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Victor Sinclair. This was the name of a very smart young man with a bright future ahead of him. He was the son of Albert Sinclair, a renowned merchant sailor who had a multitude of connections to squander about.

Victor had curly blonde hair and blue eyes, his skin was smooth and his lips were thin, he had taken after his mother's appearance.

She was a beautiful Intisan woman of noble origin who took a liking to his father when they were young, getting eloped very quickly, they soon had him as their only child. Unfortunately, she passed away when Victor was very young.

Even when coming from a good family, Victor always wanted to accomplish something for himself. This wish blossomed even further when he discovered there were people with strange powers and abilities surrounding his father.

However, the world wasn't so gentle with him when it came to his health. Always sick and fragile, his father told him that becoming one of the power-wielding individuals was absolutely impossible.

This led Victor to become more and more depressed as time went on, going as far as trying to kill himself once but failing due to one of his father's followers saving him.

After his suicide attempt, his father tried everything to make him feel better, even hiring a psychiatrist to treat his strong depression. His actions paid off in the end, and Victor found himself free from his extreme depression, even if he could never give up his desire to have powers.

Today was December 2nd, 1349. Victor was currently seated on a chair on his balcony observing the bustling market district of Bayam.

People were coming and going with their goods, their actions accompanied by happy smiles and bountiful conversations. Children played about with each other with brisk laughter and joyful alacrity.

Looking at the scenery below him, Victor found himself daydreaming about having powers once more, but these thoughts were interrupted by one of his father's subordinates, who suddenly appeared by the balcony's entrance.

"Young master. Your father calls for you." The man had a trimmed golden beard and a receding hairline that perfectly accentuated his serious demeanor. His expression was cold and stern, like a military man with no time to lose on a young teen.

"Sigh. Can't he let me be for a second?" Victor didn't show any respect in his tone while speaking to the military middle-aged man, his bearing showing his immaturity as a teenager.

Using his right hand, he picked a golden inlaid cane and slowly got up from his seat with great difficulty. The military man didn't try to help him get up at all, he just stood there with a straight posture and firm expression

He didn't show any signs of anger on his face from Victor's manners, turning around and leaving the balcony with slow steps.

Victor quietly followed him through the beautifully decorated hallways and soon came to the front of a room with double doors made from dark wood and iron. Two guards stood in front of the big double doors, they showed no expressions on their faces, like mere puppets with no strings.

The golden-haired middle-aged man knocked on the big doors and quietly stood by the side. It didn't take long for a deep and stern male voice to answer, "Come in."

Hearing that voice, Victor couldn't help but get slightly anxious, as he knew who it belonged to.

Controlling his facial expression, he slowly opened the heavy doors.

Inside, there was a huge space with big windows on the walls. The room was red and black, with bouts of gold scattered all around the environment.

On the cold wood floor, there was a beautifully crafted tapestry filled with strange symbols of different mystical languages. The table at the center was surrounded by reddish-black chairs made from leather.

And on said table, sat a skinny figure wearing a black suit with silvery embroidery. His raven black hair cascaded over his shoulders, with a straight nose and angular jaw, his skin was smooth and pale like a piece of porcelain.

The man was looking at a pile of pieces of paper that were filled to the brim with letters and numbers. As Victor entered the fare-spaced office, the man raised his head to see him with great clarity.

Two enchanting rays of crystalline blue light gently caressed Victor as the man's gaze drew toward him. The exquisite eyes, akin to sapphires bestowed by the heavens, gracefully enhanced the man's visage, fitting together like meticulously carved pieces of a wondrous puzzle.

Captivated by that breathtaking yet frigid gaze resting upon him, Victor couldn't suppress a shiver in response to the eerie allure it held. It was as though he was being regarded by eyes that perceived all, an unsettling sensation that left him decidedly uneasy.

Suppressing the inclination to pivot on his heels, he maintained his composure and uttered in a serene tone, "Father, have you called for me?"

Radiating an air of ethereal grace, the man who appeared as though an angel in human form delicately parted his slender lips, his words flowing unhurriedly, "Yes, there's something I need your assistance with. We're expecting an important guest tonight, someone I'm keen on impressing. Your role involves taking a few guards to the main pier at Bayam. Once there, board my ship and retrieve a particular bottle of wine from the main cabin. You'll recognize the one."

His words flowed with an unassuming calmness, as if his distinguished demeanor could remain undisturbed by anything.

