The moon hung high in the sky as the midnight bells tolled from the church spire. London slept under a veil of mist, its dark silhouette faintly illuminated by flickering gas lamps.

A carriage trundled through a muddy alley, surrounded by ramshackle buildings that sprawled wildly like a forest of bricks. Streetlamps had their glass shattered by mischief-makers, their flames dancing in the night breeze like fireflies trapped in beer bottles.

This was clearly a lawless "Rookery" (a slum), now eerily silent save for the creak of wheels echoing through the gloom.

Inside the carriage, two masked men conversed softly.

“We’re close,” the blond-masked man sniffed the air, closing his eyes as if sensing something. “Nine, ten, eleven… no, perhaps twelve.”

“Perhaps?” asked the black-haired masked man beside him.

“One’s aura is faint—either gravely wounded or dying. That one, along with two others, lies deep beneath the church crypt. Four more lurk in the hidden passages, others stand guard: one in the bell tower, two in the chapel, and the rest in the old houses across the street. Wait—one of the sentries from the old house is approaching.”

“Hey, friend! Stop right there! If you value your head, get out!” A burly man reeking of alcohol yanked open the carriage door, aiming a drugged shotgun.

“Handle the outsiders. They’re ordinary folk, not worth interrogating. Keep it quiet, and leave none alive,” the blond man ordered.

“Wha—” The drunkard froze, his face twisting in horror as he lost control of his body. His limbs moved against his will—dropping the gun, retrieving a dagger from his boot, and hiding it in his sleeve.

“Let’s go meet your friends,” the black-haired man’s ghostly, gentle voice echoed as the man stiffly marched forward.

...

Beneath the church, a soul from another world stirred awake.

For a long time, she had drifted between sleep and consciousness. When she was wheeled into the ICU, she sensed death approaching. In her final moments, she bid farewell to her family without regrets.

After an eternity of darkness, she awoke in a cold stone chamber. Her body felt foreign—renewed and vibrant. The nausea of chemotherapy and the pain of prolonged bedrest had vanished. The sterile smell of disinfectant was replaced by dust and decay. Candles flickered at her head and feet, casting light on a cloaked figure bustling at an altar.

The walls were lined with man-made niches, each holding a withered corpse. The grotesque sight kept her from moving. A wise decision, as footsteps soon echoed on stone.

“Owen? You should be on guard with the others, not dawdling here!” The cloaked figure rasped, his voice unnaturally wet, as if synthesized by machinery.

“Apologies, Master. I wished to offer my services. Unlike the other brutes, I could assist you as a proper apprentice,” a young man named Owen fawned.

“An apprentice…” The cloaked figure pondered. “You are cleverer than those fools. Grind the valerian in the mortar, mix it with distilled belladonna juice, then add crushed autumn crocus petals—after it cools. Waste my herbs, and you’ll regret it.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Yes, Master! I’m honored!” Owen eagerly complied, chattering as he worked. “I’ve seen ancient ritual murals in an alchemist’s tome. Great sorcerers always had apprentices to handle tedious tasks. With me, your loyal servant Owen, this ritual will surely succeed!”

“Hmph.” The Master sneered. “Pray you haven’t blundered elsewhere.” His tone sharpened suddenly. “Did any of you filth dare touch my primary material? A young, healthy virgin corpse—exactly the sort you degenerates would defile!”

“I swear, Master! I bought her from the hospital before she died. Though disgraced in life, no one dared violate her purity—not with the noose waiting. I wrapped her like a mummy! My peers didn’t even know her gender! She’s perfect for your needs. But… this ritual seems identical to the last. If… not that I doubt you, Master… but if it fails again, please don’t punish your humble servant Owen…”

“Of course.” The Master’s voice softened. “You’ve always been obedient. As a reward, you may copy the runes by the altar. Just don’t disturb the setup.”

“Truly?! Thank you, Master! I—I don’t know what to say…”

But for the girl feigning death, this was her greatest crisis. The altar centered on her, every rune etched around her body. The men spoke a dialect of English she somehow understood fluently. Their talk of crimes and the sinister aura chilled her. If they discovered she wasn’t a corpse, would they kill her on the spot?

Owen’s cheerful footsteps echoed like a death knell. As she debated bolting, a muffled groan rang out.

“You—!” Owen collapsed, lifeless.

“This time, I won’t fail.” The Master’s voice turned icy. “The Aztec sacrificial dagger from the New World enlightened me. The gods grant no favors to beggars. Every ritual requires sacrifice.”

He chanted in a sibilant tongue. Wet slicing sounds and dry whispers filled the chamber. An indescribable madness and evil choked her. Darkness encroached her vision, as if shadows had descended.

Paralyzed as if trapped in a nightmare, her body ignored her mind’s commands. Though fully aware, her eyes stayed shut, yet monochrome images flooded her mind.

The cloaked man appeared middle-aged but moved with an old man’s frailty. His forked tongue flickered like a snake’s. He ripped a still-beating heart from Owen’s chest—a dark red mass pulsing frenetically, pumping endless blood. Placing it on the altar, warm blood flowed through carved grooves, pooling beneath her.

“Ah… Praise life! Rotting blood cannot compare to true vitality!” The Master murmured raptly. “The power of ancient gods is too perilous for mortals. Using this virgin corpse as a vessel, and sacrificing my finest disciple’s soul, I’ll create a resurrected servant—obedient as the sleepless guardians of pharaohs! The Aztecs proved it possible… Even at the Kingdom level, I can forge a being with divine power, wholly mine to command…”

“Quetzalcoatl, all-knowing master, I grovel before you! Praise your coils encircling the realm of death, heed your whispers from the abyss! I offer blood—feast on the pain, void, torment… Death is a door, and I hold its key!”

Had she been lucid, she’d have scoffed. The Master’s “all-knowing” god clearly hadn’t verified his ritual. Yet against all odds, the impossible happened.

It felt like hatching from an egg—a chick’s world-shattering awakening. Overwhelming senses and insight nearly drove her mad. A force yanked her from a dark well into an endless ocean.

Was this witchcraft? Magic?

She didn’t know. Her blurred vision focused on a humanoid shape—the Master. But now, she saw him as a crimson silhouette, flesh and bones transparent, only his heart and veins visible, glowing brighter near the core.

Hypnotized, she acted. Her body lunged, snatched the dagger, and stabbed repeatedly at the radiant heart.

Warm red light erupted from the shattered organ. She bathed in life itself—limbs invigorated, senses sharpened. The world unveiled itself: rippling soundwaves, candle heat, light… and an overwhelming divine force.

A door of understanding burst open. A veiled young woman in earth-toned robes sat on a black throne, barefoot with flowing hair. The vision wasn’t seen—it imprinted itself, a lighthouse tearing away the veil of reality.

As ecstasy faded, her enhanced hearing caught screams outside. New danger approached. The Master’s corpse lay warm at her feet. She rummaged through his robes, finding only a broken jade dagger lodged in his ribs.

A cold blade pressed against her throat.

“Drop the weapon. Raise your hands,” a voice commanded.