penelope's gaze, his will crumbled.

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking, "please, I-"

"I sympathise," she cut in, her lips curving in a smile that held no warmth. "You simply haven't experienced enough pain to understand what disloyalty costs."

A pink sigil flared into life above her open palm, the air humming with the oppressive weight of a pain spell ready to be unleashed.

"Tell me," she said quietly, "the name of the Luxuria devil who contacted you."

Fear stripped him bare.

"She… she was the s-"

The black throwing knife came from nowhere.

It pierced the side of his head before the last syllable could leave his mouth, his body collapsing into ash that scattered across the polished floor. There was no lingering essence, no echo of a respawn, the mark of a permanent death.

Penelope's eyes narrowed sharply, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them.

Then the second dagger came, just as abrupt and even faster than the last.

She saw it, a streak of darkness closing the distance to her throat faster than she could move.

For a fraction of a second, her mind flashed through the certainty of death.

And then…

A subtle flash.

The crude necklace around her neck flared with light.

A thin barrier shimmered into existence, the second dagger bouncing off it with a hiss.

She stared at the crumbling trinket in disbelief, the mismatched beads, the bent scrap metal links, the fractured beast cores strung together by a child's hands.

A gift from a young, green-skinned demon they had saved from slavery half a year ago.

Sixth Envy.

She had thought it worthless. Sentimental, perhaps. But now it had saved her life.

She didn't have time to linger on the thought.

Her head snapped toward the source of the attack, senses razor-sharp. The whip-sword lashed out in a blur, tearing through wall and furniture alike as it followed the trajectory of the knife.

Plaster dust choked the air. Furniture collapsed and split.

But when the dust settled…

Nothing.

No body. No attacker.

Only the faint whisper of movement, already gone.

Penelope's eyes fell to the dagger lying on the floor, its black metal catching the dim light. There was something about it, something that scraped at the edge of her memory… but the image was frustratingly out of reach.

Her expression hardened.

She slid the whip-sword back into place, turned on her heel, and strode toward the exit.

Without a word, she drew a communication crystal from her sleeve, her mind already moving ahead to the report she would give her sisters.

Something about this night had just changed.

And not for the better.

~~~

The silvery light of the Mirror Way had swallowed Cashmere whole; cool, weightless, and disorienting within the mirror world.

Soon he made it to the other side in a hurry, spitting him out into the shadowy chamber.

Stone walls. Incense. The faint echo of bidding far above.

He staggered forward, boots slapping marble, and nearly collapsed at the base of a towering archway etched in gold and obsidian. Beyond it stood the guarded entrance to the Grand Temple's Depths, Greed's most sacred vault of commerce.

The two Business Guards on watch turned at the sound of his arrival. Their suits were crisp, tailored in temple black with gold-thread cuffs, but their eyes were sharp as coin-edges. Both recoiled at the sight of him.

Not just because he was battered and dust-streaked.

Because the curse-mark of Avaritia radiating off him, Greed's mark, a sigil of debt burned faintly on his core.

One guard immediately raised his halberd. The other stepped forward, face tightening.

"Identify yourself, debtor!"

Cashmere forced himself upright, breathing hard.

"Investor Cashmere, second-tier, under review!" His voice cracked with urgency. "I need to file a report! Code Red. Possible bankruptcy outcome!"

The guards exchanged a look. One narrowed his eyes.

"You are Cashmere," he admitted slowly, "but why in the god's name are you marked as a debtor? Father God only brands-"

"I know! I'll turn myself in for audit later!" Cashmere snapped, frustration bleeding into his tone. "But right now, I need an audience with the investors. What's happening on the other side is about to hit your ledgers, and hard."

The guard hesitated. The mark of debt was no small matter, it meant divine censure from Avaritia himself. But the Mirror Way had gone unnervingly quiet over the past couple of days, and they had already been stationed here because of "strange fluctuations." That, and the loss of cross-territory commerce, was starting to tick upward on their internal reports.

And if there was one thing the Grand Temple feared more than divine wrath, it was financial loss.

The second guard lowered his halberd slightly. "Fine. Your audience request will be pushed forward. Within the hour."

Cashmere exhaled sharply, half in relief, half in impatience.

They fell in on either side of him, escorting him through the temple corridors. Upward, past tiers of black-marble steps and walls hung with banners, each embroidered with the seal of the Shareholders.

Cashmere's head was still ringing from the Mirror Way. His thoughts tangled with flashes of what he'd seen. The chamber, the corpses, her. The Cherrymaid. Her voice like a soft, hollow eulogy. And the message she'd told him to deliver.

But there was something else, a faint itch along his arm. He absently rubbed his sleeve, too wired to think on it.

Neither guard noticed the small sigil that had slid unseen beneath his cuff during his passage through the mirror. Its lines curved in unfamiliar patterns, glowing with the faintest pink pulse before sinking into the fabric of his coat.

The escort continued, their polished shoes clicking against the floor in a rhythm that made Cashmere's nerves grind.

They passed clerks hunched over gold-leaf tablets, tallying shipment ledgers. Incense thickened in the air as they neared the upper rings, where only the highest orders of the temple's financial clergy were allowed.

Above them, in halls lined with cold-eyed statues of Avaritia, the Shareholders waited. And Cashmere, whether marked debtor or not, was about to bring them news they would not want to hear.

News that could shatter Hellnia's entire plane of investment in one stroke.

And somewhere beneath his sleeve, the pink sigil pulsed once, slow and deliberate, like the beat of a…

Heart.