Maintaining his poised disposition, he added, "I trust your capability to ensure everything proceeds seamlessly. This interaction might pave the way for significant opportunities, so your attentiveness is crucial."

Victor found himself puzzled by his father's choice of assigning such a straightforward task to him. It seemed counterintuitive, considering the presence of numerous subordinates who could readily and efficiently accomplish the mission without much ado.

He soon voiced his doubts, "Why I should do it? You have people far more capable than me by your side."

"This guest holds a unique awareness, he would be able to discern the true intentions behind my actions. Entrusting a direct subordinate with this errand would be easily seen through. Yet with you, that concern is put to rest," he calmly retorted, his tone maintaining its unruffled serenity.

Victor remained silent, his response conveyed through a respectful bow to his father. The gentle gesture from his father signaled the conclusion of their conversation, bidding him farewell.

Leaving the grand office behind, Victor encountered the military figure known as Frederick by the side of the doors once more. With a resolute tone, he conveyed, "Father has ordered me to retrieve something from his ship. I want you to accompany me."

The reason Victor called for Frederick was very simple: He was also a person with powerful abilities. He had strange powers that allowed him to create certain rules against people, having used them many times in front of Victor before.

Frederick's response came in the form of a resolute but stern nod, devoid of verbal communication. Without further ado, they departed from the grand mansion that held its ground at the heart of Bayam.

Their path was clearly directed towards the western horizon, where the primary pier of Bayam was located.

The streets of the bustling city greeted them with a symphony of activity, each corner exuding its own vibrant essence.

The sun, descending gracefully on the horizon, painted the sky in hues of gold and orange, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets.

As they walked, the urban song gradually faded into the background, replaced by the distant sound of crashing waves as they neared the shoreline.

The scent of salt and sea breeze intertwined with the soft rustle of leaves from the nearby palm trees.

As they reached the water's edge, the pier stretched out before them, a testament to Bayam's prowess over the sea.

Sturdy wooden planks creaked beneath their footsteps as they advanced along the pier's length. The gentle lapping of waves against the pilings created a soothing cadence.

Their gaze shifted towards the vessel that awaited them, one belonging to Victor's father, Albert Sinclair's 'Iron Puppet'. Its mast proudly reached for the sky, bearing intricate sails adorned with transparent runic symbols.

Amidst the bustling activity on the ship, a lot of figures moved full of purpose, the crew members were like cogs in the vessel's intricate workings.

As Victor and Frederick made their appearance, a subtle shift swept through the crew. An air of deference emanated toward Frederick, the acknowledgment of his authority clear in their eyes, while Victor's presence garnered a more tempered response.

However, Victor wouldn't care about such things, as they happened far too many times around him. He just held his cane and proceeded forward, boarding the vessel soon enough.

The crew members offered no interruption to the duo's progress, permitting them a direct path toward the main cabin. While they traversed the ship, a delicate breeze brushed against their skin, a gentle reminder of the coastal haven they found themselves in.

Stepping into the cabin, Victor's gaze fell upon Frederick, who stood poised near the front entrance, his strides halted abruptly at that very spot.

It didn't take long for Victor to remember what his father told him. He didn't ask why Frederick stopped and proceeded to enter the cabin.

Upon entering, he found himself amidst an amalgamation of mechanized marvels. The air hummed with industrious energy, filled with the scent of metal and oil. Surfaces were adorned with intricate gears, cogs, and levers, forming an intricate dance of machinery.

Twilight hues danced across walls adorned with mechanisms that seemed to breathe life into the space. Furnishings were not mere objects, but rather feats of engineering—ornate chairs with intricately woven springs, tables that extended with the precision of clockwork, and tapestries that displayed scenes brought to life through intricate clock mechanisms.

Amidst this symphony of gears and pulleys, Victor's gaze landed on the intended target: a bottle contained within a steel contraption that held a charm and allure unexplainable by words. As he retrieved it, his touch seemed to complete a circuit in the intricate web of mechanisms that defined the cabin.

Turning to leave, he felt the cabin's mechanisms pulse in silent harmony, a reflection of gears turning and pistons moving in unison.

But just as he was about to take his leave, an unexpected intrusion shattered the mechanized serenity. "So that's how Albert expects to kill me, huh?"

