Aurelia strode forward, each step carrying a fierce determination that mirrored the seething rage beneath her composed facade. Before her, Lord Demidicus loomed—a figure whose very presence commanded fear. He was the ancient vampire who had once plucked her dying soul from Earth, back when she was Aislinn and the Romans had invaded her homend of Britannia.
Whispers rippled through the gathered vampires, hushed and tense. Rumors persisted—Demidicus had repced his daughter’s soul, disappointed in her ck of malice and strength. Some cimed his true ambition was far greater: to create a system user within his bloodline—a legendary warrior destined for godhood. Though that vision hadn’t come to fruition as he had hoped, Aislinn—now Aurelia—was no mere substitute. She had become something entirely different, her arcane power surpassing even that of some of the most powerful ascended gods’ champions. Some whispered, perhaps half in jest, that she harbored the soul of a Titan—an entity of myth and legend. Little did they know just how close to the truth that whisper was.
Today was anything but a celebration. As Aurelia moved down the aisle, rows of seated vampires watched, their faces expressionless masks. She wore a breathtaking bck gown, intricately embroidered with tendrils and tentacles—symbols of death and nightmares, things close to her very essence. A dark veil obscured her face, hiding her disdain, but it couldn’t shield her burning gaze. Her eyes briefly met Lord Demidicus’, the man who dared call himself her father, before shifting to the other central figure of this ritual—her intended groom.
For nearly two centuries, Aurelia had pursued one goal with relentless obsession: to reunite with her true love, her husband, Bowen. She had endured countless trials, sacrificing everything, and finally, she succeeded in summoning his soul. But the Bowen she knew was long gone. Time moved differently across realms, and while two centuries had passed for her, two millennia had passed for Bowen. He had reincarnated countless times—hundreds, maybe more—and his final life, the only one he remembered, was as a woman.
Bke.
Further complicating matters, the woman Bowen had become was now bound to the essence of a Bck Pudding—a slime monster. This twist was a cruel joke, contrary to everything Aurelia had pnned and worked for. It felt as though fate itself had mocked her efforts. But despite it all, these details mattered little to Aurelia. Bke was her soulmate. Whether the notion of soulmates was true or merely a fantasy, she believed Bke was, and always would be, hers.
Aurelia’s gaze now fell upon Duke Lysander, a tempest of loathing raging beneath her cold exterior. Lord Demidicus had arranged this union to solidify his influence in the newly-formed coven. Aurelia’s hatred burned for both of them—Demidicus, who had bartered her away as a pawn, and Lysander, who had accepted the deal without hesitation.
Duke Lysander was an imposing figure—a giant of a man with broad shoulders, built like a barbarian. He towered over everyone, but while he had size, he cked age. Among vampires, age defined power. He wore a tailored bck suit and a cape that, Aurelia guessed, likely concealed wings—a trait of the pure-blooded. Even Demidicus could manifest wings, though he was powerful enough to hide them effortlessly.
Aurelia, despite her pure-blood heritage, cked wings. She specuted it might be due to something inherited from her vessel’s biological mother, a stranger she knew nothing about and had no desire to learn of. For a fleeting moment, her eyes rested on Niamh, Demidicus’ prized pet succubus, seated among the guests and funted like a trophy. Could she...? The thought slipped away as quickly as it had come, her focus shifting back to Demidicus, the architect of this charade.
“On this shadowed night, within the embrace of V?luspá’s glow, we come together,” Lord Demidicus intoned, his voice echoing throughout the Grand Hall where vampires from far and wide had gathered. “Tonight, in the heart of darkness, we witness the union of my cherished daughter, Aurelia, and the esteemed Duke Lysander. This sacred bond not only unites two great covens but amplifies our dominion over the night.”
His words grated against Aurelia’s nerves, each one a needle of ice beneath her skin. Her body trembled ever so slightly, her fury boiling within. His voice became a dull hum as her thoughts drifted elsewhere—back to Bke.
The Grotto of the Betrayed. The memory of that st desperate encounter cwed its way to the surface. The siege, the chaos, Bke urging her through the portal, staying behind to fight while forcing Aurelia to safety. The agony in that moment, the feel of Bke’s hand on her cheek before the portal yanked her away—it tore at Aurelia’s heart, a constant, gnawing ache that refused to heal.
She couldn’t even hope for a reunion. Souls were nearly impossible to find in this warped world, the cycle of reincarnation broken and beyond the gods’ care. It was like searching for a single star swallowed by daylight. Each heartbeat was a cruel reminder of that uncertainty, a despair she refused to acknowledge aloud.