~~~

The air in Gula's temple was heavy with the languid perfume of sugar and spice, a warm haze curling in the high rafters. The frenzy of the feast had finally slowed to a steady, lazy lull.

Plates of cake, candied fruits, and syrup-soaked pastries were half-eaten and abandoned on the long banquet tables, while demons sprawled across cushions and low couches, chatting idly or simply drifting in the sweet haze of overindulgence.

On the dais, the music had long faded to the slow hum of lyres and low flutes. Hans and Gula's dance had ended only moments ago, the echoes of their last… spin still lingering in the eyes of those who'd watched.

Now, Gula sat reclined on her throne of sprawling cushions, the black glass bottle Hans had given her clutched in one hand. She tilted it to her lips again, drinking deep. The thick, almost syrupy liquid swirled with a strange black that swallowed the light around it.

She pulled away with a breathless laugh, her cheeks already flushed. The air before her hand shimmered as she swept her arm in drunken arcs, drawing one glowing purple sigil after another. Each burst of magic hung in the air like floating calligraphy before snapping into position within the vast array that was slowly, piece by piece, blooming above her.

Her movements were swaying, almost careless, but each line of her magic hit its mark as if some unseen precision guided her through the haze of drink. And after each sip from the bottle, she added another stroke, another layer, the essence she gathered and the desire she consumed lacing her mana until the sprawling construct before her became something more than ritual, something dangerous.

Hans stood just behind her, one broad hand occasionally pressing lightly at her shoulder or arm when she leaned too far to one side, making sure she didn't tumble from her plush seat. His gaze was steady, his presence calm, but the way he watched her work carried its own quiet weight.

Gula's laughter bubbled again. "Kakaka! Dessert," she declared with drunken glee, "is indeed the best course."

The crowd within earshot chuckled and raised their cups. A ripple of cheer swept through the temple as those still eating took another bite, tearing lazily at cakes with their fingers or licking frosting from their hands.

Hans tilted his head. "Hannya really was a sweet young lady," he said, his voice deep but faintly amused.

"To give you half her Essence of Desire… Most devils would never part with that after their birth. They'd hoard it for artifacts, curses, or private power."

Gula's lips curled in a half-smile. "Hannya may not show it in her short little letters," she said, her words tinged with fondness, "but she really does favor her big sister."

She pressed a hand to her own chest, giggling at the title.

"Me!" She proclaimed.