The enchanting tones of a captivating female voice resonated with an aura both charming and commanding. Victor swiftly turned, his gaze scanning the space for the source of the words. Yet, to his surprise, he found no figure to match the voice. Instead, his surroundings were alive with the captivating tapestries of machinery, their intricate forms absorbing his searching gaze.

"Sigh. Really, people from the Aurora Order are true lunatics. For a father to use his own son as a living sacrifice for his Lord's descent, it's unfortunate, to say the least."

Hearing such comments, Victor was nothing but confused, he couldn't resist the urge to directly ask in a scared tone, "Who are you!? What are you talking about!?"

The response came swift and unyielding, laden with a mix of unsettling certainty and detached calm. "Don't worry, child. The moment you stepped inside this cabin, your fate was sealed. All that remains now is for you to embrace your role as the new host of The True Creator."

Victor's heart raced as fear and confusion tangled within him. In the midst of his turmoil, the bottle of wine in his grasp began to shatter and transform. Before his eyes, it cracked and expanded, giving birth to a massive, bloodied arm that surged forward, reaching out with an ominous intent.

*Grasp

With a grip as inexorable as a vice, the bloodied arm seized Victor's neck, rendering his struggles futile. Panic surged through him, his terror escalating as his mind became a whirlwind of fragmented memories and overwhelming sensations. Helpless in the clutches of this nightmarish tableau, he began to retch uncontrollably, his body convulsing as his brain grappled with the onslaught of stimuli.

The chilling voice continued its eerie discourse, its tone almost detached, as though discussing the weather. "You see? Such is the unfortunate destiny that befalls those entwined with the members of the Aurora Order. Once your demise is complete, all that remains is for him to pursue me, armed with the powers bestowed upon you."

Desperation fueled Victor's shattered voice, his plea cracked by the vice-like grip of the massive arm. His attempts to articulate a coherent sentence faltered under the overwhelming pressure, his vocal cords straining against the force that held him captive. His plea for help emerged as a broken, desperate cry, the words a stark reflection of his dire situation.

The enigmatic voice seemed to consider Victor's plea, its tone carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. "You desire my assistance? How intriguing. It's a rarity to witness a human-born ritualistic ingredient attempting to salvage itself. Has the Aurora Order miscalculated in their dealings with you?"

Victor's thoughts spiraled into chaos, his ability to reason slipping away as terror took hold. The immense arm's intentions turned even more nightmarish, as it began to bore into his body, reshaping him in a grotesque metamorphosis.

His very form underwent a horrifying transformation, the boundary between his being and the arm's malevolent influence blurring into a nightmare beyond comprehension.

"I suppose I could test that out..." The voice's tone wavered, almost contemplative. "Very well, kid, I shall extend to your pitiful existence a slim chance at redemption. Yet always remember, every boon comes with its cost."

With those words lingering like a spectral echo, the very fabric of reality seemed to warp around Victor. His form trembled as if caught in the clutches of unseen forces, his very essence crackling with an energy that defied mortal understanding.

Then, as if an ancient curse had been awakened, his body ignited in dark green flames that flickered and writhed with an otherworldly intensity.

These flames, a sinister hue that seemed to consume the surrounding light, played a macabre dance across his skin. They painted a twisted tapestry of transformation, each flicker carving new runic lines upon his being.

As the flames encircled him, they both consumed and recreated him, reshaping his very existence into something new, something beyond the realm of humanity.

Amid this tumultuous spectacle, his body shifted, bones creaking and reforming with a haunting symphony. From his back, pale white bones surged forth, erupting like the wings of a creature from the depths of despair.

These skeletal appendages stretched and unfurled, exuding an aura of otherworldly malevolence. They were not just wings; they were symbols of an unearthly metamorphosis, of a pact struck in the shadows of fate.

And then, as if orchestrating a final flourish to this symphony of transformation, the bloodied arm that had once been his captor faltered and withdrew. It could no longer penetrate the new form that encased him.

Victor's aspect had changed, his countenance now resembling that of a Bone Devil, a harbinger of dread and a vessel of formidable power. Yet, he was more than that—his being crackled with the energy of his newfound form, and the flames that wreathed him danced with a fierce, primal life.

A seismic tremor coursed through the bloodied arm, causing it to convulse violently, viscous liquids dripping from its form in grotesque rivulets. From the very heart of the mechanical wine bottle, a dark presence began to materialize—a form that drew its essence from the darkest and filthiest corners of the world.