“Bke is truly gone,” Aurelia finally admitted to herself, a blood-red tear tracing its way down her pale cheek, hidden beneath her veil.
“Should any present take issue with this union, voice your dissent now or forever be... silenced,” Lord Demidicus’ voice grew menacing. It was a ritual phrase, but Aurelia knew there would be no vows today. She had promised as much—no vows would ever leave her lips for this farce.
Unlike the formalities observed in most species’ weddings, vampires did not shy away from airing their grievances when given the chance. Weddings were the perfect occasion to make public demands without fear of political repercussion—at least, traditionally. During these ceremonies, the bride and groom would negotiate terms to ensure harmony and prevent blood feuds. Responding to Lord Demidicus’s call, twenty individuals rose boldly, forming a line down the central aisle, each eager to voice their objections and secure potential gains.
At a vampire wedding with hundreds in attendance, having merely twenty objectors was unheard of. Typically, nearly every attendee would voice some form of grievance. The ones now standing were primarily from outside covens—na?ve to the depth of Lord Demidicus’s pettiness, vindictiveness, and ruthlessness. They dared to challenge him, even if indirectly. While this might not have been Demidicus’s own wedding, those seated understood the stakes. The entire event was a manifestation of the ancient lord’s hunger for power, even if it meant marrying off his daughter. From the icy gre beneath his cowl, it was clear that these brave or foolhardy souls had no idea of the danger they courted.
“How will this union influence our hunting territories?” demanded a pallid, hunched vampire with misshapen goblin-like ears. Aurelia suppressed an eye roll at the sight of his fangs, which resembled rat teeth protruding from his mouth. “The darklings of the Densen Mountains seek permission to encroach upon these valleys,” he persisted.
The subsequent grievances, demands, and wishes followed the same pattern. Every cimant sought to determine what they could gain, directing their entreaties at Duke Lysander. Tradition allowed Aurelia to voice her own terms, but her mind was elsewhere. Her thoughts lingered on Bke—her true love—and how she could locate Bke’s lost soul. Despite endless pondering, no solutions surfaced.
“Well, well! We all know Lord Demidicus did the unspeakable to his own darling daughter,” bellowed a vampire so rge that two servants were required to carry him. “Why should we entertain the idea of such a soulless creature uniting two covens? Even now, the soulless bitch is too silent to—”
A sudden explosion of carnage silenced him. Blood and viscera rained down upon the guests, shocking many while others sciviously extended their tongues to catch the droplets. Of the portly vampire who had dared to insult the bride, nothing remained—nor of the two servants who had stood by him.
Duke Lysander was momentarily taken aback. The event had unfolded too swiftly for even his vampiric reflexes. He heard a muted sigh behind him and turned to face Lord Demidicus, his gaze catching on Aurelia as he did. Part of her veil had lifted, and she was delicately licking blood from her fingers. A sinking realization washed over him. He had always known of Aurelia’s power, but never had he imagined her abilities dwarfed his own to such an extent. The thought struck him—Does she surpass even Lord Demidicus?
The sheer power Aurelia dispyed prompted the st three hopefuls still standing to swiftly reconsider their priorities, each one choosing the safer option of returning to their seats. Amidst the tense silence, another figure rose. His trembling legs and the snickers from various corners of the room announced his approach before anyone truly took notice of him.
He was no awe-inspiring figure of vampiric lore but a pitiable hybrid with amphibian features. He had no fangs, only a row of small, fish-like teeth behind his froggy countenance. His ck of intimidation or grandeur only amplified the disdain with which the crowd regarded him.
To most, the frog-like vampire was a mere joke, a figure of ridicule. But Aurelia knew better. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a sly grin tugged at her lips. Vorigan was no simpleton, no pushover. The tremors coursing through him were not of fear but of sheer ecstasy. The former beastkin reveled in the disdain and repulsion he garnered. Every sneer, every mocking whisper fed his masochistic desires. In the midst of the ridicule, he basked in every moment.
“Ah, if only they really did those mean things they say,” Vorigan mused to himself, a gleeful shiver running down his spine.
Aurelia’s lips twitched with restrained amusement. “Vorigan, to your chambers. I’ll send two torturers from the dungeons to attend to your... impertinence shortly.”
