The Cryogenic Last Stand
The glacial monolith stood like a macabre art installation in the derelict garage, its crystalline surfaces refracting the dim emergency lighting into prismatic patterns across the bloodstained concrete. Within its depths, Violette Nocturne was preserved in a moment of harrowing realization—her final expression frozen between defiance and horrified comprehension.
Ethan's enhanced vision cataloged every detail:
The fractured remains of her tactical knife, its reinforced alloy blade sheared clean through as if by supernatural jaws.
The microscopic ice crystals forming delicate lacework across her eyelashes and the exposed skin of her throat.
The subtle blue tint to her lips—the telltale sign of oxygen deprivation in those crucial seconds before the freeze took hold.
Around the ice pillar, the garage floor told a grisly story. Splintered bone fragments formed a rough semicircle, as if the victims had been herded toward the center before slaughter. Bullet casings—some still warm to the touch—glinted dully amidst the gore, their expended rounds testament to futile resistance.
Most disturbing were the cleanly severed spinal columns protruding from discarded torsos—each cut with surgical precision just below the C2 vertebra. This wasn't random violence. This was collection.
"You bought yourself time," Ethan murmured, his breath fogging the ice near Violette's face. "But time's running out."
His thermal imaging revealed the terrifying truth—Violette's core temperature hovered at -1.2°C, her metabolism slowed to near-undetectable levels. The ice wasn't just preserving her; it was erasing her. Another 72 hours, and not even modern Awakener medicine could pull her back from that brink.
The Trophy King Reveals Itself
The first warning was the smell - a thick, cloying miasma of rotting meat and old blood that rolled through the garage like a physical wave. Then came the sounds:
The wet squelch of necrotic flesh compressing under immense weight
The dry rattle of bone against bone
The creak of overstretched tendons bearing impossible mass
From the darkness emerged a silhouette that defied rational biology. Two meters tall at the shoulder, its hunched posture suggested even greater latent height. The dim emergency lights glistened off gray-green skin stretched taut over bulging musculature.
Ethan's enhanced vision cataloged the abomination's features:
The Face: A grotesque parody of human features, with a lipless mouth frozen in a permanent rictus grin. Where eyes should have been, only smooth, milky-white orbs stared blindly.
The Third Eye: A blood-red protuberance embedded in its forehead, currently half-lidded but pulsing with malignant awareness.
The Trophies: A gruesome belt of skulls - some human, some clearly Entity - strung together with what appeared to be spinal cord fibers.
The creature's breathing produced a wet, rattling sound as air moved through multiple perforations in its chest cavity. With each step, the skulls at its waist clacked together like macabre wind chimes.
Ethan's lips curled in recognition. This matched one of the illustrations in his father's journals - a rare mutation even among Entities.
[C-Rank Entity: Blood-Eyed Corpse Demon]
The creature's blind gaze swept the area, its head tilting at subtle angles as it processed the world through some inhuman sensory apparatus. When it spoke, the sound emerged not from its mouth but from vibrating flaps of flesh along its neck:
"Tro...phy..."
The word dripped with unnatural hunger, each syllable stretched beyond human vocal range.
Ethan remained motionless, analyzing. His father's notes flashed through his mind:
"Blood-Eyed variants represent a dangerous evolutionary branch of corpse demons. Unlike their lesser kin, they exhibit:
Advanced tactical intelligence (observed trophy-taking behavior)
Hyper-regenerative capabilities (require complete cellular destruction)
The infamous 'Blood Eye' - when fully opened, triggers a berserk state by metabolizing its own tissue for temporary power boosts"
The notes included a stark warning: "Engage only with overwhelming force. Allowing the eye to fully open reduces survival odds by 83%."
First Blood
The Corpse Demon's head snapped toward Ethan with terrifying precision. Though blind, it had somehow pinpointed his location - likely through air displacement or thermal sensing.
Ethan didn't wait for the charge.
"Bloodprice Curse - Mark."
A crimson sigil flared to life on the Entity's chest as Ethan's own heart transmuted into a straw construct. The dual-phase attack activated instantly:
The Mark: Established a sympathetic link between target and caster
The Conversion: Transformed the corresponding organ in the target (in this case, the heart) into a fragile replica
The Detonation: Remotely triggered the replica's destruction
The explosion was visceral. The Corpse Demon's chest cavity erupted outward, spraying chunks of necrotic flesh across the concrete. A normal Entity would have been obliterated.
This one staggered back two steps... then steadied itself.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. Through the gaping hole, he could see the creature's blackened heart - damaged but still beating. The muscle tissue was visibly regenerating, tendrils of flesh already knitting together.
Worse, the blood-red eye on its forehead had opened another fraction, revealing a sliver of pulsating crimson.
The creature's lipless mouth stretched wider, exposing multiple rows of needle-like teeth. When it spoke again, its voice held something new - anticipation.
"TROPHY...WILL...HANG...YOU..."
The garage lights flickered as the Entity entered its pre-berzerk state. Ethan felt the first genuine thrill of danger since entering the building. This would require more than cursory effort.
As the Corpse Demon's claw—each talon the length of a chef's knife—swiped for his throat, Ethan activated both abilities simultaneously:
"Strawskin Manifestation: Partial Conversion."
"Bloodprice Curse: Overload."
His right arm unraveled into golden stalks as the curse sigil on the Entity ignited crimson.
The coming seconds would determine whether Beihai City gained a new nightmare
—
—or lost an old one.