The blood-red arm disappeared, with a new dark form coalesced, its unsettling familiarity became apparent—the silhouette that emerged was none other than his own father's.

Amidst the pulsating tumult, Victor's father manifested, his visage taking shape as if etched by the hand of fate. In an instant, he was there, a living embodiment of the turmoil that had engulfed Victor's existence, standing in the very midst of the grand cabin.

The atmosphere seemed to quiver with tension as the figure of Albert solidified, his presence casting a shadow over the mechanical wonders that surrounded them.

Silence hung heavily in the air, broken only by the subtle hiss of flames that continued to dance around Victor's transformed figure.

Visceral liquids dripped from Albert's form, a grotesque manifestation of its instability and level of power.

Victor's eyes locked onto his father's figure, a multitude of complex emotions surging within him—fear, anger, betrayal—all converged in that single gaze.

The revelation of his father's involvement in this dark ordeal struck him like a tempest, unraveling the foundation of trust he had held for so long.

As the cabin held its breath, the air seemed charged with an unspoken tension. The intricate machinery, the dark and bloodied form of Albert, and the newly transformed Victor stood in eerie stillness.

And within this moment of surreal convergence, father and son faced each other, the echoes of unspoken questions and untold truths hanging between them like a veil of shadows.

"I had anticipated that he might attempt to exert his influence over you, but I hadn't anticipated it happening even before the ritual commenced." Albert's voice remained deceptively calm, a veneer of serenity veiling the darker currents that swirled within him.

The shadows that enveloped him seemed to writhe in a macabre display, an embodiment of the eerie tension that hung thick in the air.

Wrath surged through Victor's bony form, overwhelming the last vestiges of rationality that clung to him. The maelstrom of emotions within him coalesced into a singular, undeniable urge—to confront the source of his torment, his father.

With an almost primal ferocity, his skeletal frame quivered, and in a swift motion, he bent and lunged at his father.

From the twisted essence of his being, a bone sword materialized in his grip, an extension of his newfound form's malevolent power. The air seemed to tremble in the wake of his aggression, a cacophony of fury encapsulated in a single, lethal act.

As the bone sword arced through the air, aimed at his father with an intent born of unbridled anger, Albert's response was an almost casual gesture.

With an eerie calmness, he raised his hand and closed it, as though merely reaching out to grasp an unseen thread. In that instant, the clash of bone against flesh was halted.

A profound stillness swept over the cabin as Victor's form abruptly faltered, his movements arrested as though he had been stripped of his very agency, as though his autonomy had been 'stolen' from him.

With an air of detachment, Albert's voice pierced the silence of the cabin, its tone carrying an unsettling authority. "You may reveal yourself, guest."

His gaze remained fixated on the shadows that enveloped him, his attention seemingly drawn to a presence beyond the visible realm.

As his father's command resonated, Victor's fallen form lay inert upon the ground, a captive of forces beyond his control. His limbs refused to obey, a testament to the enigmatic power that held sway over him.

Amid the weight of his immobilization, he could only watch, helpless and vulnerable, as the shadows seemed to react to his father's summons—a presence about to be unveiled from the depths of obscurity.

As the shadows responded to Albert's command, a surge of realization swept through Victor's mind, unveiling the enigmatic identity behind the voice that had tormented him. With an almost surreal clarity, he finally grasped the figure's presence.

And then, from within the depths of the shifting shadows, emerged a figure that matched the voice, like a revelation made manifest. A visage of striking beauty unfolded before Victor's eyes—a delicate countenance framed by pale white hair, adorned with intricate dark stripes.

Clad in a raven black tailcoat suit that spoke of sophistication and intrigue, the figure's porcelain-like skin contrasted with the depths of their attire.

An air of enigmatic elegance seemed to envelop them, shrouding their form in an aura of both allure and danger. The attire was a symphony of darkness, a harmonious dance of black shades that enveloped them in a veil of shadows.

Yet, it was the bone-white mask that adorned the figure's face that truly captured attention. Featureless and captivating in its simplicity, it held a single, intricate runic symbol emblazoned upon its front—a mark that resonated with a power far beyond the tangible.

In the presence of this enigmatic figure, time seemed to hold its breath. Victor's heart raced, emotions tangled and unspoken within him as he gazed upon the embodiment of the voice that had led him into this convoluted dance of supernatural powers.