Vorigan’s response was an animated croak, easily misinterpreted by the audience as trepidation. Yet beneath that seemingly pathetic exterior was a creature brimming with etion. Deep down, he had wanted to make a request that would benefit Lady Aurelia—one of the few, if not the only one, who had shown him a sembnce of kindness. But with all eyes on him and the weight of the occasion pressing down, he couldn’t quite muster the perfect demand. So, with a shivering nod that belied a mix of anticipation and regret, Vorigan made his way to his chambers, each step a blend of apprehension and suppressed glee.
Lord Demidicus gave a disapproving shake of his head, momentarily distracted by Vorigan’s antics. Resolute to move the ceremony forward, he began, “If that is all, then it is my duty to pronounce you vampire lord and—” His words abruptly halted.
The oppressive atmosphere of anticipation hung thick as all eyes darted about, seeking the source of the sudden intrusion. Whispers of dread rustled through the gathered crowd like leaves caught in a sudden gust. The shadows, once obedient to the torchlight, began to behave erratically. They twisted, stretched, and writhed, like living entities refusing to be confined by the limits of light and structure.
Gradually, the writhing masses converged, coiling around the grand pilrs that supported the chamber’s vaulted ceilings. The sight was eerily reminiscent of a colossal basilisk, its long serpentine form winding around its prey. As the darkness continued to weave and intertwine, a collective gasp of horror and awe arose. The gathered vampires, ancient and young alike, recognized the manifestation of the Serpent—their coven’s dark god. The very room seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of this shadowy deity, challenging all present with its mere existence.
The Serpent dispersed, fleeting like mist before sunlight, leaving a sense of unease in its wake. From behind a pilr, a little girl made entirely of darkness emerged, her presence almost whimsical amidst the solemn gathering. She disappeared behind another pilr, and from the opposite side stepped out a tall, shadowy figure. The Serpent, now adopting a vampiric silhouette, continued its mystifying game. Each time it navigated around a pilr, a new shadowy form emerged, all undeniably connected to the same dark essence.
The charade continued, building suspense until, finally, the Serpent stood before the bride and groom. It had transformed into a Naga: the upper half resembling a man, the lower half a serpent, crowned with the majestic hood of a cobra. Yet its entire form was cloaked in an overwhelming aura of darkness.
“Sssso, I have come to blesss this wedding,” the Serpent hissed, its tone dripping with venomous intent.
Aurelia’s dismay deepened upon hearing the procmation. She had carefully plotted to sever both of Lysander’s heads this night, yet with divine sanction on their union, her pns now seemed fraught with peril. Her frown deepened; it seemed she would have to content herself with a less lethal approach, at least for now—perhaps settling for a nightly ritual of stripping him of his dignity.
“You honor us,” Lord Demidicus intoned, bowing deeply.
Aurelia’s keen eyes swept the assembly, noting that every attendee was prostrating themselves in reverence—all except her. This defiance wasn’t lost on either the Serpent or Lord Demidicus. Yet, the elder vampire dared not chastise his daughter, particurly when the Serpent let out a chuckle, seemingly amused by Aurelia’s audacity.
“Oh, it is an honor, yesss. But not quite as you perceive it,” the Serpent hissed. “This vampire duke? He now belongs to Aurelia’s harem.” A wheezing, sibint ughter followed, echoing eerily in the hall.
“My what?” Aurelia’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Wasssn’t your sssoul already bound in matrimony?” the Serpent hissed with amusement. “Ssso, I now decre you man and wife. To undo thisss union or dissolve your harem, your two paramoursss must engage in ritual combat.” His sibint ughter echoed, sending shivers through the attendees.
Lord Demidicus and Duke Lysander straightened up abruptly, faces contorted in fury. “You have no right to—” both began, but swiftly checked their words, thinking better of challenging the deity.
“Ssshe’s bound to the Crone—no, my sister, the Goddess of Dreams—by esssence, as her daughter. A birth that rippled through the very fabric of thisss reality,” the Serpent hissed, an eerie smile stretching across his shadowy visage. “Even I must acknowledge this vampire bride’s ties to another—esssentially, the offspring of a goddessss, my niece. Thus, I recognize this union. As the divine patron of this coven, my decrees are absolute. But heed this: should members of Aurelia’s harem duel in ritual combat, the victor shall inherit all the others’ possessssions—titles and all.”
His ughter, echoing with a sinister hiss, lingered even as he vanished into the void.
For the first time since Bke’s disappearance, a surge of etion made Aurelia’s heart race. This revetion all but confirmed her beloved was still out there. She cast a wicked grin at her newly-acquired groom. Until she reunited with Bke, this man would endure every ounce of her malice—until Bke delivered the final blow. And as her gaze slid to her supposed father, it was clear he wasn’t exempt from her sinister intentions either.
