The Black Chapel sanctuary loomed over the jagged mountain pass, its black spires piercing the storm-cloaked sky like obsidian knives. Built into the very bones of the mountain, the fortress was a monument of shadow and iron, its walls constructed of dark stone slick with age and alchemical reinforcement. Crimson lanterns, their glow unnatural, flickered behind stained-glass windows, depicting centuries of slaughter—witches burned, abominations purged, gods shattered.
A heavy iron gate, engraved with the split-sun sigil of the Black Chapel, marked the entrance. The symbol gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a stark reminder of their holy war against the unnatural.
Sella approached, her boots crunching against the frost-laden stone.
As she reached the gate, she raised her right hand, fingers forming a deliberate, practiced gesture, her gloved fingertips curling inward in the shape of the Black Chapel's glyph. Her voice was calm, steady, yet carried the weight of centuries-old doctrine.
"In shadows we burn, in silence we purge. Let no god rise. Let no heresy breathe. Gouge the witches eyes out from the land of heaven and earth.."
The gatekeepers, clad in dark hooded armor, their masked faces featureless, responded in unison.
"We are the blade that walks. Enter, sister."
The gate groaned as it unlocked from within, the mechanisms ancient yet unnervingly smooth.
Sella stepped inside.
The interior was colder than the mountain air.
Massive, vaulted ceilings stretched high above, lined with intricate carvings of old hunts, their edges inlaid with blackened silver, depicting battles against horrors most would call myth. Towering pillars, engraved with the names of fallen Black Chapel assassins, lined the hall, the torches beside them burning with a blue alchemical fire—a flame that never went out.
Hunters moved through the cathedral's gothic expanse, their footsteps hushed, their presence sharp. The Black Chapel's finest, dressed in high-collared coats reinforced with eldritch-threaded sigils, lined the corridors.
Their attires bore the markings of experience—some coats were torn, bloodstained, repaired countless times, while others were pristine, signifying new recruits still untouched by true battle. Their tricorn hats, masks, and cowls hid their identities, for names did not matter—only the hunt did.
Sella walked past a gathering of veteran witch killers, their weapons resting against the long wooden tables beside them. A few paused their conversation to glance at her, murmuring low, unreadable words.
She ignored them. And they went back to talking about their witch hunts.
"The witch in Red Hollow lasted four days before she broke," one of the hunters muttered, adjusting the runed plating on his gloves. "Took three men with her before the end, though."
Another, a taller one with a scar that cut from his brow to his jawline, exhaled through his tattered plague mask. "That's longer than the one in Vedmire. The thing didn't even have time to scream before Orlen put a bolt through its head."
The first assassin scoffed. "You call that a hunt? That was mercy."
A younger recruit, clearly new from the way his leather buckles still shone, hesitated before speaking. "What about the one in the frozen bogs? She killed a few assassins and escaped! She's still out there."
A chuckle. "If she is, then she won't be for long."
Sella kept walking, and waltzed past the training hall.
The assassins eyes laid on her, giving her grimacing looks just from their eyes even if their masks hid half of their faces.
The training hall was an open-air expanse at the edge of the cathedral, a battleground of stone and steel, illuminated by flickering black-flame braziers.
Here, the recruits fought, bled, and learned.
Pairs of young assassins sparred with brutal efficiency, their silvered weapons clashing against enchanted gauntlets. Others trained in ranged combat, firing alchemic crossbows that detonated into bursts of ghostly blue flame.
And then there were those who trained in Soul-Alchemy.
A high-ranking assassin, his presence undeniable, stood before a group of struggling recruits, his arms folded behind his back. His coat, a deep midnight black, was adorned with silver-threaded scripture, his maskless face lined with years of experience. His right hand bore an iron gauntlet, the fingers engraved with pulsing runes.
The recruits around him were breathing heavily, battered, bruised, barely able to stand.
One of them, gripping his side, struggled to his feet. "I don't—I don't get it. It takes too much. The body—"
The assassin's foot shot forward, slamming into the recruit's chest, sending him sprawling into the ground, rolling and tumbling over and over.
"The body is irrelevant." His voice was calm, detached, yet unwavering in its authority.
He turned to the others, pacing before them. "Soul-Alchemy is not mere magic. It is not something given freely. It is the cost of your very existence. It is the fire that will burn you alive—" He snapped his fingers. The air around him twisted, and suddenly his entire left arm was ablaze with spectral energy, shifting between ice, fire, and crackling lightning. "—or the weapon that will make you untouchable."