The figure's voice, rich and beguiling, echoed through the cabin, each word dripping with a calculated cadence. "Shepherds are indeed the most potent of Sequence 5s. To perceive my presence while employing Psychological Invisibility and lurking as a Shadow Ascetic, you must have harnessed some stolen power as a Prometheus, am I correct?"

Upon encountering the enigmatic figure, Albert's countenance underwent a drastic transformation—a shift from the veneer of serenity and calm that had characterized him moments ago, to a visage marked by ferocity and darkness.

His features contorted, the mask of control slipping away to reveal the depths of his emotions. In the presence of this enigmatic entity, his expression reflected a storm of conflicting emotions, each layer of his façade unraveling to expose a raw, unbridled aspect that had remained concealed until now.

With an aura of formidable power surging forth, the very essence of Albert's being seemed to respond to the unfolding confrontation. In a breathtaking display of his mastery, his hair underwent a startling transformation, shifting from its previous hue to a vibrant shade of crimson red.

His hand moved with a fluid grace, a single flick accompanied by a surge of energy. In that motion, a white spear materialized, forged from ethereal flames that danced with an otherworldly intensity. With swift precision, the spear hurtled through the air, a deadly embodiment of his intent, aimed directly at the enigmatic figure that stood before him.

However, the moment the white spear made contact with the figure clad in black, an unexpected transformation ensued. The mysterious persona seemed to disintegrate like a fragile paper figurine caught in a gust of wind.

The figure's form erupted into a cascade of paper shreds, each fragment spiraling outward in an ephemeral dance as if the very essence of its being had been composed of delicate parchment.

Albert's fierce countenance persisted even as his hair reverted to its original color, the crimson red fading back to its familiar hue. Yet, a new transformation unfolded—a radiant starlight blue light enveloped his entire form, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to emanate from within. His silhouette took on a transparent quality, as his Spirit Body appeared solid.

Following that, an illusory door materialized before him, a portal to the far Spirit World. With a swift, fluid motion, his form flickered and disappeared, only to reappear on the other side of the cabin. There, the visage of the figure clad in black had resurfaced, like a phantom that defied the confines of death's grasp.

Amidst this terrifying confrontation, the bone mask that adorned the black-clad figure's visage seemed to respond to the unfolding events. A brilliant shade of crimson radiated from the mask, a stark departure from its previous enigmatic appearance. This transformation added a layer of intensity to the figure's aura, as though the very essence of their being had ignited with newfound fire.

With an ominous surge of energy, demonic green flames erupted forth from the figure's form, their ethereal essence clawing at the air like spectral tongues of fire.

These flames, initially imbued with a crimson hue, transformed into a chilling shade of demonic green as they billowed and writhed in the atmosphere.

Their dance seemed to mirror the enigmatic entity's demonic nature, a symphony of power that resonated with the essence of the mysterious world.

But the flames did not remain in their singular form for long. Like a mesmerizing transformation of hell itself, they contorted and shaped, molding into an unsettling visage.

From the depths of the infernal fire, hundreds of demonic serpents emerged, their forms a testament to the nightmarish potential contained within the mysterious presence.

Each serpent seemed to writhe with an insatiable hunger, a sinister vitality that echoed the power of the being that had conjured them.

The serpents of fire, their demonic forms wreathing with an eerie vitality, coiled and slithered around Albert's presence, as if ready to incinerate his existence whole.

Yet, in an unexpected turn of events, Albert's form underwent another transformation—a shadowy shroud enveloped him, and before the eyes of those present, he disintegrated into nothingness, his bloody-dark figure reappearing on the other side of the expansive cabin.

However, the dynamic of the confrontation shifted once more as a voice that held a familiar cadence resonated through the air. "Cursed Fire is prohibited here!" The words carried the weight of authority, a declaration that cut through the tension of the moment.

With that command, the dark green serpents that had once writhed with demonic intensity underwent a startling transformation. As if responding to an unseen force of order, they shifted back into their original crimson forms, their vibrant hue turned less lustrous.

Their visage remained undeniably terrifying, a testament to their inherent power, yet a discernible weakness seemed to permeate their presence, a subtle indication of the forces that had reshaped them.

As Frederick's voice poised to command the cessation of all cursed fire, another potent presence materialized at his side, just outside the cabin. Yet, before his words could echo through the air once more, this new and chilling presence emerged into the fray.

