Caelen's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. He blinked once, then twice, refusing to believe what his eyes insisted was true.
But there was no mistake.
Blood.
It was dark, almost black in the moonlight, but it was there—a grim, soaked stain defiling the pristine white hem of Father Luziel's ceremonial robe. It looked like a blasphemy, a secret sin made visible.
He instinctively took a step back, his mind screaming.
"Um… Father Luziel," he stammered, forcing his voice into a semblance of calm. It cracked, betraying him. "I… I seem to have forgotten my jacket… It's getting cold. I'm freezing."
Father Luziel stared at him, his expression unnervingly placid. Only his eyes held a sharp, calculating stillness that made Caelen's skin crawl. The priest tilted his head slightly, a predator considering its prey, then turned and began walking toward him with a slow, deliberate pace.
"I'm sorry, I would like to help you with that," Luziel said, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle tone that was utterly wrong for the situation. "But we are running out of time." The words shifted, the false warmth evaporating. "Here, let me do this."
Caelen stepped back again, a full retreat this time. "I really should go get it—"
A hand shot out, catching his arm. The grip wasn't bone-crushing, but it was firm. Unbreakable.
"I will not hurt you this time," Luziel said, the words a hollow reassurance. "Let's go before you catch a cold."
The dissonance was maddening. The kindly words, the dead-eyed stare. Caelen tried to pull his arm back, a subtle, testing tug. It was like trying to move a stone wall.
A sudden, immense force yanked him forward, and then—
Blur.
The world stretched into a smear of color and shadow. Trees vanished into streaks of dark green. There was no sound, no wind, just the nauseating sensation of being pulled through a tunnel at impossible speed. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a scream. Resisting was pointless. He knew, with a cold certainty, that any struggle would only hasten whatever end awaited him.
When the world slammed back into focus, he was standing in a small, secluded clearing. The air was dead, unnaturally silent, as if even the wind dared not disturb this place.
Etched into the forest floor before him was a massive, intricately drawn circle, its lines glowing with a faint, pulsating golden light. Ancient, unfamiliar symbols writhed within its circumference, humming with latent power.
"We are finally here," the priest said. His voice was thick with relief, with a triumph that made Caelen's blood run cold.
Before he could process the scene, a powerful shove sent him stumbling forward. His knees hit the hard ground at the exact center of the circle. Pain lanced up his legs.
"What the heck is this?!" he yelled, scrambling to get up, his hands pressing against the nearest glowing line.
The reaction was instantaneous.
"ARGHHHHH!!"
A searing, white-hot agony shot through his body, a million needles of pure energy stabbing into his bones, his nerves, his very soul. He collapsed, twitching violently on the ground, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
The priest watched, utterly unmoved.
When the worst of the spasms subsided and Caelen managed to look up, the man's face had transformed. The mask of benevolent piety was gone, replaced by naked disgust.
"How dare you converse with the Saint… and touch her body with your filthy hands."
The words hit Caelen like a physical blow. He stared, dumbfounded. "What… What are you talking about?"
"You magicless fool," Luziel spat, beginning to pace around the circumference of the circle, a vulture circling its dying meal. "You think I couldn't sense her magic lingering in your tent? The stink of her presence on you?" He sneered. "Even before that, many of the sisters whispered of your sins. Your… familiarity."
"Wait—what? But I didn't do anything!" The protest was weak, pathetic. He knew it wouldn't matter.
"You did," the priest hissed, stopping to glare down at him. "You exist near her. You breathe the same air she is meant to purify. Do you even know how important she is? But what would I expect from someone like you..."
Caelen tried to push himself up again. His legs trembled, refusing to hold his weight.
The priest didn't stop. He raised his hands to the sky and began to chant in a guttural, alien language. The syllables were harsh, a dissonant song that made the air itself vibrate. The sky above the clearing flickered, the stars winking in and out of existence.
"No—what are you doing?! Let me go! Where are the others?!" Caelen's voice rose to a scream, but it was swallowed by the intensifying light—the summoning circle flared, its golden glow becoming blinding.