The recruits flinched at the sheer pressure radiating from him.
Another recruit, still gasping for air, spoke through grit teeth. "But it—it consumes us. The more we use it—"
The assassin tilted his head slightly, then vanished.
No movement, no warning—he was just gone.
And then, in an instant, he was behind the recruit, his gauntleted hand gripping the back of his skull.
"Everything has a cost, boy."
He released him, stepping away.
"If you cannot pay it, you are worthless to the hunt."
The recruit remained on his knees, panting, eyes wide.
The others stayed silent.
Soul Alchemy was an arcane, forbidden discipline that manipulates the soul as philosophical matter rather than mystical energy. Unlike magic, which often treats power as external or elemental, Soul Alchemy treats the soul as a living crucible: a mutable vessel that can be refined, broken down, combined, transmuted, and forcibly evolved through horrific, invasive rites. Soul Alchemists transmute themselves into "living compounds" — their bones, organs, humors, and minds become alchemical mediums through which terrifying properties are expressed.
Soul Alchemy. That's the name peasants whisper like it's witchcraft.
It's not. It's anatomy. The soul, dissected and broken open like a vault.
The assassin continued, "Every one of you is made of three vessels. Not body, mind, and spirit—that's church-talk. I'm talking about the Tria Vitta. The three living layers of the soul. You burn them, distill them, cut them until they obey. Or until they die screaming."
"First is the Corpus Anima—your soul's flesh. It governs the beat of your heart, the twitch in your fingers, the thread between will and muscle. When we alter this, we make you faster. Stronger. But also less human. Push it too far and you'll seize, vomit copper, or melt like wax over a forge. Second: the Mens Calcinatus, what we call the Burnt Mind. It is perception, resolve, ego. It's what lets you kill without blinking, and it's what starts to break when the transmutations go too deep. I've watched men lose their names mid-fight. Watched them scream like children while their own memories burned off like smoke. When this vessel cracks, you don't even know you've died. You just keep moving, hollow. Then there's the last one—the worst one. The Viscera Occulta. The hidden gut. You don't feel it. You don't name it. But it burns. It's where your heat lives. Your instinct. It's the part of your soul that never learned to speak, only to hunger. Your Affinity—the thing that defines what kind of monster you become—comes from here. That's where the old blood twists you into something the world doesn't have a name for."
The recruits looked at each other, understanding the words that were being spouted out by this old man.
"When you perform a ritual—solvents, brands, heat, or worse—you're not casting spells like the fairytales. You're distilling yourself into a new truth. Each layer shifts. You transmute into something sharper, louder, crueler. And if you go too far, if you corrupt too much of your core, you melt into something we don't bury. We call them Slag Souls. They stink of burnt marrow and scream in two voices—one of which is still yours. Now listen, because this is where it turns from theory to pain. Every practitioner in our ranks resonates with something ancient. Something inherited, or stolen. These are known as Affinities. Not elements. Not tricks. These are forces. Philosophies. Plagues. If the Tria Vitta is the engine, the Affinity is the blade it turns. Your Transmutations—the things you'll learn to do—aren't techniques. They're mutations. Philosophical injuries that force your enemies to live inside your hell. We don't teach you spells. We teach you how to change. How to become the blade that rewrites reality. You'll hurt. You'll bleed. You'll forget what you were before you started."
The recruit exclaimed, "What if we survive long enough to master it?!"
"If you survive long enough to master it…you won't need a weapon. You'll be one. And only weapons can kill those who oppose the Black Chapel."
One of the rookies exclaimed, "Like Lucien Albrecht? Everyone here is hunting them and I want in on it. To prove to the Exarch that I belong here—!"
"—You need not worry about Lucien. None of you stand a chance. He's a dangerous killer. He's killedq hundreds of witches, and was supposed to be the next Exarch if something ever were to happen. Now, get back to sparring."
Sella, watching from the shadows, did not stop.
Whispers followed her as she moved through the halls.
They always did.
"She stood in the Exarch's presence."
"Only those the Exarch cherishes are granted that right."
"The rest of us are dust to him, but her—"
Sella ignored them, envious words she was used to.
Her own thoughts drowned them out.
She didn't need their validation.
She would prove herself to the Exarch.
She was not like them.
She was better.
She would not be abandoned.
Not like before.
Not like she had been by her father, a man who had left her out of nowhere.
She clenched her fists.
It didn't matter.
