Chapter 32: Really? A Stain in the Light ? (2/2)
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The crimson tracks looked like war paint against her pallid skin. She weakly raised her head, seeking mercy or perhaps simply human connection, only for her expression to transform into one of pure bewilderment, her pupils dilating until the yellow was nearly eclipsed.
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"Enough, Ryan," the other knight—the one responsible for healing the half-ogre—intervened, placing a gauntleted hand on his companion's trembling arm.
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The white armor showed faint traces of tarnish at the edges where sweat had seeped through the joints. "We need her alive." His voice was calmer but no less cruel.
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"If what the bishop said is true, the church's experiments might finally advance, thanks to this freak's blood." He glanced at the collection vials positioned beneath the chair, already half-filled with crimson liquid that seemed to pulse with its own internal light.
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"Can't believe our luck finding them out here—her father, especially... a demon able to disguise himself as human."
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But just as this knight spoke to Ryan, he got no response. The silence stretched, unnatural and heavy as lead.
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Frowning, he turned his head—only to freeze in mid-motion, as though he'd suddenly been transmuted to stone.
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A towering, pale yet strikingly handsome figure had materialized in the doorway, seeming to absorb what little light reached that corner of the room.
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Lucien stood unnaturally still, draped in a dark coat and jacket that moved with subtle life even in the absence of any breeze, the fabric rippling like water at midnight.
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His top hat cast a deep shadow across his brow, yet did nothing to dim the baleful red glow of his eyes, which illuminated the sharp planes of his cheekbones from below.
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For some inexplicable reason, the knights found themselves unable to speak, unable even to move.
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It wasn't mere fear—though that coursed through them, cold as winter meltwater—but something deeper, more primal: the paralysis of prey before predator.
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Their limbs might as well have been encased in invisible iron, their throats sealed by some unseen hand.
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Only their extremities remained under their control—the fingers on Ryan's whip twitching spasmodically, betraying his terror, while the other knight's grip on his cross tightened until the metal edges bit through his gloves and into flesh.
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“F-father’s friend?” Mistaken for an ally because of this creature red, glinting pupils, the half-ogre’s voice emerged as a terrified whisper, her yellow eyes widening until they seemed to fill her entire face.
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Only then did she realize that her parents—although demons—had never told her about, or introduced her to, any other demons.
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So, what little color remained in her skin drained away, leaving her almost translucent in the harsh light. Her chains rattled as she instinctively tried to push herself deeper into the chair, as though the leather and wood might somehow shield her from the newcomer.
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The single horn protruding from her forehead caught the light, its surface no longer pearlescent but dull with fear-sweat that beaded along its spirals.
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Only at her words did the two knights snap out of their unnatural paralysis, their armor creaking as movement returned to their limbs in a rush, like statues coming violently to life.
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"WHO ARE YOU?!" The knight who had held the whip now dropped it with a loud clatter against the stone floor, the leather coiling like a dying snake.
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His gauntlet scraped against his scabbard as he drew his sword in one fluid, practiced motion, the steel singing as it met the air.
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His stance widened, boots grinding against the gritty floor as he prepared to strike, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts that fogged his visor.
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"Me? I'm also a demon," Lucien replied with the casual indifference of someone commenting on the weather. His lips curled into a half-smile that revealed just the barest hint of fang, his head tilting slightly to one side in a gesture almost playful. His gloved fingers flexed at his sides, the leather stretching as though suddenly too small for what lay beneath.
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"HAA! In the name of the Seraphiel, be purged!" The knight lunged forward with a battle cry that echoed metallically within his helmet, his sword arcing through the air in a strike meant to separate head from shoulders.
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SHIRLL!
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But he found himself slicing through empty space, the blade whistling harmlessly where Lucien had stood mere heartbeats before. The momentum carried the knight forward, his armor clanking as he stumbled, trying to recover his balance.
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Lucien, now standing impossibly behind the knight, observed the flailing human with detached curiosity.
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His nails began to transform—not growing so much as unfurling, black and gleaming like obsidian, extending into curved claws that caught the light with deadly promise.
