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The dream was nothing more than a cruel reminder for Marcus—his choices weighed on him like a shroud. The past few days had been peaceful, the insatiable hunger within him subdued, if only for a while. The sun had begun its slow descent behind the mountains when he came across a worn, aging building. A faded sign above the door read:
"Lancaster Orphanage."
A familiar force stirred inside him, an unseen hand guiding him forward. It compelled him, pulling him toward the entrance like a marionette on fraying strings. Marcus clenched his fists, his jaw tightening in defiance.
"No. I will not kill these children!"
He fought against it with everything he had. But resistance was useless. His body moved without his consent, betraying his will.
As he stepped inside, the stench of unchanged linens mixed with the thick, pungent musk of neglect. Dust clung to every surface. Toys lay scattered across the floor, their bright colors dulled by grime. Trash littered the corners, the air heavy with decay. The orphanage was in a state of disarray—forgotten, abandoned in everything but name.
And Marcus could feel it—the hunger was stirring once more.
Inside, the orphanage was eerily silent—void of life. No children played, no caretakers moved about. The only sound was the distant murmur of voices coming from somewhere below. The hushed tones, laced with something unsettling, caught Marcus' attention.
He followed the voices, his steps careful, measured, until he reached an open door leading down to the basement.
"We brought the ones you requested. If there are no issues, we can proceed," a woman’s voice said.
Faint whimpers followed. Children.
Marcus felt his body stiffen as the force within him took hold once more, compelling him forward. He fought against it, but his resistance was meaningless. His foot hit the first step. Then the next. One by one, he descended into the darkness.
In the dimly lit basement, three adults stood in the center of the room. A man and woman—both filthy, their clothes as neglected as the house above—stood beside a third figure, cloaked in a heavy hood. The air smelled of damp rot, sweat, and something metallic beneath it all.
Marcus’ eyes dropped to the floor. A ritual circle was painted onto the ground, the markings unfamiliar and writhing under the flickering candlelight, as though they were alive.
The hooded man lifted his head slightly, strands of brown hair slipping free from beneath his cowl. His pale complexion looked sickly in the dim glow.
"We are not alone," the man murmured, turning his gaze to Marcus. His voice was calm but edged with something unnatural.
He took a step forward.
"You have stumbled upon something that does not concern you. Leave, and forget what you have seen here."
Then he smiled—his lips pulling back just enough to reveal inch-long fangs.
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Marcus didn’t need the unseen force compelling him this time. These people would die.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as he stepped forward, his intent clear.
The hooded man barely reacted, simply motioning to the couple. "I need their blood, not their tears. I will deal with our guest." His voice was eerily calm.
Then, with slow deliberation, he removed his cloak.
His skin was hauntingly pale, his features sharp and unnatural. His gaze locked onto Marcus with amusement. "The name is Darian. Not that it matters—when I’m finished, there won’t be enough of you left to bury."
Before Marcus could react, pain exploded in his chest.
He was thrown backward, slamming into the wall with bone-rattling force. Darian had moved faster than his eyes could follow.
Marcus gritted his teeth and lunged, swinging his sword in a deadly arc. But Darian was gone before the blade could touch him. A blur of motion—then another devastating blow.
Marcus staggered, his breath hitching as pain laced through his side. Darian’s claws had torn deep into his flesh. He felt the warm trickle of blood—no, not blood. Black drops splattered onto the ground beneath him.
Darian stopped. His expression shifted from amusement to intrigue.
"You… are a creature of Darkness as well."
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The silence of the children was chilling.
Marcus turned his head—too late.
The couple had finished their task. The children lay motionless, their small bodies crumpled on the cold floor. Blood pooled around them, seeping into the cracks of the basement stone.
Marcus dropped to his knees, horror clawing at his chest.
"It has been ages since I last drained a minion of Darkness," Darian mused. His voice was almost reverent. Then, in a flash, he struck.
Fangs sank into Marcus’ exposed throat.
A sharp, piercing pain shot through him, but it wasn’t just pain—it was something deeper. The Hunger he had tried to suppress erupted inside him like an untamed fire.
But something was wrong.
Darian’s body jerked violently. A guttural scream tore from his throat as he stumbled back, clutching his mouth. His fangs, once buried in Marcus’ flesh, dissolved into nothing.
