The two of them tumbled through the gate, a chaotic blur of motion.
Blows rained down on their faces in rapid succession—Morder striking with feral intensity, the Flaming Knight answering with scorched steel.
Morder seized the knight by the throat, pinning him with a heavy boot to the abdomen, and pressed down with all his weight until they struck the bottom.
They landed in a space etched with ancient carvings and inscriptions that looked like they had been ripped from primordial myths.
The area was a small cathedral.
Rows of wooden pews were scattered across the floor, but the room was far from empty.
A congregation of people clad in stark white robes that veiled their entire bodies sat in eerie silence.
Near a towering glass window encrusted with diamonds stood a massive stone altar, with a priest positioned between them.
As the dust from their impact swirled, the prayers ceased.
Every head turned toward the altar.
The dust didn't just settle; it was pulled away as if sucked out of the cathedral by an invisible force.
The Flaming Knight stood atop Morder's chest, a small, concentrated flame igniting on his ring finger.
Morder grabbed the knight's ankle, intending to snap the bone.
The knight leaped back just in time, unleashing a wave of roaring fire.
Morder rolled away, spring-boarding off the floor to stand near the silent priest.
"It seems you've wandered into a forbidden sanctuary, boy," the knight said, his voice a dry rasp. "Your death will not be a merciful one."
Morder glanced at the priest and offered a jagged, mocking smirk.
"I'm sorry… but it looks like this place is about to be decorated in red."
The priest stepped back, gesturing with a hand as if giving Morder permission to do his worst.
Morder gripped the hilt of his stolen sword and lunged like a bolt of lightning.
The knight conjured a wall of solid flame, halting the strike, but Morder didn't relent.
He rained down a barrage of heavy, overlapping blows, desperate to shatter the fiery barrier.
Just before the wall broke, the knight dispelled the flames and threw a punch aimed directly at Morder's face.
Morder anticipated the move, driving the blade of his sword straight through the knight's open palm.
"You filthy…" the knight hissed.
Morder yanked him forward and delivered a bone-shattering backhand that sent the knight crashing through the pews.
The knight's hand was a shredded mess, blood pouring from the wound.
He struggled to find his footing.
Morder moved in for the execution, swinging for the neck.
With desperate reflex, the knight grabbed a nearby corpse to use as a grisly shield, blunting the impact.
He then spun behind Morder, seizing his waist and slamming him into the floor with enough force to make the entire cathedral shudder.
Morder lay pinned, gasping for air.
The knight stood over him, panting, clutching his mangled hand.
But something strange was happening—the knight's blood wasn't dripping to the floor.
It was suspended in the air, swirling like stars in a dark nebula.
'What in the hell is this?' Morder wondered.
He looked up, but Morder wasn't on the floor anymore.
He was standing directly behind the knight, grinding his teeth in a blind fury.
"We aren't finished yet, Knight."
With a burst of speed, Morder drove the sword through the knight's back.
He didn't let go; he charged forward like a rocket, dragging the knight through the cathedral and destroying everything in their path.
Even the priest had to dodge the shrapnel of the charge.
"Do you really think I'll lose to a slave? Arrogance!"
The knight's flaming hand suddenly punched through Morder's stomach.
Morder didn't flinch.
He spat a mouthful of blood, looking down at the hole in his gut with a terrifying smile.
He refused to move, keeping his own sword buried deep in the knight's torso.
"Argh! I won't die! I have a long road ahead of me!"
The knight was in a wretched state—his armor was shattered, his body torn, and blood sprayed from him like a fountain.
Underneath his helmet, more blood began to leak out.
On Morder's neck, the mark pulsed with a violent heat, as if it were screaming to drink.
Suddenly, the magic parchment flickered before Morder's eyes:
[Blood. End the fight… and drink.]
Morder let out a harrowing scream of pain and defiance.
The parchment flashed again, its tone dripping with condescension:
[How do you expect to kill a Demi-God when you cannot even finish a knight?]
It wasn't a question; it was a taunt.
The parchment spoke with a haunting, expressive clarity.
Driven by the insult, Morder wrenched the sword from the knight's gut.
He moved to take the head, but his hands were shaking violently—the blood loss was finally catching up to him.
"Die, you bastard!"
Before Morder could swing, the knight unleashed a blinding, concentrated blast of fire.
A massive explosion rocked the cathedral, filling the air with a thick, suffocating fog of ash and dust.
As the dust began to settle, a horrified cry erupted from one of the white-robed onlookers.
Morder was still standing, but his right arm was gone.
His body was a map of charred flesh and ruined muscle.
Beside him lay the knight—or what was left of him.
It was a headless torso.
The sanctuary had become a slaughterhouse.
Morder wheezed, a shallow, wet sound.
He spat a glob of blood onto the floor and let out a dry, cynical laugh.
He looked at the stump where his arm used to be, then at his blackened, smoking skin.