He was nothing.
She was everything.
According to her.
Her room was bare, yet purposeful—a simple bed of dark linens, a desk cluttered with old manuscripts, a rack of weapons standing against the stone wall.
A single candle flickered on her nightstand, casting shadows against the black iron mask resting there.
Sella removed her coat, draping it over the chair.
Sella's fingers worked at the buckles of her high-collared coat, undoing each clasp with slow, practiced movements. The scent of cold iron and lingering alchemic smoke clung to the fabric—remnants of the long journey back to the sanctuary. She draped the coat over the chair in her room, letting the heavy fabric settle against the dark wood.
Her gloves followed next, peeled away inch by inch, revealing calloused, battle-worn hands—the hands of a woman who had spent her life gripping blades, firing rifles, and carving through witches. The silver-threaded stitching on her vest gleamed under the dim candlelight as she slid it off, revealing the lean, sculpted shape of her torso, a body hardened by years of relentless training.
A single mark adorned her back.
The insignia of the Black Chapel, inked in deep black, stretched between her shoulder blades—the image of a black cathedral beneath a sun split in two.
She stepped toward the bathing chamber, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor.
The bathhouse within her room was as intricate as the rest of the cathedral—a fusion of gothic opulence and alchemic engineering. Pipes of dark brass ran along the walls, their engravings pulsing faintly with amber light, carrying water heated by deep, geothermal furnaces. A large iron valve stood beside the glass-paneled shower chamber, gears clicking softly as Sella turned it.
Steam hissed from the vents.
The pipes trembled for a brief moment before warm water cascaded from the showerhead, its flow controlled by an array of mechanical levers and alchemic runes etched along the glass. The walls, darkened with age, were lined with riveted copper and slate, the entire structure built to last centuries.
Sella stepped beneath the falling water, her breath hitching for just a moment as the heat soaked into her skin. She tilted her head back, letting the water wash away the blood, the sweat, the weight of the night.
Her fingers ran through her dark red hair, slicking it back as the droplets traced the sharp planes of her cheekbones, her jaw, her collarbones. She exhaled, her hands trailing along her arms, across her abdomen, over the scars that told the story of a life shaped by war.
The warmth threatened to lull her into silence, into stillness.
But then—
A memory surfaced.
———-Years Ago, A Father's Song—————-
The forest was endless. The trees stretched toward the sky like towering monoliths, their blackened bark slick with morning dew. A crisp breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and earth. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a stream trickling over smooth stones filled the air, its melody soft, steady.
Sella sat on a moss-covered rock, her small hands gripping a delicate instrument, its wooden body carved with intricate sigils.
Her father sat beside her, legs crossed, posture relaxed, his presence solid, warm, unshakable.
She turned to him, her youthful voice filled with curiosity. "What is this?"
He smiled—a rare sight. "A Lysviel."
She ran her fingers over the polished wood, tracing the faint engravings. The shape of the instrument was unlike anything she had ever seen—a flute, but curved like a crescent moon, with thin metallic strings running along its spine.
"Where did it come from?"
Her father leaned back, tilting his head toward the sky. "It was made by a man named Rhaeldis Fen. A bardic alchemist. One of the best."
Sella frowned. "Bardic… alchemist?"
He chuckled. "Yes. He was a craftsman who used Soul-Alchemy to infuse sound with power. Some said his music could mend wounds. Others claimed it could shatter stone."
Her eyes widened. "Is that real?"
He glanced at her, his smile faint but knowing. "Alchemy isn't just fire and steel, little shadow. It's will. It's sacrifice. It's the shape your soul takes when you give something away."
He pulled a second Lysviel from his pack—identical to hers.
Sella's small fingers clenched around her own instrument. "I don't know how to play."
Her father tapped a rhythmic pattern against his knee, a patient gesture. "Then we'll learn. Together."
She hesitated. Then, mimicking his posture, she lifted the Lysviel to her lips and blew.
The sound was… awful.
A high-pitched, wheezing mess.
She scowled. Her father laughed.
"That was terrible."
She huffed, tightening her grip. "I hate this."
His amusement softened. "Do you? Or do you just hate failing?"
Sella pursed her lips.
"Again."
She tried. And failed.
Again. And again.
Frustration built like a storm in her chest. Her father said nothing, only adjusting his own posture, playing a gentle, simple melody beside her, his fingers moving with careful intent.
And then—
Something clicked.
Her breathing steadied.
Her hands adjusted.