With a jarring and sudden intensity, a massive snake, its scales a vibrant and dark shade of green, lunged at Frederick, its jaws clamping down upon his arm with a ferocity that rivaled even the power exhibited by Albert.

The pressure exerted by the creature's bite was overwhelming, a tangible force that mirrored the strength of the enigmatic figure engaged in the tumultuous battle within the cabin.

Frederick could barely resist the sudden attack, he was just about to set another prohibition when his entire body suddenly froze into an ice sculpture.

His last sight was the black-clad figure holding a voodoo doll very similar to himself in their hands, their fingers releasing a chilling aura that turned the doll into a block of ice.

As the icy grip tightened around Frederick, his consciousness began to fray and unravel. The all-encompassing cold seeped into his very soul, a relentless onslaught that shattered his thoughts and sanity. The frigid tendrils of this unnatural hell wrapped around his mind, entwining his thoughts in a web of numbing frost.

Frederick's presence was extinguished as swiftly as it had emerged, a fleeting existence snuffed out by the overwhelming forces that clashed within the cabin.

Albert, despite his formidable power, found himself powerless to intervene, his efforts to safeguard Frederick's life in vain. The swift and brutal demise of the newcomer showed the unforgiving nature of the confrontation.

Amidst this grim atmosphere, Victor's father remained unmoved by the loss that had transpired. Regret and pity were conspicuously absent from his countenance, his demeanor a chilling reflection of a heart devoid of compassion.

In his actions and his response—or lack thereof—he appeared as a figure bereft of empathy. The absence of remorse painted a stark portrait of the depths to which he had sunk, a reminder of the complex layers of darkness that defined his character.

As the confrontation escalated, Albert's hair once again underwent a striking transformation, shifting to the crimson hue that seemed to symbolize the unleashed power within him.

His hand moved with an eerie fluidity, a swift motion that culminated in a startling eruption—a shower of blood burst forth, each crimson drop pulsating with an intensity that resonated with immense power.

With uncanny precision, every single droplet seemed to be guided by an otherworldly force, each targeting the black-clad figure's vulnerabilities with meticulous accuracy. In their essence, these drops held a deadly potency, a manifestation of the lethal intent that fueled Albert's actions.

Each individual drop, infused with the power to end a human life, became a harbinger of destruction as they hurtled through the air.

As the droplets of blood reached the bone-masked figure, his image suddenly shattered into thousands of mirror fragments, quickly converging behind Albert while carrying a long-sword made of bones.

In a display of menacing precision, the converged form of the bone sword swiftly materialized behind Albert, guided by an uncanny accuracy that showed the skills of a Weapons Master Beyonder.

With an eerie grace, the bone sword sliced through Albert's flesh, its movement executed with a chilling exactness that spoke of an unmatched mastery over its wielder's intent.

As the confrontation raged on, Alfred's altered appearance reverted back to its original form. Another illusory door materialized before him, a pathway to an enigmatic realm beyond the immediate confines of the cabin.

Yet, before Alfred could step through the threshold of the illusory door, a sinister turn of events unfolded. From within the doorway, a multitude of pale white arms emerged, like ghostly appendages reaching out from the Spirit World itself.

These spectral limbs, seeming to transcend the boundaries of existence, appeared to materialize by the command of an unseen force.

Amidst the chaos and conflict, Albert's attempt to close the illusory door was interrupted in a most unexpected manner. The spectral arms, their pale white forms an eerie contrast to the shadows that danced around them, constricted around him with an otherworldly grip.

As if manipulated by an unseen force, his limbs began to twist and contort in uncanny angles, an unsettling dance of manipulation that mirrored the capricious whims of a child's plaything.

The once-potent Shepherd powers that had defined Albert's presence were suddenly rendered impotent as if afflicted by a haunting curse cast directly by using his blood as a medium.

The abilities that had once marked his prowess and authority were now shackled, a manifestation of a force that defied his control and mastery.

Amidst the swirling currents of power, the black-clad figure's voice resonated once again. Their words, tinged with a chilling apathy and a touch of dark irony, cut through the tension-laden atmosphere like a blade.

"How unfortunate for you, little Oracle, leaving your blood for me to use." the black-clad figure intoned, its tone echoing with an eerie chill that seemed even colder when seeing him hold one of the previous droplets of blood in his curse-imbued palm.

The words held a malevolent weight, a reminder of the irreversible transformation that had befallen Albert. Their voice, despite its apparent femininity, bore an undercurrent of frigid detachment that sent shivers down the spine.