The thought of it, of Hannya sending such a potent gift, made her giddy. She swirled the bottle before taking another long drink.

"She probably knew it would be perfect for the last dish. I'm sure she understood I'd know how to use it properly."

Her gaze slid to Hans then, the words almost conspiratorial.

Hans returned her look with a faint, knowing nod, pushing his fake glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

"Awareness like that," he said tactfully, "isn't far from seeing the future, I suppose."

His lips curled ever so slightly, the savage edge of his nature flashing in his eyes at the thought of Avaritia's horrified face. His red gaze burned for just a heartbeat with wrathful power before he quickly smothered it, his expression smoothing back into his trained, stoic mask.

He let out a low cough, a little embarrassed at the slip.

Gula, however, caught it even in her drunken haze. She smiled, a fresh blush blooming across her cheeks. She had always liked that savage look on him. When they'd first met, he'd worn it far more often, young and untamed. Now, he looked older, much older, like a mortal man in his sixties. But unlike mortals, demons like Hans didn't wither, and the vitality, the raw strength burning in his gaze, brought a certain hungry ache into her chest.

Her smile faltered as her gaze slid to the bandage on his shoulder. The ache twisted into something heavier.

She remembered the dance earlier; the heat, the closeness, and how her hunger had surged again, sharp and unbidden. And she had bitten him. Again.

Her devil blood whispered dark approval of the act, interpreting her desire for him in its most literal, primal sense. But her heart clenched painfully. Every time she lost control, Hans never complained. Never recoiled. Never left, like the others had.

Like Avaritia had.

Her jaw tightened.

Once, she had thought Avaritia a friend. To her, and to Hans. Centuries past, they had risen in power together, as allies. But in the end, she had been a fool. To him, they had never been friends. Only tools. Only investments to be bought, sold, and discarded.

Her anger swelled like a storm cloud in her chest.

She tipped back the bottle again, swallowing deeply. When she lowered it, her laughter was sharp and ringing.

"Kakaka!" Several feasters glance her way in awe, a laugh with such devastating terror.

Turning back to her array, she scrawled the final strokes, purple light flashing bright as the great magic construct locked into place. The massive array floated above the throne room like a second ceiling, humming with restrained power.

She rose from her cushions in one smooth, swaying motion and stepped toward the temple balcony, the bottle still in her grip.

The citizens of her territory, those gathered in the temple and those out in the streets below, bowed low in reverence. In the hush that followed, only the sound of the breeze and the faint crackle of magic filled the air.

Hans stepped to her side, his presence at her shoulder.

Gula raised her voice, clear despite the drink. "All shall eat!"

The crowd answered in unison, "All shall eat!"

"Sour or sweet!" she called.

"Sour or sweet!" they roared back, their voices rising like the swell of a tide.

"Bow your head and feast," she finished, "or submit your flesh to the insatiable beast!"

The cheer that followed shook the air.

Above them, the array rose higher, swelling as it began to spread across the sky. The sigils rotated and locked, forming a single brilliant wheel of magic.

Gula spread her arms, laughter spilling out again. "[Wither Devil Curse: Dia de Muertos – Mordisquear y Roer]!"

At her words, the array contracted sharply, then exploded outward in a pulse of violet light. Firework-like bursts of glowing magic rippled high above the city, dazzling the crowd. They gasped and cheered at the spectacle, not knowing that the light was no mere display.

The curse slipped upward into the clouds, unseen now, streaking away toward Greed's territory in Hellnia. The range bolstered by the essence of ravenous feasting and pure desire.

Gula stood at the balcony's edge, basking in the adoration of her people. Her laughter rang bright and wicked as she waved to them.

Beside her, Hans watched quietly, the faintest smile playing at his lips. There was irony here, great irony that she would use that curse. It had been her only one before her ascension to 1st Gula, a new devil lineage.

Back then, she had been known only as Cravings.

Cravings 21st Atrophia.

Hans was certain Avaritia would remember the name… and the curse.

And if he didn't…

He would soon.