And for the first time, her notes aligned with his.
They played together.
And the wind moved with them.
For a moment, Sella felt something she never had before.
Something whole. Something special.
She was worth something.
Because he was there.
Because he made her feel like she was.
———————————————————————
Then, her mind reeled in the shower once more, spiraling back to that day—the day she lost everything.
The day she ran through the woods, screaming her father's name.
Her boots crashed through the undergrowth, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she ran, desperation clawing at her throat.
"Where are you?!"
The shadows stretched long beneath the setting sun.
"Please don't leave me alone…!"
The wind whispered secrets she didn't understand.
Then—
A growl.
Something moved in the darkness.
A shape—massive, grotesque, its body lined with jagged black spikes, its four heads snapping in different directions, eyes gleaming with unnatural hunger. It was a wolf, but not any normal one obviously,
It pounced viciously at her, and Sella had no time to scream.
A silver flash streaked through the air.
SHKKK—
The beast split in half, its massive body collapsing in a heap of blackened entrails, its blood steaming as it soaked into the earth.
A figure stood over it. Cloaked. Silent. A man in a trench coat, a tricorn hat, and a mask that covered his nose and mouth..
He turned slowly, his glistening blade reflecting the last rays of daylight.
"Are you alone?" His voice was deep, steady, and unreadable.
Tears streamed down Sella's face. "I can't find him. I can't—"
The man crouched, gripping her shoulder. "Your father is missing. But we will take you in. We will help you find him."
"I can't leave him…I have to find him..he just left me..I hate being alone…"
"You won't be alone with us. We'll make you strong enough to find him. Trust me." He extended his arm out to her, his hand open like a flower had just finished blooming.
Blindly, Sella nodded.
Behind him, more Black Clerics emerged from the shadows, their forms merging with the darkness, surrounding her like wraiths.
And so, she left.
And never looked back.
———————————————————————
Sella's eyes snapped open.
Her fists clenched. The water had run cold.
'Shit. I hate cold water.'
She exhaled, her mind racing.
'Ha. Those irrelevant memories. If I could talk to my father right now... I'd say since he left me, I've been striving for acceptance. I've been striving to accept myself. The Black Chapel showed me the truth. Showed me how much of a coward you were for leaving. And I stayed. For a time without you, I was hollow. I used to sing our songs to myself, the songs we used to sing. And yet, now, I can hardly remember the melody. I only know the melodies of the assassins. You knew I hated the dark, and still do. You know I slept with toys in my bed. Toys you built for me. You would help me sleep with that wretched instrument you played. The one I sucked at playing.'
Stepping out of the shower, she reached for a black robe, pulling it over her shoulders.
'I don't know if I hate you, or just the dark itself. I don't know which one is worse.'
The candlelight flickered.
And she felt nothing.
Sella sat near the arched window of her chamber, perched upon the wide stone ledge, one knee bent, her black robe pooling around her legs. The cold glass pressed against her palm as she gazed out into the vast expanse of mountains and valleys, the landscape bathed in the eerie glow of the bloodstained moon.
The sanctuary stood alone in the abyss, a fortress of black stone carved into the mountain itself, its stained-glass windows flickering with alchemic fire from within. Below, the forests stretched endlessly, an ocean of dark trees moving like whispering ghosts beneath the wind.
She should have been at peace.
And yet, her thoughts drifted.
To him.
Damn Lucien.
Sella's fingers unconsciously tightened around the fabric of her robe.
Her jaw clenched as she thought about how her eyes kept being drawn to his throat, how a primal hunger crawled beneath her skin, a need she did not understand—one that made her stomach twist.
She had never thought of anyone this much before. Never fixated. Never longed.
But with Lucien…
She didn't know.
She closed her eyes, willing the thoughts away. But even in darkness, his image remained—smirking, wild, untamed, chaotic.
She exhaled sharply, pressing her forehead against the cold glass.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
'Ugh. He probably thinks I'm as weird as him now. Why should I care anyway what he thinks of me? Is it because he said I pose no threat to him? I'll show him. I was trained and bled to his equal. Better..even. I won't leave his side until he's dead.'
….
In the depths of Drakehelms undercity, hidden between narrow alleys of alchemic smog and iron-wrought bridges, there sat a building long forgotten by time.
Lucien's office. His "Blade for hire" service. Where people would come to him to take down a witch, a tarot god, or anything that they've spotted that he hasn't heard of yet. For a hefty price at that.
