The heavy iron doors to Anasil's private sanctum didn't creak; they slid open with a sickening, oiled silence. The air hit Nyxelle and Solvayne like a physical blow—a humid, cloying rot masked by the sharp, artificial sting of formaldehyde and bleach.
This wasn't a laboratory. It was a cathedral of carnage.
As they were shoved inside by the silent, masked guards, the first thing they saw were the Incubators.
Massive glass cylinders lined the walls, filled with a viscous, yellowish fluid. Inside, things that used to be human floated like preserved specimens. One contained a man whose skin had been entirely removed, his musculature held together by shimmering silver wires. His eyes were wide, fixed in a permanent, lidless stare.
"He's... his chest is moving," Solvayne whispered, her voice trembling. "Nyxelle, he's still breathing."
Nearby, heavy black bags hung from meat hooks in the ceiling. Some were still, but others twitched rhythmically, a muffled, wet slapping sound echoing from inside the plastic as whatever was trapped within struggled to find air. Below them, the floor was a maze of drainage runnels, stained a deep, permanent rust-brown.
The center of the room was dominated by a long, obsidian table. It was cluttered with a chaotic array of Surgical Tools: saws with teeth so fine they looked like hair, jagged rib-spreaders, and rows of hollow needles dripping with iridescent fluids.
Scattered across the side tables were jars of "components." A pair of lungs pulsed weakly in a jar of electrified brine; a row of tongues were pinned to a corkboard like exotic butterflies.
Nyxelle's foot hit something soft. She looked down and stifled a scream. It was a discard pile—limbs and torsos thrown together with the indifference of a woodcutter's scrap heap.
On a pedestal made of polished bone lay a thick, leather-bound journal. The pages were vellum, tanned to a translucent paleness that looked uncomfortably like human skin.
Nyxelle, her hands shaking so violently she could barely turn the page, looked at the most recent entry. The handwriting was elegant, loops and whorls of perfect calligraphy written in a dark, brownish ink.
> Entry 5,842
> The hunt today was a refreshing appetizer, but the main course remains in the cellar. My brother laments the 'loss' of his daughters, but he lacks the vision to see the glory in the grotesque.
> Today marks a milestone. With the demi-human youth from the forest, my total count stands at 4,999,754 souls harvested. Nearly five million lives extinguished by my hand, and each one a masterpiece of agony.
> Some call it cruelty. I call it my divine right. I was born with the intellect to dismantle the world and the status to ensure no one can stop me. It is my God-given choice to play with the clay of humanity. If the Creator did not want me to break these toys, He would not have made them so fragile.
> Tomorrow, I begin the 'Resonance Procedure' on the twins. I wonder... if I remove Solvayne's heart while Nyxelle watches, will the internal rhythm of the survivor skip a beat? I shall have to be careful with the saws. I want them to hear every vibration.
>
The sound of humming echoed from the hallway—the same upbeat, jaunty tune Anasil had whistled in the carriage.
"Do you like the decor, my darlings?"
Anasil stepped into the room, pulling on a pair of long, elbow-high rubber gloves. He looked at the sisters, his eyes sparkling with a genuine, terrifying warmth. He walked over to the ledger and lovingly stroked the page Nyxelle had just read.
"Five million is such a lovely, round number, don't you think?" He picked up a serrated scalpel and tested the edge against his thumb, drawing a thin line of crimson. "I think the two of you should have the honor of being the ones to cross that finish line."
He turned to the guards, his smile stretching wide, showing every one of his perfect, predatory teeth.
"Strap the smaller one to the obsidian slab. I want to see how much she screams before her sister's caloric reserve gives out trying to heal her from across the room."