"This is the last batch, Vice Scorpion Leader," a female voice reported as she approached, bowing slightly. "Eighty-five humans remain. With this, all are accounted for."
The vice leader's gaze swept over the grisly platform. Four previous batches had already been offered—nearly four hundred souls in total. Now, the ground was a carpet of gore, the wooden planks drowned in crimson. Severed heads piled upon one another like grotesque offerings, their vacant eyes staring upward. From a distance, it could be mistaken for a pool of blood, but the stench told the truth.
The vice leader frowned, covering his nose against the suffocating smell. "Has the vessel been prepared?" His tone was flat, though the foul air tugged at his patience. "This stink would make a lesser man collapse."
"Yes, my lord. The vessel is ready," the woman replied, her voice steady, almost reverent.
"Then finish the last batch," he ordered, waving his hand dismissively.
"Yes, my lord." She stepped back, turning toward the hooded executioners gripping their blood-slick machetes. Her expression did not falter, her eyes gleamed with fanatical zeal.
Lifting her hand, she gave the signal. Her voice cut through the silence like a blade:
"The abyss accepts no half-measures—cleanse them all."
Chik…
In an instant, eighty-five heads rolled from their necks, thudding against the soaked wood. Blood sprayed like a fountain, merging with the crimson tide. The fresh severed heads tumbled down, stacking upon the grisly hill that rose like a merchant's pile of fruit—only these offerings were for something far darker than trade.
With the final sacrifice completed, silence fell over the blood-drenched platform. The ritual was done—now came the moment they had all been preparing for: the summoning of the demon. One of the Seventeen High-Ranking Demons, each feared across realms for the unique authority they commanded.
"S-1, bring the vessel," the vice leader ordered, his voice low but commanding.
S-1, the same woman who had earlier given the execution command, bowed her head. "Yes, my lord." Without hesitation, she disappeared into the shadows, then returned, dragging forward a boy no older than seventeen or eighteen.
The boy was unconscious, his breathing shallow, his body slack in her grip. His appearance was painfully ordinary—common features, the kind of face that would vanish in a crowd. Nothing about him suggested the fate he was bound to meet.
"Lay him down."
S-1 obeyed at once, lowering the boy onto the center of the platform. His body sank into the thick pool of blood, half-soaking him in its warmth. The stench clung to him, metallic and suffocating.
Once the boy was in place, S-1 stepped back into the circle of hooded figures.
The vice leader advanced, a heavy tome cradled in his hands. Its cover was blackened with age, its pages marked with cryptic runes. The script within was from an age long buried—a language almost extinct, forbidden even to scholars.
As he opened the book, the platform seemed to pulse in response, as though the very blood beneath their feet recognized the words about to be spoken.
The vice leader raised the ancient tome high, his voice echoing across the blood-soaked platform.
"Oh… one of the Seventeen.
Oh, ruler of darkness.
Oh, faithful servant of the Demon Kings—
heed my call. Answer my prayers."
As the incantation spilled from his lips, the air trembled. Blue lightning crackled violently across the platform, dancing over the piles of severed heads, splitting the sky with thunder. The executioners fell to their knees, unable to bear the pressure.
"So—it's the twelfth…" The vice leader's lips curled into a smile even as sweat dripped down his forehead. "The demon who wields the True Lightning Physique…"
He continued to chant, his voice breaking into a guttural roar as the lightning lashed out, scorching the bloodied planks beneath his feet.
"You who bear the authority of lightning,
the twelfth of the Seventeen High Demons,
you who serve the Demon Kings themselves.
I have prepared a vessel in your welcome—
answer my call, and grant me the strength to fulfill my desires!
In exchange, I offer my whole being to you!"
The sky ripped apart, a vortex of black clouds swallowing the moon. Bolts of azure lightning spiraled downward, striking the platform again and again.
The vice leader spread his arms wide, screaming the final words with all that remained of his breath:
"Now come forth—
Master of the True Lightning Physique, Dikargo Retrakes!"
The book's runes blazed, and in that moment his body failed him. He dropped to his knees, hacking and choking, before a torrent of black, decayed blood spewed from his mouth like a waterfall. The life in him drained, pouring into the summoning. Yet even as his body withered, a crazed smile twisted his lips.