This office was a once-grand study now reduced to a cluttered mess of parchment, broken furniture, and alchemic residue, its walls lined with maps, bounty posters, and sketches of eldritch abominations. The wooden floor creaked under the weight of discarded books, and his desk was piled high with empty bottles of cheap liquor and unfinished reports.
And in the center of the chaos—Lucien, asleep.
His bed, if one could even call it that, was nothing more than a mattress shoved into the corner of the office, draped in a half-torn sheet. His coat lay crumpled near his feet, his golden revolver resting atop the desk in easy reach. His breaths were deep, steady, his body sprawled with the recklessness of someone who never expected to wake up.
His summons lay piled in a heap in the opposite corner.
The Joker, arms crossed, its massive frame hunched forward like a collapsed puppet.
The Queen, curled in a regal pose, one arm draped over the Jack, who seemed eternally displeased even in slumber.
The King remained perfectly still, the faint glow of his greatsword casting long shadows against the wall.
For a moment, the world was silent.
Then—Lucien's mind stirred.
Lucien found himself standing in an endless white void, stretching infinitely in every direction. A space between time. A dream. A prison. A summons.
And before him stood Artemis.
The Goddess of Chaos.
She was unlike any other divine figure—less a being of pure holiness, and more a contradiction of beauty and madness. Her form was sculpted in perfection, yet uncanny in its stillness. Her long, flowing dress was blood-red, yet shimmered like liquid silk, twisting in impossible patterns.
Her hair cascaded in waves of pure white, strands floating as if untethered by gravity. Behind her, a halo of crimson rose petals drifted in slow, mesmerizing orbits, pulsing faintly with an otherworldly glow. Her eyes, sharp as daggers, gleamed with untamed mischief, her lips curled in perpetual amusement.
Lucien stared, already exasperated.
"What do you mean I have to kill two more gods?! Ughhhh you're scamming me!"
Artemis let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head. "Oh? Are we complaining now? I thought you loved mindless slaughter."
"I don't. Only if it benefits me. And if it pays well."
Before Lucien could retort even further, something warm and fluffy stirred on his shoulder.
He turned his head—
Torch was there.
Sitting. Watching. Blinking his molten-gold eyes.
Lucien screamed like a dying animal.
"WHY IS THIS DAMN CAT HERE?! KILL IT! KILL IT!"
Artemis folded her arms, watching with barely restrained glee. "Torch has always been here. He was my pet long before your world even existed."
Lucien grabbed Torch by the head, holding him out at arm's length like a cursed artifact.
"Kill this rat."
Torch blinked. His tail flicked once.
Artemis smirked. "No."
Lucien's eye twitched. "Why not?"
She gestured vaguely. "Because I like him. And he likes you."
"How does he like me…when I'VE KILLED HIM 100 TIMES?!"
"He likes chaos. And you're the perfect candidate. You in general…are chaotic."
Lucien let out a long, slow breath, rubbing his temple. "This is hell. I'm in hell."
Artemis grinned. "And yet you refuse to die."
"You must've forgotten that you have my soul hostage, damn wench."
Lucien tossed Torch aside—only for the cat to land gracefully on his shoulder again.
He gritted his teeth. "I hate everything."
Artemis sighed dramatically. "Enough theatrics. You have two more gods to kill."
Lucien exhaled through his nose. "I'm tired of being in the dark here. What's the deal with this Tarot card stuff? How are people making contracts with them? Are YOU a Tarot card god that escaped? Why exactly did you choose me to be your little killing machine? Who exactly ARE you? Who is the witch queen? I'm pretty sure that witch queen thing is bullshit, it sounds too on the nose. But I want answers about everything you know, nonetheless."
Artemis' smile faded.
The air shifted.
And for the first time, she looked serious.
"Fine. You want answers?"
Lucien snickers in his mind, rubbing his hands together. 'Yes..tell me…tell me so I can—.'
Artemis said with deadpan, "I'm not telling you anything so you can figure out a way to scam me out of our contract."
"DAMN YOU! HOW DID YOU KNOW?!"
Artemis giggled, "Haha, I'm not a fool, Lucien."
Lucien shook his head. "Tch. No luck. Again."
Artemis laughed. "That's the spirit. But I'll say this.."
"Hm?"
"Your death and resurrection was not loved by those overseeing it. You must watch your back."
"Yeah yeah. Who can beat me when I'm immortal?"
"Those who have conquered it. Immortality is nothing to them. But..I could tell you some things…"
"Hm?"