Marcus’ veins pulsed with black corruption, Darkness surging through him like liquid night. His eyes snapped open, gleaming with something primal. The Hunger had taken control.
Darian lunged in fury.
But Marcus was ready.
With newfound speed, he dodged effortlessly, his movements eerily fluid. Darian came again, but Marcus sidestepped, seizing a fistful of his long brown hair. Darian barely had time to react before Marcus wrenched his head back, forcing him to look up.
Marcus didn’t hesitate.
With brutal precision, he drove his sword deep into Darian’s stomach.
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Darian let out an otherworldly shriek as Marcus wrenched the blade free. He staggered, clutching at his wound, eyes wide with disbelief.
"It… it won’t heal…" Darian whispered, his voice laced with panic. He looked up at Marcus, his face a mixture of fear and confusion. "What the hell are you?"
Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he seized Darian by the collar and twisted him around.
The blade struck true.
Steel met flesh, piercing straight through Darian’s heart. He gasped, his body convulsing as blood gushed from the wound.
"Be still, my son," Marcus murmured, though the voice was not his own. It slithered from his lips, ancient and boundless, each word steeped in finality. "The footsteps behind me belong to the Reaper… and we have come to take you home."9Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEMJikCSPDB
Darian’s breath hitched as Marcus pulled the sword free. Blood spewed from the gaping hole in his chest, pooling at his feet. His limbs trembled, his strength draining like sand slipping through grasping fingers. His eyes darted wildly, disbelief warring with the sheer, creeping horror of what was happening.
Marcus' weapon shimmered, its solid form unraveling into an eerie green vapor. It coiled and twisted, reforming like mist given shape. A chill slithered up Darian’s spine, a primal dread clawing at his insides. This was no ordinary death. This was something far worse.
With one final, deliberate thrust, Marcus drove it into Darian’s gut.
A silent scream twisted Darian’s face, his mouth stretching in a soundless wail. No words came—only agony. His fingers clawed uselessly at his chest, his body convulsing as his flesh began to blacken. Rot crept over his skin like a slow-burning curse, consuming him inch by inch. His veins bulged, dark and corrupted, as his flesh peeled away in sickening, curling ribbons.
"Wh-what... are you?" he rasped, the words little more than a dying breath.
But the horror in his eyes remained, even as his body crumbled into nothing.
He felt every second of it.
By the time the last remnants of him crumbled to dust, the only thing left was silence.
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Marcus’ hand throbbed with searing pain. He looked down, his breath hitching as he saw the mark—the symbol of Annihilation—etched into his flesh, pulsing like a brand freshly burned into his skin.
Kneeling, he pressed his palm into the blood pooling beneath him. The thick, crimson tide of the slain children had reached him, mingling with the remnants of Darian’s. The moment their blood touched his skin, a wave of exhaustion overtook him. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision, pulling him under.
He lost consciousness.
When Marcus awoke, the blood was gone. The Hunger that gnawed at him had dulled, momentarily sated. He pushed himself up, disoriented, when a chorus of voices sent a chill through him.
"Father!"
The word echoed through the empty basement, overlapping in eerie harmony.
Marcus’ head snapped up, his gaze darting around the room—but there was no one. No children. No bodies.
Then, within the ritual circle, something shifted.
A shape began to rise from the ground—a sphere, deep crimson, pulsing like a heart torn from a chest. It hovered, stopping at eye level.
Marcus stared into its surface… and felt his own blood run cold.
The faces of the sacrificed children stared back at him, their expressions frozen in twisted smiles. Their eyes glowed, hollow and red, their lips curling back to reveal fangs—just like Darian’s.
"You brought us back," they whispered, voices layered atop one another, a symphony of unnatural devotion. "We love you for it."
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The sphere trembled, its surface rippling like liquid fire before it began to change. The once-solid mass unraveled, twisting into a moving crimson cloud, tendrils of mist slithering through the air like grasping fingers.
"We want to go play with our old family," the voices chimed, layered and unnatural, their childish tone warped into something sinister.
Marcus’ breath came shallow as he watched the crimson mist pulse and expand, drifting toward the basement stairs. The Lancasters were long gone—vanished the moment the ritual had turned against them—but the children had not forgotten.
The cloud quivered, then laughed. A chorus of unnatural giggles filled the air, something that Marcus enjoyed deep down inside.
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