The world itself seemed to hold its breath as an unnatural stillness descended upon the land. The air grew thick and heavy, while darkness itself began to bleed crimson hues all around. Temperature fell, not with the gentle touch of winter, but with the cruel grip of ancient malevolence, freezing everything in its reach.
Blood—that vital essence flowing through every living creature—began to respond to an otherworldly call. It sang a terrible symphony within the veins of all beings, burning like liquid fire, as if attempting to break free from its mortal vessels. Every heartbeat became a painful reminder of the wrongness that had invaded their realm, a harbinger of the horror about to manifest.
From the depths of this crimson twilight, she emerged—a being of such terrible majesty that reality itself seemed to recoil at her presence. Suspended between obsidian pillars adorned with writhing runes, her form defied natural law. Her dress of absolute darkness devoured light, adorned with blood-red poppies that pulsed with stolen life. Each flower held runes so ancient and terrible that those who gazed upon them felt their very souls trying to flee their bodies.
Her partially concealed face bore the beauty of death—porcelain white skin marred by an exposed crystalline fang where her right cheek should be. Blood flowed like tears down her features, each drop carrying memories of countless tortured souls.
The crimson crown floating above her head radiated pure dread, threatening to shatter sanity itself. Those who dared look upon it found themselves trapped in its hypnotic embrace, forced to witness fleeting visions of screaming phantoms—souls of the countless victims whose suffering had forged this unholy diadem.
The air grew thick with the metallic taste of blood as reality bent around her presence. She was more than just a being of power—she was a manifestation of primal fear itself, an entity whose very existence threatened to unravel the fabric of sanity. As she fully materialized in our realm, the world itself seemed to weep tears of blood, acknowledging the arrival of something that should never have been.
Wisps of fog shuddered and convulsed in the crimson-stained air. One by one, the night tooths' misty forms snapped back to solid flesh—not with their usual fluid grace, but in violent, jerking motions. Their claws scraped against cold earth, leaving deep furrows as their legs buckled beneath them. Jaws that had moments ago dripped with ferocity now chattered, fangs clicking against fangs in an erratic rhythm of fear. Their eyes, usually keen and hungry, darted wildly from shadow to shadow, as if seeking escape from this incomprehensible presence.
A low whine cut through the silence. The night howler, a beast whose shadow alone had made a brave man run in fear, looked terrified beyond compare. Each breath came in short, sharp gasps that sent clouds spiraling into the cold air. The creature's fur now stood rigid—each strand a needle of fear standing away from its flesh. When it finally moved, it was to take one trembling step backward, then another, its fearsome claws leaving deep gouges in the earth. The same maw that had torn through Elysian now snapped shut with an audible click, a thin whimper escaping through clenched teeth.
In this moment of terror, time itself seemed to pause, creating absolute silence broken only by the shallow, desperate breaths of the once-fearsome creatures. The movements of Lady Malice herself cut through the stillness like a blade through silk—no hesitation, no sound. Her arms, pale as moonlight and strong as steel, curved upward to meet his falling form. The crimson light caught the tears of blood still streaming down her cheeks, each droplet suspended in the air like rubies caught in spider's silk.
"Foolish child. Your hubris has led to your undoing." Medea's words cut like a sharp blade, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings—worry and concern for the young noble's dire state. Her gaze swept over his severed limbs as she worked swiftly to stem the bleeding. "I've only just accepted you as my master, and here you are, dying. Is this some cruel jest? Because I find it rather insulting."
Elysian forced his eyes open, managing a weak grin despite his pain. "It's nice to see you too, my lady. You're as beautiful as ever."
"I know," Medea responded with a melancholic smile. "But you look like sh*t, brat."
"Can't argue with that." Elysian's voice came out strained and brittle. He attempted a chuckle that devolved into a pained groan before adding, "Though my strongest feature was never my face, my lady. It's my charm."
Medea snorted, unmoved by his attempt at levity. "Even at death's door, you find time for jokes. I swear, I don't know what to do with you." When she saw his grin widen, she scowled. "You do realize you're dying, right?"
Hope suddenly bloomed in his eyes. "Can't you do something?"
"Do I look like a healer to you?" Medea's words carried the weight of stone.
"I suppose not." Elysian's hope withered as quickly as it had sprouted. Of course—BloodShade was known as a harbinger of death, not a preserver of life. "Before I go, could you deal with them first?" He tilted his head toward the cowering night howler, paralyzed by terror.
"Ah, I'd almost forgotten about these insects." Medea's attention shifted to the creatures as rage took hold of her. Most of the night tooths fled at her mere glance, overcome by primal fear. But the night howler stood its ground, defiance burning in its eyes as it realized flight meant certain death. It threw back its head and unleashed a challenging roar that echoed through the night.
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Countless crimson needles hung in the air like frozen rain, each one catching moonlight like rubies with deadly promise. Medea's hand moved and death descended. The needles whistled through the air, finding their marks with cruelty. The first wave pierced eyes, throats, hearts—each strike releasing fresh fountains of crimson.