“Has anyone thought to inquire about my wedding gift wishes?” Aurelia cooed, reveling in the stunned silence that hung in the air.
~
The anguish nested in Rob’s heart felt as cold and unyielding as the stone walls enclosing his prison. He often drifted into fantasies where the most challenging task was beating a tricky level in a video game or acing an exam—not fighting tooth and nail for survival against vampires, beasts, and beings wielding unfathomable power. Each heartbeat thudded against his ribcage, echoing through the emptiness within him, mirroring the hollow cng of chains as other prisoners were dragged, screaming, past his cell.
He had been merely a teenager engrossed in video games before being torn from his home and family, thrust into a realm brimming with magic and monstrosities. Here, he had been forced to compete against six—no, seven others. He often overlooked Bke, but she had been among them, and they had all vied against each other to become a Champion to a goddess most referred to as the Crone. And it was Jason who had won that title. Nevertheless, Rob had been christened as a user—a title that didn’t seem too different from being a Champion, though maybe without a deity’s backing. He wasn’t sure; nothing made sense anymore.
But honestly, Rob didn’t care about any of that now. He yearned for his family, for mundane banter at the dinner table, for the comforting embrace of his bed, for the certainty that tomorrow would bring the predictable normalcy he longed for. Above all, he wanted to go home.
His hands sought the cold, unforgiving surface of the stone wall, the rough texture anchoring him to his bitter reality. He curled up in the darkness of the unknown, tears streaming down his face as the cries of tortured prisoners echoed through the dungeon. He closed his eyes, letting the distant screams and cnging chains serve as a twisted lulby, lulling him into a restless slumber where shadows mercilessly repyed the cruel game of his reality.
As days bled into weeks, and weeks dragged into months, the cell’s cold stone seemed to drain hope from Rob’s veins. He didn’t know how long he’d been here—three months, six? His prison cell had become a custrophobic world of torment where Heather’s ceaseless murmurs and prayers to the goddess echoed endlessly off the dank walls. At this rate, she’d unlock a title of priestess.
Once, Rob would have rolled his eyes at every desperate plea that escaped Heather’s lips; now, his eyes stared bnkly at the ceiling, barren of hope, mirroring the void that had grown within him.
Where once his flesh quivered in fear at every distant scream that reverberated through the hollow corridors, now his skin felt numb, a cold, lifeless shell encasing the emptiness that had repced his soul.
He could no longer feel the gritty cold of the floor beneath his skin. It was as though a vast abyss had swallowed the half-orc who once dared dream of rescue, of escape. Even despair—the old companion of the forsaken—had abandoned him.
Rob’s ears picked up the mocking drip of water from somewhere in the dark, each droplet a cruel reminder of time passing, of life slipping away in the gloom that now housed his existence. The dread that once haunted him had settled deep into his bones, a permanent chill that even fear dared not traverse.
In the dead of night, as Heather’s prayers turned into whimpering sobs, the silence in Rob’s soul screamed louder than the shackles that cnged against the fate of the damned who shared his plight.
On one such bleak night, Rob idly traced the crude marks on the wall—a mocking calendar left by a previous prisoner, whose fate he did not know. He realized, then, that the monotonous dripping had ceased. His hardened senses noticed the silence of the water droplets before the absence of screams. This small deviation from routine nudged Rob out of his numb reverie, and for the first time in weeks, a flicker of curiosity drove him to gnce around.
His dull gaze fell upon a vision of surreal beauty—a glowing figure standing amidst the shadows. Her skin was an ethereal canvas of blues swirling with pinks, shifting and blending like clouds at dusk. Her hair—a cascade of reversed hues—flowed with a life of its own, pink dominating with whimsical streaks of blue pying hide and seek.
Her eyes, however, were what held Rob captive—radiant pink orbs cutting through the darkness, filling his cell with a ghostly luminescence that painted every grimy corner with hues of forgotten hope. The eerie glow cast an otherworldly shine on the chains hanging against the walls, momentarily pulling Rob from the abyss that had been his reality. And yet, only he could see her.
For a heartbeat, fear mingled with awe as he watched the ethereal figure, seemingly unaffected by the dungeon’s suffocating darkness. Was she an angel of death come to deliver him? Or a figment of madness born from endless nights of haunting screams? Fear danced around the edges of his weary heart, yet amidst the deadly ballet of dread and wonder, Rob felt something he hadn’t in a long time—a spark of curiosity that momentarily thawed the icy void within.