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The transformation sent a pleasant tingling sensation up his arms, a feeling of rightness, of becoming more himself.
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Disgust—primal and overwhelming—flooded through Lucien as Branks continued his clinical muttering from his desk, words about how they had "chopped and paralyzed the half-ogre's feet" drifting through the chamber like toxic smoke.
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Those words stirred something deep within Lucien's memory, something raw and unhealed, something that made his newly formed claws flex involuntarily.
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SWOOSH!
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With a movement too swift for human eyes to track, Lucien struck. His claws met the knight's armor with a sound like metal being torn from a rusted hinge, effortlessly penetrating the blessed steel as though it were no more substantial than parchment.
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Grazing against soft skin like tissue paper, Lucien's claws tore through muscle, sinew, and bone in one continuous, elegant motion. A diagonal slash followed, so fast it seemed to hang in the air like an afterimage, and suddenly the knight's body was no longer whole.
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SPLASH!
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Blood erupted in a crimson fountain, catching the light from the glass cylinders and refracting it in grotesque, beautiful patterns across the chamber walls.
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Chunks of flesh and shattered armor scattered across the floor with wet, heavy thuds, some sliding to rest against the bookshelves, others landing with sickening splats near Branks' desk, staining his meticulous notes with arterial spray.
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The smell hit next—copper and iron, yes, but also the underlying scent of opened bowels and the strange, almost sweet odor of freshly exposed organs.
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Lucien—the culprit—stood motionless amid the carnage, examining his own hands with an expression bordering on scientific fascination.
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His claws dripped with gore, red droplets pattering softly onto the stone floor as he flexed his fingers, watching how the light played across their obsidian surface.
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He widened his eyes, then squinted, his brow furrowing as he cataloged the destruction he had wrought with such minimal effort—the broken armor scattered like discarded shells, the flesh and viscera painting the chamber in shades of red, the lingering vibration in his fingertips.
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Am I really that powerful? He remained rooted to the spot, genuinely dumbfounded by his own capability for violence, until movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
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He turned slightly to find Branks, the village head, staring at him with an expression caught between academic interest and primal terror.
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The man's quill had fallen from his fingers, a spreading inkblot on the parchment mirroring the pools of blood on the floor. His thin lips parted as though to speak, but no sound emerged.
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RING!
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But then, as Lucien stared back, his ears twitched with sudden alertness—a predator sensing danger.
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The subtle movement rippled through his long hair, disturbing its perfect fall.
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SWOOSH!
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His widened eyes narrowed to calculating slits as he pivoted sharply, coat swirling around his legs like spilled shadow, spotting a bluish light gathering around the remaining knight behind him.
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The knight had backed against the wall, one hand clutched around his cross so tightly that blood seeped between his fingers, the other raised palm-outward.
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Above that trembling palm, a sphere of azure energy coalesced, pulsing with cold light that cast everything in ghastly relief.
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The temperature in the chamber plummeted, frost forming on the glass cylinders with audible cracking sounds, the half-ogre's breath coming in visible clouds as she watched in mute horror.
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The blue light reflected in Lucien's crimson eyes, turning them momentarily violet, as the knight's chanting grew louder.
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"By this rite, I cast—" The knight's voice trembled with desperate conviction, his hand already reaching beneath his cloak for what must have been a blessed relic. The blue energy coalesced around his fingers, crystallizing the air itself into shards of holy light.
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SWOOSH!
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But before he could finish the incantation, Lucien closed the distance between them in a blur of movement that defied human perception.
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"Hm—?!"
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One moment he stood observing, the next his palm pressed against the knight's mouth—who wasn't even wearing a helmet, his face exposed in misplaced confidence or simple oversight.
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CRUSH!
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The impact made a sickening sound, like overripe fruit being crushed, as teeth splintered and bone collapsed beneath Lucien's supernatural strength.
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"HM?!HM>?!"
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Red, blinking eyes watched with detached fascination as the knight screamed—the sound warped and bubbling through the ruin of his mouth, blood spraying between Lucien's splayed fingers in a fine mist that hung in the air like crimson fog.
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Then—