Artemis glided down to where he was, and seductively, she ran her finger up his chest, saying, "I've never tasted a human before..if you let me have a bite, I can—."
Lucien lashed out his right arm, and grabbed her by the throat hard, and said, "Are you crazy?"
But he looked down, and saw Artemis's hand was grabbing his stomach, her fingers sharp, and in a position like it was about to rip his insides out.
Artemis smiled, "This is why I chose you, human. The only one compatible for the Tarot of the Chaos Maiden. Me."
At that moment, Artemis's large Tarot card floated above her head; Lucien's eyes darted to it fast.
On the Tarot, She stands alone in the center of the card, yet she is anything but solitary. The Chaos Maiden—Artemis, reimagined as a goddess not of purity but of sublime disorder—rises from a sea of shifting reflections, each one a fractured truth of the world beneath her feet.
Her pose is regal, defiant, and unnervingly serene: one hand lifted slightly outward, palm up, as if offering the viewer a choice they don't yet understand, while the other rests over her heart, fingers splayed—not in reverence, but in possession of something deeper, volatile, sacred. Her dress is a liquid scarlet that flows around her legs like spilled blood in water, but it does not simply fall—it moves, lifting in coils and spirals that defy the rules of fabric and gravity.
Symbols form in the folds, flickering with meaning just beyond comprehension. Her bare feet stand atop a mirrored surface cracked with veins of light, each fracture leading somewhere else entirely—portals to other dreams, or other nightmares. Around her, the world is in stasis and motion at once.
A sky of obsidian hue swirls above with constellations that blink in unfamiliar rhythms, while strange moons phase in and out, orbiting her like forgotten promises. Crimson rose petals drift in perfect orbits behind her, forming a broken halo, each petal spinning slowly as if caught in the pull of her gravity. They emit a soft, throbbing glow, pulsing like heartbeats, or warning signs. Behind her, arched high in the distance, a shattered temple hangs in the air, suspended by invisible threads, its pillars bent in spirals, each carved with languages that twist and writhe as they are read. Lightning flickers without sound, caught perpetually mid-strike.
And on the back of it, was her law, which read:
- I am the axis on which uncertainty spins, the divine echo of entropy given form. I, The Chaos Maiden, is not here to guide you—but to unravel what you thought was truth, and let you build again from the beautiful wreckage. From the fracture comes the form. Chaos is not the end, but the hand that breaks the false to make way for what is true. Only through ruin can wholeness remember itself. -
Beneath it, the chaos glyph—the symbol of her divine mark—burns faintly, a spiral coiled within a red flame, ever shifting.
Lucien sighed, "It's your nature to be of chaos. Mine wasn't at first."
"Mmmhm. But you fully embraced it, that's why I chose you."
"You're not telling me everything, wench. How long have you been watching me?"
"It's best if I don't."
Lucien thought, 'I wasn't like this before. Moving like I have a sugar rush. I used it as a defense mechanism to keep myself from showing weakness in front of the Exarch, and to keep myself from crying as a child. Because I wanted to be free from that man. But after dying and coming back, I embraced what I used as a shield and used it to fuel my satisfaction being away from him. So that must mean…Artemis had her eye on me for a while..'
Lucien rolled his shoulders. "Let me wake up. I've got two more gods to kill."
Artemis smirked. "How are you enjoying my power, by the way?"
Lucien scowled. "It's different. Not like Soul-Alchemy."
"Do you miss your own?"
Lucien's fists clenched. "I forged my own power from my own soul. I hate using yours."
Artemis' grin widened. "And yet you do. And you're stronger now."
Lucien turned away. "I don't have a choice. I DIDN'T have a choice.."
"Good luck, Lucien. And watch yourself."
"Hey. Why don't you come out of this ugly realm and kill the gods yourself?"
"It's safer for me here. Stop asking soooo many questions." Artemis smiled.
"I'm gonna scan you so bad once I figure out some lore."
Artemis blew a kiss at him. Then the void shattered.
Lucien's eyes fluttered open—
And his breath hitched.
Badump…
Badump…
Badump…
Sella was on top of him.
Her lips pressed against his neck, Her teeth sank into his flesh. A slow, shuddering exhale left her as she drank.
Lucien lay frozen, his muscles locked, his mind reeling. His hands instinctively gripped her waist, but he did not push her away. Because for the first time in his life…He didn't know what to do—
— Sella was drinking his blood.