From the flickering sky, a figure descended. It was not a being of flesh and blood, but a formless, brilliant projection of light, female in shape, radiating an aura of immense, impersonal power. A presence that felt ancient and absolute.
Father Luziel fell to his knees, pressing his forehead to the earth. "Welcome, your Goddessness. I have finally finished the ritual for your daughter… and now it is time."
Caelen's jaw hung slack. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Even without a face, he could feel her attention fix on him—a weight that crushed his spirit, a judgment already passed.
"It worked…?" he mumbled, then found a shred of defiance. "That's… that's the Goddess?! GODDESS, PLEASE! Please help me! I don't know what's going on—!"
The light turned fully toward him. The pressure intensified, squeezing the air from his lungs.
"You should be happy," the voice echoed in his mind, calm, serene, and utterly terrifying in its detachment. "That you will help me resurrect my daughter. She can finally be with me again."
Caelen's eyes widened in horror. "What?! What daughter? Emma?!"
"Yes… The one you call Emma. She will become my daughter soon. And I thank you for that."
She raised a hand of light. A single, concentrated point of brilliance shot from her finger and struck the center of the circle.
Caelen's body locked rigid. Every muscle seized.
"No—NO NO NO—!"
The circle erupted, a column of incandescent light screaming into the heavens. Through the blinding glare, Caelen could just make out the direction it pointed—back toward the camp. Toward the tents. Toward Emma.
His body was paralyzed. He lay flat, breath trapped in his constricted throat. A horrific pulling sensation began deep within him, as if his very life force, his soul, was being siphoned out through his skin, drawn into the hungry light.
"What is… happening…" he gasped.
The voice of the Goddess echoed one last time, filled with a dreadful finality.
"It is starting. The Primordial Era… all over again."
And then—she was gone. The light remained, the siphoning continued, but her presence vanished, her attention turned fully to the distant camp.
Caelen's eyes rolled back into his head. His body lay still, a broken doll on the altar of the glowing circle. The priest stood, a grim smile of satisfaction twisting his features.
The wind finally returned, a gentle sigh through the trees. It carried the faint, sweet scent of flowers, and beneath it, the iron tang of blood.
Trapped within the magic circle, Caelen lay paralyzed. A cold numbness was creeping up his limbs, a lifelessness that felt like death itself. He hated this helplessness more than anything. The last thing he saw in his mind's eye was the golden light streaking toward the tents, toward Emma.
"Everything is finally going according to plan," the priest's voice slithered closer, full of vile satisfaction. "And now… I can finally end you, filth, before you lose all feeling."
His boots crunched on the dry leaves as he approached the circle's edge, his shadow falling over Caelen.
"F-Fuck yo—"
Taint me.
The words weren't his. A whisper, cold and alien, slithered directly into his mind, freezing the curse on his lips.
The priest sneered. "Filthy mouth as well… but what do I expect from someone like you?" He raised his hand, a sphere of condensed, holy light forming above his palm. "Just like your friends… I'll cleanse the world of your filth."
Taint me.
The whisper came again, more insistent, more urgent.
Driven by a desperation beyond reason, Caelen bit down hard on his tongue. The coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stuck out his bloodied tongue and dragged it across the nearest glowing rune of the circle.
The effect was instantaneous. The golden light of the circle twisted, curdling into a deep, malevolent crimson. The sacred symbols shimmered, their meaning inverting into something profane and dark.
"What in the Goddess's name…" the priest gasped, stepping back in horror. His eyes widened as he saw the blood, saw the corruption spreading. "You disgusting piece of shit!"
Enraged, he hurled the sphere of light. It struck the corrupted circle with a concussive BOOM of purifying energy.
A wave of blinding white force erupted outward. When the light cleared, the crimson glow was gone. The circle itself had vanished from the forest floor. Nothing remained but scorched earth.
The priest stared, panting. "That… that was too close," he muttered, scanning the empty clearing. "What was that?"
"NOOOOO!!! I DON'T WANNA DIEEEEEE!!!"