“Who are you?” Rob rasped, his throat dry.
“You may call me Magic,” she replied, her smile illuminating the gloom—a warmth that made Rob’s heart flutter. “I see great promise in you.”
Suddenly, the screech of the prison door jarred the silence, and Rob whipped his head around. When he looked back, the angelic figure had vanished. Yet he felt her breath against his ear, her whisper sending a chill down his spine, “I’ll be seeing you again, soon.”
Rob’s eyes darted wildly through the shadows, searching for a glimpse of Magic, but she was gone. His breath came in short, shaky gasps, the bleakness of his situation settling over him once more. But before he could sink back into despair, the ctter of boots against stone yanked his attention toward the entrance of his cell.
Two guards approached, their eyes cold. Behind them, a familiar face emerged—a cat girl with gray hair, her eyes twinkling with mischief. A smile spread across her face, cutting through the eerie stillness of the cold air.
“Princess Aurelia has been gifted the five of you as her personal servants, as part of her wedding gift from Duke Lysander,” Hikari announced with a sly grin.
“Princess?” Sophia’s voice broke the silence.
Jeremy remained quiet, though Rob noticed him standing by the bars with a furrowed brow. Like himself, Jeremy had taken on a different form after being summoned to this reality—his soul now inhabiting a wolf beastkin, while Heather had become a dark elf. Yua, ever concerned with Heather’s safety, had taken on the form of a high elf. Only Sophia remained fully human. As for Jason—the only one who had managed to avoid capture—he was now a dark fae.
“Did you not know?” Hikari asked, tapping her chin. “Lord Demidicus is a vampire lord—the oldest known, in fact. His title is akin to that of a king, making Aurelia our princess. Though many vampires may not see it that way, it’s still her official title, even if most within the coven refrain from using it.”
As the rusty gates of the cells screeched open, dread mingled with the stagnant air. Yua burst from her confinement, and the guards instinctively reached for their bdes, though they hesitated as her attention was entirely focused on Heather. With elven grace, Yua swooped into Heather’s cell, embracing her tightly, as though the act could stave off the cold—if only for a moment. Heather returned the gesture, albeit stiffly, her face unreadable.
Rob ambled out of his cell, the echo of his footsteps a grim reminder of their reality. He scanned the faces around him—faces that bore the weight of despair, their eyes vacant, mirroring the emptiness gnawing at his soul. The guards’ cold eyes watched them, hinting at darker things awaiting beyond the cell’s cage if they dared to defy. Each movement felt like wading through a swamp of despair, the unknown knotting his stomach and strangling any flicker of hope.
Even though they had been freed from their cells, Rob couldn’t shake the feeling that their struggles were only just beginning. And yet, a smile tugged at his lips. His mind drifted back to the recent memory—or perhaps an illusion—of the ethereal woman, her form a mesmerizing swirl of blues and pinks. Even amidst hopelessness, her presence had felt like pure magic. Her words echoed in his ears, “I’ll be seeing you again, soon.”
Rob smiled at the memory, only for his face to fall sck as a system screen suddenly fshed before his eyes.
V:\Ascension>SAFE_MODE
TitleUpdate
The Auxiliary Admin has acknowledged your worthiness, decring you fit to undertake the task of sying a true nightmare.
Title Awarded: [Magic’s Crusader]
_
TitleDetails
[Magic’s Crusader]
Description: Grants unparalleled proficiency in mastering all system skills, fueling a noble quest with relentless determination to end a looming threat from the Ethereal Pne.
Status: Active
Type: Title
Activation: Passive
Deactivate [Magic’s Crusader]?
Error.
Error.
_
Admin Note: May fortune favor you, my Crusader.
V:\>
~
Jason leapt through the shadows of the vampire territory, his senses on high alert for where and whom to strike. It had been several months since he and his fellow Earthlings were dragged into this world of magic and monsters, and here he was—a monster himself now, or more precisely, a dark fae. His appearance did little to hide his transformation: overly pale, nky to the point of gauntness, with wild, spiked bck hair that jutted in every direction and a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth. He looked every bit a nightmare pulled straight from the darkest corners of the human psyche.
Unlike him, the others who had been summoned were captured—the fools. He thought of them with disdain. Well, all but one. But she didn’t count; no, thinking of that monster, that bitch, was a shortcut to fury he could hardly afford. He wished, with every ounce of his being, that she—she who shall not be named—had perished with the dungeon’s destruction a year ago. Probably had been—though a part of him doubted it, that nagging whisper he couldn’t quite silence.
