Chapter 15 – Memory World (end)
The room breathed like a tomb. The air was damp and heavy, pressing against skin until every inhale scraped the throat raw. The lamp on the table flickered weakly, casting sickly light across the walls, where stains of rust and blood blended so seamlessly it was impossible to tell which came first. The chains in the corner rattled faintly with every draft, whispering a cruel reminder: someone here still lived, but should not.
Carl's shadow loomed large, warped by the flame into a grotesque silhouette that seemed less man and more beast. In his hand gleamed a slender knife—its edge tracing lazy patterns through the air, its tip gliding along the contours of the woman's body. He moved it over her curves, across her torn dress, along the slope of her face, the crown of her head, down her arms. Not cutting—yet—but caressing, as though she were a canvas stretched taut before him. Every stroke was deliberate, reverent, obscene.
Her eyes—sunken, swollen, ringed with grief—no longer held tears. They had been bled dry, her body wrung hollow. What remained was a furnace of hatred and sorrow, a bottomless well of despair that no blade could drain. She did not beg. Not yet. Her silence was louder than screams, and Carl savored it.
Lumian, trapped inside the boy's body, felt everything. Every tremor in her limbs, every flicker of despair in her chest, every hateful pulse of memory that painted Carl as both monster and once-lover. The boy's small chest heaved; shallow breaths rattled from his lips, but his voice refused him. He was shackled not only by fear but by frailty—his body too weak to rebel, his spirit too drowned to break free.
And then Carl's voice split the silence. Calm. Cold. Commanding.
"Son," he murmured, without looking away from the woman. His knife drew another mocking line across her shoulder. "Come here. It's time for you to learn."
The boy's body shivered. Lumian screamed inside, but his limbs betrayed him—small feet dragging forward, trembling uncontrollably, as though invisible strings jerked him toward the abyss.
Carl turned then, smiling a smile that did not touch his eyes. "Son, every artist must begin somewhere. And your mother…" His voice thickened with hunger. "Your mother is the best part of my art."
The boy's eyes widened, and for the first time Lumian and the boy shared the exact same expression—pure horror.
The woman's cracked voice erupted.
"No!" she screamed, her throat tearing. "Don't! Don't you dare make him like you! He is innocent! You monster!"
Her voice carried the raw desperation of a mother shielding her child with nothing but breath.
Carl ignored her, his hand darting out to seize the boy's arm. His grip was iron. Lumian burned with rage, wanting to bite into that hand, rip tendons and veins apart, but the boy's frail body resisted weakly, nothing more than the flutter of a dying bird. With a careless swing, Carl hurled him toward his mother. The child stumbled, collapsing beside her broken body.
Carl's eyes glittered as he stepped back. His voice dripped with command.
"Son. Take that small knife."
The boy's head shook violently. His limbs trembled. He couldn't move. Fear rooted him in place.
Carl's tone sharpened, though his smile remained. "Son. Take that knife."
The boy whimpered—soft, broken sounds spilling from his lips. His hands twitched, but he could not reach forward.
Carl's smile vanished. His expression hardened into something cruel and absolute.
"This is my last time saying it. Take. The. Knife."
The command slammed through the boy like a hammer. His tiny fingers shivered forward, seizing the handle. The blade's coldness seeped into his palm, an anchor of dread. His hands shook so violently he could barely keep it from slipping.
Lumian felt the child's emotions bleeding into him—terror, despair, a desperate hope to vanish into the floorboards.
Carl's lips curled back into satisfaction. "That's better, son. You wouldn't want to make your father sad, would you?" His tone turned casual, cruel in its ease. "Now… cut open your mother's belly."
The words struck like thunder. Lumian's mind screamed. The boy's body recoiled, horror carving into his soul.
The woman broke then, sobbing fiercely. Her voice shredded itself against the air.
"Please—please, don't! Don't make him do this! He's just a child, innocent, untouched! Please, take me—do whatever you want to me—but don't drag him into this!"
Carl's eyes narrowed. He spat venom. "Shut up. He must learn. He must understand true art."
He crouched near, whispering into the boy's ear. "Do it, son. Trust me—you'll see what lies inside. Flesh is clay. Blood is truth. Rip her apart, and you'll be reborn."
Lumian burned inside, hatred flaring white-hot. He wanted nothing more than to tear Carl's throat out, but the boy's small frame shook, overwhelmed.
The knife slipped from trembling fingers, clattering against the floor. The boy collapsed to his knees, sobs racking his body. He cried louder now, gasping for air between his wails.
