Judas backed away from the man.

“Wh-what are you saying?” Judas stammered, his trembling hands clutching at nothing.

“Don’t worry, it’s just one time, Judas,” the man said, his grin blurred and mischievous.

“I… I…” Judas’s gaze dropped to the floor. **What’s happening? I can’t do this… but…**

The man stepped closer, reaching out to place a hand on Judas’s shoulder. Judas slapped it away with a sharp motion.

“What? You don’t want to?” The man smirked. “Look, Judas, say yes or no. But what will you tell the people you promised? That you’d make it big? Will you stay an underground rapper, living your whole life without recognition? Just one time, and you’ll have everything you want. Everyone’s sacrificed so much for you, and now you’re going to ruin it?”

Judas’s face was etched with sadness and worry. His career was on the brink of destruction. **Please, God, help me. Please.** He chanted the prayer silently in his mind, but no help came.

The man clicked his tongue in annoyance. “What a waste of time. Listen, boy, I’m the producer of the biggest label in this country. People are dying just to meet me. If we terminate your contract, no other label will touch you. I won’t waste any more time.” He turned and began walking toward the door.

Judas panicked, his mind racing. **Somebody, anyone… God, please help me.** But the room remained silent, his plea unanswered.

As the man opened the door, Judas lunged forward and grabbed his suit jacket.

“Promise me… just this once,” Judas whispered. His head hung low, tears welling in his eyes, though he fought to keep them from spilling.

The man turned back, a triumphant gleam in his eye. He placed a hand on Judas’s shoulder, his fingers creeping toward his neck like a predator savoring its prey.

“No… no… no!” Judas mumbled, tossing and turning. With a sudden jerk, he woke up, drenched in cold sweat.

He buried his face in his hands, breathing heavily. After a moment, he glanced at the clock. The numbers blurred before his eyes until he rubbed them. It was already 7:00 a.m.

**I missed the recruits’ matches today. Malkhov’s going to be furious.**

Dragging himself out of bed, Judas shuffled to the bathroom. It was a luxurious space, though its wear and neglect were evident. The marble floors were dull and stained, the ceramic sink was flecked with soap residue and traces of blood, and the quartz countertop had lost its polish. A freestanding tub with a rainfall shower stood within a glass enclosure.

Once, housekeepers had maintained the space, but they’d left, unable to tolerate Judas’s erratic behavior.

He used the toilet, washed up, and prepared for a shower. Turning on the geyser, he brushed his teeth before stepping into the enclosure.

The hot water cascaded over him, soothing his tense muscles. As he scrubbed himself, the soap slipped from his hands. He bent down to retrieve it, but as he straightened, it fell again.

He bent over once more, but this time, a wave of discomfort struck him. Memories—horrible ones—flooded his mind. He froze, gripping the soap tightly. When it fell again, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the shower floor.

Covering his face with his hands, Judas began to sob. The faint sound of his crying grew into gut-wrenching screams. He clutched himself so tightly that his fingernails dug into his skin, drawing blood. The water from the shower washed away the crimson streaks, but his pain remained.

After breaking down for what felt like an eternity, Judas finally pulled himself up. His legs trembled as he shut off the shower. Wrapping a towel around himself, he stepped out to change. His demonic regeneration had already healed the scratches on his skin, but the wounds in his mind festered.

He prepared a simple breakfast—an omelet with milk and cereal—and ate quickly. Though he wanted to head to the forest to see which recruits had survived, he felt drained of all energy. Crawling back into bed, he pulled the blanket over his head and resigned himself to sleep once more.

Eight hours earlier…

“It looks like Judas isn’t coming today,” Malkhov announced.

The cult members stood near a glowing river that reflected the bright moonlight. The recruits, tense and wide-eyed, were lined up before their elders. The forest surrounded them like a living wall. Keisha stood on Malkhov’s right, while the demonic twins flanked his left.

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Malkhov drew a large circle on the ground with his sword before stepping back.

“Two of you will enter this circle and fight. The match ends only when one of you dies,” he declared.

The recruits paired off nervously. The first two stepped into the circle: a tall, muscular man with a confident expression and a skinny boy with amber eyes and black hair, who looked utterly disinterested.

The muscular man made the first move, morphing his hand into a sharp blade and slashing at the boy. But the boy vanished, reappearing behind him and delivering a powerful punch. The force sent the man hurtling toward the edge of the circle.

He morphed his feet into hooks, anchoring himself to the ground just before the boundary. Without wasting a second, he countered, thrusting his blade-like hand toward the boy. But the boy dodged effortlessly, leaping above him and morphing his foot into a blade coated in aura.

*Slash!*

The boy landed gracefully behind the man, who froze mid-motion. Slowly, his body split into two, collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

The boy walked out of the circle without a word.

Malkhov gave Keisha a look of approval, but she was preoccupied, cradling her doll.