Yet here they were, all of them having been thrust into a twisted competition with the supposed grand prize of becoming Champion to some dark goddess: the Crone—or was it the Goddess of Dreams? He scoffed at her shifting identity. Oh, how he loathed her—loathed everyone, really. Was that just his dark fae blood talking? A primal craving for hatred? No, it had been something deeper—a hunger for loathing, for violence, for hearts. Oh, those delicious hearts.
The first time the impulse to kill, to rip out a heart, became so overwhelming, he had bcked out—killing one of the other candidates, Sophia. Yeah, she had never quite gotten over that after respawning. Not that she could do anything about it now that he was the Crone’s Champion.
Still, something about the tether connecting him to the Crone felt off. It didn’t quite seem like her—more like it was bound to someone or something else entirely. Probably just his imagination.
Against all odds, he had emerged victorious as Champion—even after being sin by that wretched bitch inhabiting a bck pudding body. Thankfully, this world came with a magic system, and more importantly—a respawn point. Still, there was a bitterness to the victory, a nagging reminder that he wasn’t the Crone’s first choice. No, her true preference had been that damned monster, the bck pudding. But the gall of that creature—it had turned down the honor like the idea of being a Champion was beneath it, downright insulting. And so, by default, Jason had won.
It stung—cut deeper than he’d admit. Not as a former human, but because of this twisted dark fae pride gnawing at him. Funny how his new body messed with his thoughts, motives, instincts... or maybe it wasn’t so funny at all. Maybe it was more worrying than he’d allowed himself to realize.
Now, as her chosen Champion, he was supposed to free his captured compatriots—an order he’d gdly ignore if he could. The goddess’s incessant whispers were like nails driven into his brain, each word digging deeper until his sanity frayed. He’d gotten better at tuning her out, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dragging his feet. There were more pressing matters—like leveling up. Charging into a vampire coven under-leveled? Yeah, no thanks.
Not that levels themselves really meant much. Hell, a level one could probably kill a level one million with a lucky swing to the skull. Levels were just a number. It was the new skills he unlocked from leveling that actually mattered. Skills were power! The only problem? There weren’t any dungeons or other system users around for him to farm levels from. So, better to work on mastering what he already had.
And that was why he found himself here, tailing a trio of vampires on their patrol route.
Grinning, Jason let his sharp teeth glint under V?luspá’s eerie, reflective light before activating his skill—Shadow Step. Instantly, his form dissolved, melting into the nearby shadows. The world twisted around him, morphing into a murky, monochromatic whirlwind—the Darkened Realm.
Not that it was officially called that—Jason had coined the name himself. Actually, perhaps Shadow Realm had a better ring to it? Okay, maybe he hadn’t quite settled on a name for the in-between. The InBetween, hmm? He’d keep working on it.
Best he could tell, it was like dipping a toe into the ethereal pne—just enough for a physical body to manage without falling apart.
With enough practice, he thought he could use it like a teleport spell, maybe even cross entire moons if he got the hang of it. Figuring out an exit point, though, would be tricky—he’d probably need some kind of beacon or ndmark to avoid ending up inside a rock or something equally unpleasant. But that was a problem for another time. No, he was getting sidetracked again.
Everything here had a surreal, fluid quality. Shadows twisted and stretched like ink swirling through water. The spectral trees loomed above—branches like skeletal fingers cwing at a nonexistent sky—reminding him of the forest of nightmares in the dream realm. Maybe this was part of it, the very edge. Even with its ominous presence surrounding him, he knew he wasn’t truly within the dream forest—not without losing his physical form.
Spirits from forgotten ages drifted by—little more than wisps of smoke, barely recognizable as remnants of life. Jason sprinted forward, his footsteps whisper-silent on the darkened ground as he weaved through the shadowy forms of old, unmarked graves. Specters lingered, their sorrowful presence echoing like whispers, their forms dissolving into the mist like fading memories.
The ndscape was nightmarish, yet it was his domain—a realm where darkness bent to his will, where the world felt malleable under his touch. Even the silence was suffocating, oppressive, but Jason thrived in it.
Within the veiled gloom, Jason’s vision cut through like a predator’s gleam, every dark contour distinct and alive. This was where he belonged—where a dark fae reigned supreme. The trio of vampires moved through the shroud of dusk, their steps ced with tension, an aura of unease clinging to them. Shadows had been their doom too often over the past few months, an inevitable whisper that haunted their minds.
