"Burn the Corrupted!"
Before me, prisoners with bulging black veins were dragged through the mud, their faces twisted with fear, smeared with blood and tears.
Black blood—the mark of monstrosities.
The corrupted… or so they say.
Around them, their executioners—the soldiers of my family—wore the Von Varus crest with pride as they carried out this massacre.
"Burn them! Burn them!"
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The deep rumble of drums merged with the frenzied cries of the crowd, hungry for their weekly spectacle.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
"Show no mercy! Man or woman, kill them… BURN THEM!"
The herald, a scarred middle-aged man, bore Eudorian inscriptions carved into his very flesh.
This was my mentor, Sir Darius, the Grand Knight of the county—a survivor of too many battles… or perhaps an undead who had not yet realized it.
"PURGE THEM IN FIRE!"
Darius roared, the chief executioner of today's slaughter, crushing the skulls of two prisoners at once. At his side, soldiers hurled the corrupted into a pit of fire leading to the earth's depths, condemning them to a slow and agonizing death.
Around the pit, the citizens of the fief cheered at their suffering—a release from their harsh lives.
And me? I stood elevated on a platform of black stone, my father beside me. My only family.
I turned away from the scene, one I had grown accustomed to, and looked at my father, Count Leopold Von Varus. A shiver ran down my spine despite myself—a reflex born of the brutal upbringing inflicted on me by this beast in human skin.
His massive frame rivaled that of a flesh-eater. His partially burned face, the mutilations, and the Eudorian inscriptions fused into charred, rotting flesh told of a failed ritual from which he had survived by miracle… or by misfortune.
A great warrior in his youth, he had once fought alongside Emperor Fyodor III during the Balkan War.
"Father, what crime have they committed?" I asked, wetting my lips.
"Their very existence is a crime," he replied, his cold gaze piercing through me.
"They are the spawn of a cursed people who came into Vultorian lands," he spat, his voice dripping with hatred and disgust.
A corrupted one has, in their near bloodline, an ancestor who made a pact—only to lose control of mind and body, cursing their descendants with their own sin.
Hence the black blood.
"They have tainted us in turn, giving birth to monstrosities ruled by the ancient gods."
Years of tension between imperials and the corrupted had led to purges throughout the empire—purges orchestrated by the conservative faction intent on weakening the reformists, a faction close to the emperor and in favor of using the corrupted.
Indeed, they are stronger and show a natural affinity for sorcery. Their integration is as troubling as it is fascinating.
"H-help… HAA… p-please! ARRRRHG—"
The screams of a man burning alive mingled with the crackle of flames. Then suddenly, nothing—only the cheers of the crowd.
The treatment of the corrupted is never gentle, no matter their age or sex.
I remained unmoved, my focus still on the oppressive presence of the Count.
This man… I hate him. I hate everything about him—his voice, his gaze, his repulsive body, even his chestnut hair, identical to my mother's, who died giving birth to me.
I hate his so-called "lessons" in knighthood… and the scars they left across my body.
He stood abruptly and came toward me.
"Turn your head and look. Look at the justice we deliver to these corrupted. Watch, and learn."
He gripped the back of my neck, forcing my gaze down toward the scene below.
Young man and elders, men and women—all burned, screaming in agony, begging for mercy. The stench of charred flesh mingled with that of blood.
This week's execution was especially brutal—probably to distract the peasants, a common ploy.
My father's grip tightened around my neck as he rose, dragging me to the railing that separated us from the fiery pit.
"Look, Frédéric! This is the fate these vermin deserve!"
Blackened blood splattered the stage's walls. Chained victims awaited their turn like cattle at the slaughterhouse—a death factory. The acrid stench of blood, urine, and excrement rose up, clinging to my clothes like a curse to my indifference.
The sight was as beautiful as it was revolting—like a blood-red flower blooming in its final flare of life before withering into ash, soil, and dust.
Disturbing, yet magnificent.
"Y-yes, Father."
Releasing his grip, he sat back down with the metallic clink of his purple-adorned armor—the color of the imperial elite.
He drank from his ivory cup, cleared his throat, and said:
"Everything is ready for your first ritual. It will take place in one week."
My body froze at those words.
My legs stiffened, my heart raced, and shivers ran through me.
My first inscription ritual… in seven days. Seven days, and I am only twelve years old. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead.
The inscription rituals are rites of flesh, blood, and pain, granting knights the strength of an ogre, the endurance of an orc, and the means to stand against the horrors of this world. They are performed through costly devices binding sorcery, alchemy, and sacrifice.
Sacrifice of beasts?
No, of humans. Humans slaughtered to fuel the ritual's power.
But that isn't the worst part… no. The true horror lies in the process: tearing away one's own flesh, ripping veins and organs from the body, flaying the skin to replace it with alchemical grafts made from the remains of monstrosities.
My heart pounded wildly in my chest. Self-mutilation…
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists until my nails dug into them, drawing blood.
He turned his gaze back to the spectacle, savoring the atrocities committed.
"Y-yes, Father."
The cries of children calling for their mothers still rang out --
Husbands desperately trying to shield their wives from the flames, in vain.
A pitiful sight.
But it doesn't matter to me—why should I care when I might die during this ritual?
To hell with those noisy vermin. To hell with the ritual. To hell, to hell!
Why should I suffer? To protect a dying empire? A withering emperor? To inherit a cursed fief?
To hell with it all!
Draining his wine in one gulp, he continued:
"You may leave. Prepare yourself properly."
Leopold spat, his eyes full of scorn, a permanent sneer on his lips.
That bastard despises me. I hate him—I hate him!
Blood now dripped from my clenched fists, tiny drops falling to the floor. A faint pain throbbed in my hands.
"...Understood," I said coldly.
I turned away, rage boiling in my gut, heart pounding, my face darkened, and left the place of execution.
Outside, a warm breeze greeted me.
All around, vast fields of flowers had bloomed. Blood-red flowers—some tiny, only a few centimeters tall; others enormous, reaching my ribcage.
Fields of blood as far as the eye could see.
A black-paved road cut through them, leading deeper into the territory—a place of death that served as a landmark for merchants.
In the distance stood a massive Gothic mansion, flags fluttering all around.
Flags bearing the image of a knight holding a severed head by the hair.
The crest of my family—renowned for its brutality.
If I want to survive this ritual… I will need to gain strength.