As he was held by the pale arms coming from the illusory door he himself opened, Albert tried to recite the name of his lord, "The Lord that Created Everything;

The Lord who Reigns Behind the Curtain of Shadows;

The Degenerate-"

However, before he could continue, his plea was abruptly silenced as the slimy dark-green scales of the immense serpent coiled around his mouth, effectively quelling his invocation.

"Come on, Albert- Or better yet, Mr. T. There's no reason to call that entity here, not that I think "He" cares about your pleas, but who knows." The black-clad figure calmly walked up to "Albert", who was called Mr. T.

As the masked figure came to his side, they unveiled a dark-red tarot card—an object that bore a sinister weight and significance.

The card's front bore an ominous depiction, a demonic figure surrounded by flames and the visage of demons. Seated upon a throne constructed from bones and blood, the figure possessed the face of a goat, crowned with massive horns that spoke of a malevolent presence.

This depiction—the work of Roselle Gustav—was none other than The Devil, a symbol of terror and sin that reached deep into the darkest corners of the human psyche.

The image within the tarot card encapsulated an aura of foreboding, an emblem of malevolence and forbidden knowledge that resonated with an enigmatic power. The cabin's atmosphere seemed to shift, as though the very fabric of reality had been touched by this depiction of terror, leaving all present to grapple with the ominous implications of its existence.

With an eerie radiance, the dark-red tarot card pulsed with a malevolent energy, its surface aglow with a sinister hue. The visage of The Devil depicted on the card seemed to come to life, its eyes opening to reveal a chilling glow that echoed the depths of darkness and despair.

As the figure of The Devil conjured its power, a potent curse began to take shape—a manifestation of the dark forces at play. From within Mr. T, the echoes of five distinct souls emerged, each entity revealing itself anew. Among them were:

A Prometheus; a Marionettist; a Reaper; a Traveller; And a Demoness of Affliction.

As the five souls appeared, their existences coalesced into different organs and gems that brightly shone, which soon enough separated into many different points of light, save for the Prometheus, which kept the same form.

With these points of light separating from each other, all but four of them flew towards the black-clad figure, who gladly took them for himself, transforming his body from their power.

Amidst the unfolding shine, one of the points of light reached its culmination, converging upon the black-clad figure's form. As if guided by an unseen force, the bone mask that had shrouded the figure finally relented, separating into two distinct halves.

Beneath the mask, a visage emerged—a beautiful young woman's countenance, with cold dark green eyes, red lips, defined bone structure, and lustrous hair, she was an embodiment of allure that could enchant both men and women alike.

Yet, the beauty was ephemeral, the features swiftly contorting in strange angles that betrayed an uncanny transformation.

What had been a captivating facade shifted, losing its feminine grace to reveal the masculine features of a young man. His dark green demonic eyes held an unflinching frigidity, a gaze that regarded the world from the apex of a pedestal.

Around him, dark flames infused with eerie green hues danced in reverence, as if in homage to a supremely powerful being. The figure's countenance exuded an arrogance beyond the scope of humanity, a malevolence more profound than any devil, and a beauty that surpassed even the loftiest of angels.

His form was bathed in the consuming embrace of the dark green flames, much like Mr. T's own being, which was devoured by the flames in devilish allure.

Victor, his ability to move restored but his freedom restrained by the entity's presence, watched this scene unfold with eyes wide in terror.

As the black-clad figure extended arms to the sky, a chilling gaze turned to Victor, the intensity enough to evoke both fear and an unsettling pleasure.

Victor's resolve wavered under the weight of this entity's gaze—a presence that loomed above all he had ever known, demanding nothing less than subservience.

In the face of this overpowering force, Victor's resistance crumbled. His gaze fell to the wooden floor, his body sinking into a submissive posture, knees touching the tapestry below. The dark glamour of the entity before him commanded an obedience that defied resistance.

A porcelain-like hand extended toward him, black fingernails evoking the claws of a beast, holding a promise tinged with demonic allure.

Surrounded by the dance of dark green flames, the entity, encircled by a colossal serpent, issued a decree—a command that resonated with malevolence and beauty. "From now on, you'll be my second servant."

Victor's heart surged with unwavering loyalty, a bond forged from the depths of his soul and blood, even a name and title had already surfaced in his mind:

"Yes! Lord Edwards! YES!!! Lord Devil!"