But shadows were relentless, and no prey could escape their cold, indifferent grasp.
With the precision of a hunter, Jason erupted from the InBetween, emerging amidst the veil of shadows behind his unsuspecting prey. His sword descended with the finality of death’s verdict, cleaving through flesh and bone—a sickening precision punctuating the end. Without missing a beat, his other hand plunged into the chest of the second vampire, his movement fluid, like a grim dance—each step calcuted to perfection. A twisted smile stretched across his lips, needle-sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. This wasn’t just killing; it was something more—something primal, raw, and deeply wrong.
His ugh became an eerie melody, a dark contrast to the night’s silence. Each kill flowed like a choreographed movement, every death a step in his grotesque waltz.
This was his life now—hunting, killing, feasting on the hearts of those unfortunate enough to cross his path. And Jason had noticed something peculiar: some vampires crumbled to ashes the moment his fingers pierced their hearts, while others held on—monstrous, defiant even in death. This inconsistency made his preferred delicacy—the heart—an elusive prize. But tonight, fortune smiled upon him. The heart he held aloft, dripping and glistening under the faint moonlight, was not one of the ashen ilk.
With primal hunger, Jason sank his teeth into the still-beating heart, dark blood coating his lips and dribbling down his chin. The essence of the vampire flooded him, momentarily filling the gnawing emptiness, sating the dark fae hunger. It was fleeting—a wild euphoria amid the endless gloom of his existence—a brief tether to the madness he embraced so willingly.
A few feet away, the third vampire stumbled backward, colpsing to the ground, eyes wide with sheer terror. The creature’s frantic screams shattered the forest’s silence, a sharp, desperate note that danced among the twisted branches above. The quivering leaves rustled under the cold breeze, adding to the macabre symphony that pyed beneath the ghostly moon.
Jason relished it—the desperate cries, the pitiful sobbing of the vampire, mingling with the visceral sound of his gnawing. It was a symphony, dark and twisted—a cacophony of fear and despair blending with the steady, rhythmic beat of his own bckened heart. His eyes, alight with malice, moved zily to the cowering figure. The vampire’s terror was palpable, its fear feeding the shadows, wrapping the impending sughter in an even darker veil.
Jason’s grin widened, his gruesome maw twisting with sadistic delight. He took a deliberate step forward, his teeth tearing another bite from the heart, savoring the sickening sweetness as it slid down his throat.
“Hey, Jaws!” a woman’s voice called from behind a tree.
The chewing paused. Jason’s head turned slowly, eyes narrowing as they sliced through the shadows toward the source. A flicker of annoyance, mixed with something resembling amusement, twisted across his face. The darkness seemed to part, revealing a familiar figure—shadow-drenched, as though darkness was her natural element—though nowhere near the level of his own. No, he doubted anyone could be embraced by darkness as intimately as he was.
His eyes narrowed further, irritation swirling with confusion before the cruel smirk curved back onto his lips. It stung, having someone sneak up on him from the shadows—a blow to his pride that he’d never admit. No, it was better to act like he’d known she was there all along.
“Yo, Sophia, what’s up?” Jason called, waving the half-devoured heart like a party favor, blood dripping down his wrist. “I was just on my way to free ya,” he added, though the words cked any genuine concern or urgency.
Sophia’s face twisted, her lips curling into a grimace that spoke louder than words ever could.
She had been one of the other summoned candidates—or victims, as she preferred to think of it—competing to become the Crone’s champion. Jason could still remember the way he killed her, back in those dungeon ruins. His first kill. His first heart. The slippery warmth as he bit down, the rush of something primal coursing through him, her scream cutting off as blood filled his mouth. He still craved that feeling—it was unparalleled.
But here she was, back again. Because apparently death was just a suggestion in this reality.
Before he could continue reminiscing, the eerie silence was shattered by the grotesque sound of bone snapping back into pce. A sharp, unnatural crack echoed in the stillness, the kind of noise that made the birds stop singing and the wind hold its breath. One of the vampire corpses, its skull misshapen from Jason’s earlier assault, jerked upright.
Jason moved fluidly, his boot driving into the vampire’s face with the kind of satisfaction that could only come from feeling bones give way underfoot. The crunch vibrated up his leg, almost like appuse—a small encore for a job well done.