As the night tooths scattered like startled ravens, their forms flickering between mist and flesh. But there was no escape. Where one would materialize, dozens of blood needles waited, piercing through their semi-corporeal forms. Their attempts at escape only made them more vulnerable, blood spraying in elegant arcs like some ancient forgotten art.
Each fallen night tooth became a new weapon. Their spilled blood rose from the ground in spiraling ribbons, joining her deadly dance. The crimson streams twisted together, forming a swirling vortex around her that grew larger with each death. Bodies collapsed, drained of their blood, becoming hollow husks that crumbled into mist.
The night howler, its muzzle already stained with its own blood, bared its fangs in desperate defiance. Its massive form launched forward, claws extended—only to stumble as Medea's power seized the blood dripping from its jaw. The beast's own vitality betrayed it, each droplet becoming a barb that tore through muscle and sinew.
Still, the creature fought. Its claws raked the air inches from Medea, its wounded body moving with the desperate strength of cornered prey. A swipe of its massive paw dispersed a wave of blood needles, sending crimson droplets scattering like rubies.
Medea's response was subtle—a mere twist of her wrist. The blood pooling beneath the night howler suddenly writhed to life, spiraling up its legs like hungry serpents. Where Elysian's earlier attacks had left wounds, these streams found entry, burrowing deeper, spreading through veins like poison.
The beast's howl of rage transformed into a gurgle as blood—its own and that of its fallen servants—converged. Above the dying creature, the collected vitality of countless night tooths merged into a single massive spear, its surface rippling with the combined blood of all her victims. The weapon hung for a moment, its point aimed at the night howler's heart, before plunging down with the weight of an avalanche.
The impact shook the earth. The night howler's massive form arched one final time before collapsing, its body dissolving into the growing pool of crimson that spread across the cold ground.
Through it all, Medea maintained her gentle hold on Elysian, her movements a delicate caress. The carnage around them played out like a dance, each death an exhilarating performance. The air grew thick with the scent of blood—the smell of vengeance. Until finally, silence fell once more—broken only by the cold wind, sweeping across Lady Crimson's pale weeping cheeks.
Elysian's eyes widened, a smile gracing his pale face. "Damn, you killed it quite easily."
Medea snorted at his praise. "You'd already wounded it badly. In its weakened state, it wasn't much of a challenge." She sighed, her voice tinged with an unusual vulnerability. "If it had been at full strength, I'm not certain I could have emerged victorious."
The young noble chuckled. "I didn't know you could be so modest, my lady," he said, offering a cheerful smile that belied the life slowly ebbing from his body. "But you're right. The cultivation difference was just too great. Luckily, it was badly wounded before I could even get to fight it."
Medea's gaze softened, memories casting shadows across her features. Ghosts of her lost child of centuries past flickered in her eyes. Her hand, now resting on Elysian's chest, felt the erratic rhythm of a heart fighting its final battle.
"You should have called me far sooner, foolish child," she said softly, her words carrying the weight of sorrow and great loss. "We might have altered your cursed fate. Now, you've squandered your second chance."
Elysian's sigh was weighted with regret, yet a hint of resignation lingered in his voice. "Some risks," he murmured, each word a labored breath, "demand to be taken."
As his vision began to blur and his life force drained away, a sudden burst of defiant humor seized him. He turned slightly, addressing something—or someone—beyond Medea's immediate perception. A painful chuckle escaped his lips, punctuated by a wracking cough.
"You've been watching since the start of the fight," Elysian called out, his voice surprisingly steady. "Why not reveal yourself now? I'm dying anyway. I promise—I won't bite."
The surrounding darkness seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
What seemed at first to be a massive boulder trembled, then slowly unfolded. Stone and earth fell away like a living cloak, revealing a creature that defied the boundaries between humans and legends. The creature rose, dwarfing even the trees surrounding it—a colosso of muscle and savage might.
Its skin was a mottled pale blue-gray, stretched tight over muscles that rippled with inhuman strength. Thick, knotted sinews bulged beneath its surface, moving with a predatory grace that belied its great size. Massive arms—each thick as an old-growth tree—hung down past its knees, ending in hands large enough to crush a man's skull easily.
One hand gripped a massive club—a weapon of pure brutality. Long iron spikes erupted from its surface, their tips wickedly sharp and stained dark with layers of dried blood. Each spike told a silent story of its countless victims.
The creature's face was a nightmare of pure, unbridled ferocity. Eyes like chips of obsidian glinted with a cold, calculating intelligence beneath a pronounced brow ridge. Massive yellowed tusks—curved like brutal scimitars—jutted from its lower jaw, protruding past its lips in a permanent, menacing grimace. Its mouth—a jagged gash lined with broken, yellowed teeth—looked more suited to tearing flesh than speaking.
Beside the creature stood a young woman who shared its grotesque lineage. Though not as tall as the creature, she matched Bran in height—angular and lean. She moved with a predatory stillness that suggested absolute control. Where the other promised raw destruction, she radiated a more refined, calculated threat.
Elysian’s eyes widened in surprise at the monster he saw. "Well," he croaked, a thread of dark humor still clinging to his failing voice, "this is somewhat more interesting than I anticipated," he said as darkness finally took him.