Caelen's scream echoed not in the clearing, but in a vast, empty void. He writhed on a cold, featureless ground.
"Hey, shut the hell up!"
The voice hit him like a slap—feminine, soft yet laced with a razor's edge of command. He froze.
Eyes wide, he looked up.
He was surrounded by ruins—shattered stone walls that looked as if they had been blown apart by some cataclysm. Before him stood a single, jagged throne carved from what seemed like solid violet energy, pulsing with dark power. Upon it lounged a figure wreathed in shifting violet shadows, feminine and shapely, radiating an aura of lazy, immense authority. She observed him with an air of bored amusement.
"Finally decided to shut up, huh?" she said, tilting her shadowy head.
"W-What?! Where am I?! What happened to the priest?" Caelen scrambled to sit up, the rubble grinding beneath him.
At the word priest, the figure shifted ever so slightly—a flicker of sharp interest cutting through her nonchalance.
"Priest? Haven't seen one of those in a while," she drawled. "So… you were with one before you got here? Wait—don't tell me… are you with the church?"
Her voice chilled on the last word, casual but hinting at a deep, cold hatred.
"No, no, no! I'm not with them!" Caelen shook his head frantically. "I was almost killed by one!"
A pause. Then, laughter—low, rich, and genuinely pleased.
"Oh? I like that," the shadow purred with delight.
Still disoriented, Caelen looked around—and his blood ran cold. Beyond the throne, deep within the cracks of the ruined walls, was a translucent, purple barrier. And on the other side… were figures. Twisted, monstrous silhouettes with eyes that burned with a mad, hungry light. He couldn't discern their features, but their presence was a physical weight of insanity and greed.
"What the hell is that?" he pointed, his voice trembling.
The shadow turned her head casually. "That? Oh, just some greedy bastards who want my husband's seed."
"Seed…?" Caelen's face twisted in confusion.
"Not that seed," she grinned—he could feel the smirk in her tone. With a theatrical flourish, she raised her hand. A small, black object materialized above her palm, pulsating with a dark, potent energy. "This one. A primordial seed."
"I-I wasn't thinking what you thought I was thinking, alright?! And… what is that?"
She giggled, an eerie, light sound. "My husband's legacy. We managed to extract it before everything fell apart."
"Primordial…?" Caelen's eyes widened as the Goddess's final words echoed in his memory. "Wait. That sounds familiar…"
"Oh? So you have heard of it," she said, now genuinely intrigued. "Well, I was planning to give it to the first fool who stumbled in here and didn't disintegrate on the spot. You, surprisingly, are still alive… magicless, armorless, weak—but alive."
From a pile of rubble beside the throne, she pulled a black book edged in tarnished gold. It pulsed with the same ominous aura as the seed.
"What do you mean?" he asked, a dread curiosity taking hold.
"They entered before you. Died screaming. And they were a million times stronger." She pointed a shadowy limb beside him.
Caelen turned and his stomach lurched. The piles of what he had assumed were stones were, in fact, bones. Not clean and white, but blackened and twisted, as if they had been burned from the inside out by some unimaginable power.
"Those were… people?"
"They were," she said simply, without a trace of remorse.
He swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. The scale of this place, of the power at play, was beyond his comprehension.
Then her voice shifted—becoming calm, almost playful. "So what do you say… do you want to become a demon?"
Caelen looked up, meeting the darkness where her eyes would be.
"A demon?" he repeated, the word feeling foreign and heavy.
"You'll gain magic," she nodded, holding up the pulsating seed. "Power. Purpose. But… you'll make a lot of enemies. The kind that don't just want to kill you. They'll want to erase you."
The offer hung in the air between them, thick with peril and promise. He looked at the black seed, then at the piles of bones that were once beings far stronger than him. He had no magic. No power. No future. Just a body that had been meant for sacrifice and a goddess who saw him as kindling.
"…What happens if I say yes?"
The shadowy figure leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, wicked whisper that vibrated with ancient power.
"Then, my dear Caelen… you'll finally stop being prey."