The second pair stepped into the circle. The old woman adjusted her glasses, her gray hair swaying lightly as she smiled at her opponent. The man across from her looked pale and disheveled. His messy hair fell over bloodshot eyes, and dark circles shadowed his face.

The woman attacked first. Gigantic tentacles sprouted from her back, lashing toward the man like deadly whips. He dodged the first two with surprising agility, but the third pierced through his left side, drawing blood. He remained unbothered, his expression cold and detached.

The woman grinned, lifting him into the air with the tentacle that impaled him. She spun him around before hurling him toward the edge of the circle.

The man clung to the tentacle tightly, refusing to let go. Annoyed, the old woman slammed him downward, intending to smash him outside the circle.

But as she pulled her tentacle back for a final strike, it froze mid-motion.

“What… what’s happening?” she sputtered, panic creeping into her voice.

"Too much for your old brain to handle? Just die already," the man said coldly.

The tentacle began to swell grotesquely, its surface bubbling and stretching uncontrollably. The woman gasped, her body convulsing as the same bloating overtook her limbs.

“Wh-what did you—”

*Boom!*

The woman exploded, her blood and flesh splattering across the arena. The man landed lightly within the circle, his hoodie soaked with blood. He lit a cigarette and walked out, standing beside the first boy.

Malkhov’s lips curled into an approving smile. He turned to the demonic twins on his left.

“Did you catch what he did?”

“Yes, Leader,” they replied in unison.

One of the twins elaborated, “He used his demonic cells to infect her body. While holding onto her tentacle, he injected his cells into her bloodstream. Once they took control of her vitals, he forced her to self-destruct.”

Malkhov nodded, satisfied. “Impressive. To analyze it so quickly… Let’s hope the next batch of recruits is just as talented.”

The next match began.

A man and a woman, both in their thirties, stepped into the circle. The man wore a crisp black suit, his hair neatly combed. His piercing eyes were locked on his opponent. The woman, dressed in a red gown with high heels, stood poised, her sharp eyes gleaming with confidence.

The man struck first, morphing his hands into massive claws and charging at her with a roar. The woman raised her right leg, her heel glowing faintly with aura. When his claws swiped toward her, she deflected them effortlessly, her heel meeting his attack with force.

The man gritted his teeth and applied more pressure, trying to throw her off balance. She stood firm, and with a powerful push, forced him to retreat.

Frustrated, the man lunged again, this time with greater speed and force. The woman met him mid-air, blocking his claws with her heels once more. As he landed, she pressed downward, pinning his claws to the ground.

Before he could pull free, she drove her heel into his neck. Blood spurted from the wound, but she didn’t stop. Blow after blow, she pierced his body repeatedly, turning him into a bloodied, unrecognizable heap.

When she finally walked out of the circle, her steps were graceful and composed. She joined the other two victors, her heels clicking softly against the ground.

The remaining matches proceeded swiftly. The recruits fought valiantly, but none survived except for the first three victors: the boy, the disheveled man, and the woman in red.

Malkhov stepped forward, his voice booming over the silent clearing.

“You three have proven yourselves today. From this moment, you are recognized members of the cult.”

The three dropped to their knees before their elders.

Malkhov extended his hand behind him, focusing intently. A faint dark glow surrounded his fingers as he drew forth three black feathers.

“These feathers are a gift,” he said, holding them out. “They will bind you to me and amplify your power. As you grow stronger, you will earn more feathers.”

He turned to the boy. “You, first. From now on, your name is Zack. Take this feather and place it on your back.”

Zack took the feather and pressed it to his upper left shoulder.

“Next, Adrian.”

The disheveled man stepped forward, accepting his feather without a word.

“And finally, Mira.”

The woman in red placed her feather against her back, her expression calm and composed.

Malkhov stepped back and began chanting in a language none of the recruits understood. As he uttered the final word, the feathers glowed and burned into their skin.

“Engrave.”

The recruits screamed as dark veins spread from the feathers, embedding themselves deep into their bodies. Blood seeped from the marks, but the feathers were eventually absorbed into their flesh.

The pain subsided, leaving only the sound of their labored breathing. Slowly, the three recruits rose to their knees once more.

“The feathers are now a part of you,” Malkhov said. “Your power will grow, and as your influence spreads, you may be granted additional feathers.”

“What do these feathers do?” Zack asked, his voice hesitant.

Malkhov frowned. “Were you asleep during lessons?”

Zack flinched. “I… I’m sorry.”

Malkhov sighed. “As you know, demons of royal lineage possess unique abilities. This power of having an ability can be shared through their body parts—most effectively, through feathers. For low- and mid-grade demons without noble bloodlines, such gifts are invaluable. Now watch and learn.”

He glanced at the demonic twins, who immediately stepped into the circle.

Facing each other, the twins grinned.

Malkhov’s smile widened. “Now, observe the power of demonic abilities."