Lumian's spirit surged with relief—yet sorrow crushed him at the same time. He felt the boy's humiliation, his despair, the crushing weight of being forced to betray his own blood. The mother's heart cracked at the sight—her gaze softened with unbearable pain. She wanted to hold him, to tell him this was just a nightmare, to cradle him into safety. But she was shackled, broken, helpless.
Carl's eyes darkened. Rage coiled in his chest. His boot lashed out, slamming into the boy's stomach. The child cried out, flung across the floor by the impact. Lumian gasped as pain seared through him, his borrowed body wracked with agony.
Carl's voice roared. "Brat! Are you mocking me? You dare disobey? You are mine—my product, my creation! You will obey!"
He stormed forward, his hand seizing the boy by the throat. He lifted him easily, small legs dangling, eyes bulging as breath failed. Lumian felt the child's suffocation, the desperate clawing of lungs begging for air. The boy's body convulsed in panic, lips turning blue.
Carl sneered into his face. "You dare defy your father? You will learn. You are mine!" His grip tightened, cruel and merciless.
And then—a scream tore through the room. Not the boy's.
Carl jerked, eyes widening. His grip faltered, and Lumian dropped to the floor, gasping desperately.
Carl's leg burned. He looked down.
The woman had crawled—dragging her ruined body across the bloodstained floor. In her hands, gripped with desperate strength, was the very knife the boy had dropped. Its blade was buried deep in Carl's thigh, crimson spilling down his leg. Her eyes burned with hatred—not tears, not sorrow, only fury.
Carl roared. "You bitch!"
She wrenched the knife free and plunged it in again, twisting, sobbing with the fury of a mother's vengeance.
Carl staggered, screaming. His hand shot down, ripping the knife from her grasp, snapping bones in her wrist with sickening cracks. "You dare—you dare defy me!"
He kicked her with brutal force. Her body crashed against the wall, bones rattling. Her fragile frame quaked, but she still glared with hatred, lips trembling in defiance.
Carl's face twisted into rage. "I'll end you!"
With one savage motion, he drew the knife across her throat. The cut was shallow—her head dangled, blood pouring in sheets down her chest. She gagged, choking, clawing at her wound. But Carl wasn't done. With another vicious slash, he severed it completely. Her head rolled, blood gushing like a fountain, spraying Carl's face and chest in a macabre baptism.
The boy's scream shattered the air.
"Mother! Mother!"
His tiny hands clawed at the floor as if he could crawl to her, could piece her back together. His sobs tore from his lungs, his heart breaking in ways no child should endure. Lumian wept within him, rage and despair twisting together into something darker.
Carl, dripping in blood, lifted the severed head by its hair. He smiled, calm once more. "A disappointment. I had plans for you. But you forced my hand." With a flick, he tossed it aside, like trash.
He turned to the boy, kneeling in despair. His tone dropped, almost disappointed. "Mother like son. Both wastes."
He seized the boy by his collar, dragging him upward. The child did not resist—his body hung limp, shattered by grief. Carl pressed the blade to his neck. "You are of no use. Like her, you die."
The boy's vision blurred. His breath slowed. He felt the edge biting, the trickle of blood sliding down his neck.
But then—something changed.
The boy's head tilted upward. His eyes, once drowning in despair, now burned with something feral, something that did not belong to a child. A dull crimson glow shimmered in the depths, and his lips peeled back, teeth clenched in defiance.
The despair was gone.
Only hatred remained.
Carl froze. His breath caught. For the first time, the predator inside him hesitated. That was no longer his son's gaze. It was older. Hungrier. A presence that radiated malice so thick the air itself seemed to tremble.
Those weren't the eyes of a child.
They were the eyes of something born in darkness.
The knife still pressed against his neck, a bead of blood rolling down the boy's skin, yet he did not flinch. The trembling was gone. His chest rose slow and steady.
Lumian was there now.
Not hiding.
Not shackled.
Awake.
Carl felt it instantly—this was not his creation, not his son. This was a different beast entirely, and for the first time in his wretched life, Carl stepped back.
And then, the boy's lips parted. His voice was not high, nor broken, nor desperate. It was low. Steady. Like something whispering through the cracks of a coffin.
"Wait… wait a little longer."
The words slithered out, chilling, almost tender. Then his eyes narrowed, the crimson in them burning hotter as his mouth twisted into something between a grin and a snarl.
"I'll show you… the real art."
The room seemed to grow colder. Shadows stretched as if listening. Carl's grip faltered. In his chest, for the first time, there was no thrill. No excitement.
Only fear.