"What a beautiful smell," he whispered, staring at his own wounds. "The smell of fresh meat."
He tilted his head back, his eyes glazed but victorious.
"Oh… wait. That's my meat. Heh… hahahaha!"
He was in a wretched state—sacrificing his entire body just to take the head of a single knight.
What a bitter irony.
'Fighting this knight was nothing like those brawlers near the tavern…'
Morder began to cough violently, his scorched frame leaking blood from every pore.
As he buckled, the air shimmered with a pale light, and the magic parchment manifested once more.
[You have slain a foe, but at the cost of your entire being.]
[Now, Bloodbound… will you forfeit years of your life to restore your flesh?]
Morder's eyes widened.
He knew every healing demanded a price, but he hadn't expected a toll of multiple years.
"Years?! If I had known, I would have run from that bastard instead of fighting."
He collapsed onto the cold stone, retching up bile and blood.
His charred skin felt as though a thousand knives were flaying him alive.
"It seems I have no choice… Do it."
The parchment tore itself into tiny fragments, drawing the spilled blood from the floor and raining it back down upon him like a crimson mist.
To the onlookers, it looked as though he was simply evaporating into steam.
Slowly, his missing arm began to knit back together.
The blackened, burnt tissue sloughed off, replaced by fresh, healthy skin.
Morder stood up, flexing his restored hand.
Everything was back to normal—at the cost of a decade or more of his lifespan.
"Everything is back to normal… but at what price?"
His voice was thick with contempt; he was far from satisfied with the bargain.
Standing naked amidst the carnage, he glanced at the priest's robes and the fallen knight's armor.
"I need to get dressed before more of these lunatics arrive."
Before he could take a step, the parchment flickered back into view.
[You have lost too much blood in the process of mending yourself. Replenish what was taken.]
The message vanished instantly.
Morder pressed his hand to his face, muttering under his breath.
'That wasn't a suggestion. It was a command.'
He peered through his fingers at the priest, who lay gasping on the floor from his own injuries, then shifted his gaze to the rest of the congregation.
"I think I know how to handle this."
Morder approached the fallen priest, crouching beside him with a thin, unsettling smile.
"Have you come to help me, young man?" the priest wheezed, his breath rattling in his chest.
"Yes."
Without a second thought, Morder swung his blade.
The priest's head rolled across the floor, coming to rest near the knight's corpse.
The congregation erupted into panicked screams, but Morder silenced them with a roar.
"Anyone who screams meets the same fate as the priest. Be silent!"
He stripped the priest's outer layers, donning a long, black leather coat that fastened in the front over a grey shirt.
The right sleeve had been torn away during the struggle, leaving his scarred arm exposed.
"Now… these are decent clothes."
He walked toward the exit, closing the heavy doors slowly before turning back to face the survivors.
He rested the flat of his blade on his shoulder, his expression turning ice-cold.
"Regrettably, this sanctuary will be your grave. None of you are leaving this place alive."
Ignoring their pleas and frantic weeping, he cut them down one by one, moving with mechanical efficiency until he reached the final victim.
She was trembling, clutching a wooden chair as if it were a lifeline.
"We did nothing to you… why are you killing us?"
Morder hesitated.
The simple question pierced through his bloodlust, making him pause for a fleeting moment.
'Why am I doing this? For the blood? I could have hunted knights… but what if I failed? What if I didn't get enough?'
He tried to justify his actions.
There was a sliver of his old self still buried deep inside, but in this world, survival was the only currency.
To hesitate was to die.
Suddenly, the mark on his neck flared.
The blood from the mountain of corpses rose into the air, forming a dark, spectral shadow that surged into Morder's chest.
He cried out, clutching his neck as a searing heat forced him to his knees.
"It… it was never this hot before…"
The parchment flickered once more.
[Blood Essence: Envy.]
[Fragmented Memories: None.]
'Envy? It seems my body took more than it could handle.'
As he struggled to stand, the girl reached out and touched his cheek.
Her voice was surprisingly soft, almost melodic.
"You look tired. What is it that haunts you?"
Morder flinched, stunned by the contact.
He gripped her hand, his mind a whirlpool of confusion.
'What is this… kindness? I haven't felt this since the day I was born. Or is this even kindness? I don't know how to name it.'
He pushed her hand away and walked toward the door.
Just before he stepped out, she spoke again.
"If you want to reach the shards of the Arcane ring, you must take one of the keys kept in the tavern."
Morder turned, his eyes wide with shock.
'The tavern… does she mean that door?'
"You're just a slave," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Why tell me a secret like that?"
"No reason… just because."
Morder smirked and turned toward the exit, heading back toward the tavern.
The girl stood up, watching him go as she surveyed the bloody massacre he had left behind.
"His curse is unique," she whispered, licking her lips as a dark glint entered her eyes. "Blood can heal him of any wound. Mmm… fascinating. Dissecting him is going to be so much fun."