“Escaped, huh?” Jason muttered, his foot rising and falling in rhythmic stomps. The bone-crunching beneath his heel was a soundtrack he could get used to. “Well, that saves me some time.”
“Just so you know, we’ve worked things out,” Sophia mentioned, her voice almost drowned by the relentless squelching of flesh and snapping bone.
Jason’s foot froze mid-air, his head snapping up, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “What?”
“We’ve worked things out. Lady Aurelia’s in charge now. Everyone’s been freed.” Sophia rested her hands on her hips, as though she were chatting about the weather rather than the fate of their group amidst a horrific scene of gore.
“Wait, so we’re all cool now?” Jason muttered, as if speaking more to himself. His brows furrowed, trying to piece together a particurly complicated joke. “What about that creepy vampire, Lord Demi-ass?”
“Demidicus,” Sophia corrected, a hint of humor breaking through her disgust, “and he’s gone off trying to build his little empire of darkness.”
“And Aurelia’s in charge now?” Jason tore another bite from the heart, his confusion mixed with grotesque curiosity. “I thought she was being married off?” He spoke with his mouth full, bits of flesh and blood flying out, spattering the forest floor.
Sophia grimaced. “She was, but apparently, the duke wasn’t powerful enough to control her. She turned the tables—now he’s practically her bitch.” She chuckled. “She’s taken the reins, but we’ve got to watch out for the duke’s cronies. For now, though, she’s got our backs.”
Jason’s confusion deepened as he stomped the twitching vampire beneath his boot a few more times for good measure. “So we’re all cool now?” He muttered, as if this absurd turn of events was more shocking than the massacre surrounding him.
His attention shifted to the third vampire, who had backed up against a tree, trembling violently, the scent of piss filling the air. Jason couldn’t help the grin spreading across his blood-smeared face—a grin that was pure nightmare fuel, a grotesque fsh of needle-sharp teeth.
Sophia sighed, casting her eyes at the pitiful sight of the terrified vampire. “Go ahead. He’s one of the duke’s supporters. Just… don’t get caught doing it.”
Jason’s grin grew wider, and the vampire let out a terrified squeal just as Jason lunged forward, his mouth gaping wide.
The persistent gnawing sounds filled the dark woods, mingling with the distant cries of nocturnal creatures. Sophia’s foot tapped impatiently on the forest floor, her annoyance growing with every crunch Jason took. The eerie melody seemed to dance around her, testing the limits of her patience until she finally snapped.
“You done yet? We’ve got to find Hensley and fill him in on the test news,” she urged, trying to ignore the grotesque scene before her.
Jason looked up from his feast, bits of heart still clinging to his lips. “The werewolf chief from the dungeon folk?”
“He’s a warg, not a werewolf,” Sophia corrected, rolling her eyes.
“What’s the difference?”
Silence.
“Exactly,” Jason chuckled, spitting out a piece of gristle that nded among the leaves.
Sophia hissed in frustration. “Whatever. Look, we need to head to New Ockpool and share the good news with him. Apparently, Lord Demidicus was ensving them to raid nearby tribes for blood, and when they weren’t raiding, they were being tortured.”
Jason rose to his feet, wiping his blood-slick hands on his trousers, leaving streaks of crimson across the fabric. “The goddess never shuts up whenever I kill one of those fuckers.”
Sophia’s eyes skimmed over the three lifeless vampires at their feet, their distorted features eerie under the pale moonlight. “Shouldn’t they turn to ash or something?”
“Nah, only the lesser ones disintegrate into ash,” Jason replied nonchantly, picking a bit of heart from between his teeth with his nail.
“Will they regenerate?” she asked, a sliver of worry creeping into her voice.
Jason’s gaze lingered on the corpses for a moment, thoughts churning. “These ones might come back, yeah. But I’ve found that a good decapitation, followed by a game of hide-the-head, usually keeps them down until whatever magical mumbo jumbo holding them together wears off and they finally turn to dust.” His grin twisted into something wicked, a dark glint flickering in his eyes as the chilly wind swept through the clearing. “Plus, it’s a fun game.”
“…I see,” Sophia muttered, her tone ft, clearly unimpressed.
1
Like what you read? Wait—you actually did? Well, hot damn! I thought I was the only one with mental issues!
To the rest of you, Shoo! Nobody wants your sanity here—I mean, please keep reading. Oh, and leave a good review as well. Hee-hee!
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Come now, and I’ll even throw in a virgin sacrifice… Or I would—but those are for paid subscribers. I’m saving them for a special occasion.
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Toodle-loo!
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