As if heralding his arrival, the blood scattered across the platform began to stir. Droplet by droplet, it lifted from the ground, defying gravity. Soon, the air above the platform shimmered with countless crimson beads, so densely packed that the moonlight itself could no longer pierce through.
"Ahh…" The fanatics gasped in awe, their eyes wide with feverish devotion. As one, they dropped to their knees, hands clasped in trembling prayer.
The droplets gathered together, swirling with a grotesque grace until they fused into a single, massive sphere of blood. It pulsed like a living heart, its surface rippling with lightning.
The unconscious boy's body rose from the platform, as if drawn by invisible strings. His limp form drifted upward until it touched the blood sphere—and then, with a wet, sucking sound, he vanished inside.
Shrink…
The ball contracted violently. In that instant, the remains of all the sacrifices—their severed heads, broken bodies, even the blood-soaked wood beneath their feet—were dragged toward it. The grotesque hill of corpses was swallowed whole, vanishing into the crimson mass.
When it was over, the platform that had moments ago resembled a lake of gore now stood barren. Not a single drop of blood remained. Even the executioners' machetes, once drenched in red, were polished clean, stripped of every trace of life.
Above, the great sphere pulsed brighter, lightning arcing across its surface as though the abyss itself were giving birth.
The fanatics were lost in prayer, their foreheads pressed to the bloodless wood, when suddenly—
Step… step… step…
A sound broke through the silence.
"Hmm?" Several of them lifted their heads, startled. None of them should have been walking. Before one of the Seventeen High Demons, such irreverence was considered a taboo. Yet the sound continued, steady and unhurried.
Step… step… step…
From the shadows at the edge of the platform, a man appeared. He looked to be in his thirties, his hair short and silver, his nose sharp and straight. A scar cut across his right eye, giving him the face of a man who had seen countless battles.
In his right hand, he carried a naked sword, its steel gleaming faintly in the distorted light of the lightning. In his left, he held a severed head. Tattoos, twisted and unnatural, were etched across its flesh, and fresh blood dripped down onto the floor with each step he took.
The fanatics' whispers faltered. Their gazes, straying from the blood sphere for the first time, shifted to the figure who dared intrude. Then the sound of armored footsteps followed him, heavy and resonant. At least thirty knights marched in behind, their polished armor clashing and ringing like a metallic hymn of war.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The fanatics felt their throats tighten. Some swallowed hard, their faces paling as recognition dawned.
"G–gulp…" One of them shivered, unable to look away from the scarred man leading the knights.
"R–Rikel Kael…" the name slipped from a fanatic's trembling lips, carried into the charged air.
Kael tossed the head he had been carrying. It rolled across the floor, leaving a smear of blood until it came to rest at the fanatics' feet. Then, with quiet, deliberate steps, he advanced, sword gleaming faintly in his right hand.
"Who are you people?" he asked, his voice solemn, heavy with authority.
The fanatics said nothing. Though they outnumbered him, fear rooted them to the spot. Numbers meant little before the man who stood in front of them.
Rikel Kael was no ordinary knight. By the age of twenty-eight, he had reached Fourth Severance, becoming one of the youngest knight captains in history. His talent had even surpassed the current patriarch, but he had refused to fight his brother for the throne, choosing instead to serve loyally under Vitra.
In contrast, the fanatics' strongest warrior, their vice leader, lay dead. The only one left of true strength was S-1, who had barely reached Third Severance.
"So," Rikel said, his sword slowly rising to point at them, "you do not intend to speak. Very well—I shall make you talk. And more importantly, I will put an end to this summoning."
"Listen, all of you!" S-1's voice rang out sharply, rallying the shaken cultists. "Do not fear them! We cannot let the sacrifice of our vice leader be in vain!"
Rikel's eyes narrowed.
"We must protect the ritual until he descends!" S-1 shouted again, her voice breaking with fervor.
Rikel's lips curved in the faintest smirk. "How amusing," he muttered. Then, in a commanding tone, he called out:
"Eternal Division! Prevent the summoning—and if necessary… kill them all."
The knights behind him shifted as one, their armor clanging like a war hymn.
And then chaos erupted.
One hundred and fifty fanatics surged forward, their zeal driving them into madness. From the opposite side, thirty knights of the Eternal Division advanced with unwavering discipline, blades gleaming.
The clash of steel, the roar of fanatics, and the crackling thunder of the summoning filled the night.
–