The one who looked like Shinjiro was Shinjiro himself but not quite.

  8th January 1376. It was the same day when Shun killed his father.

  Lennox, The Royal Capital.

  The city was a marvel, the people were mostly royals in the inner region. A medieval city. It looked bright but there was darkness hiding beneath it. A cult who was directly connected with the royal family used the underground tunnels. They say their purpose is to bring peace to the world.

  The underground tunnels were suffocating, thick with the stench of damp earth, burning incense, and something metallic—blood. The flickering torches barely held back the darkness, their weak flames casting distorted shadows that twisted and crawled across the jagged stone walls.

  The cultists stood in a circle, their robes tattered, stained with old rituals and forgotten sins. Hands interlocked, they swayed slightly, chanting in a tongue that no ordinary man could comprehend. Their voices droned in unison, each syllable scratching against reality like an unnatural echo. In the center of their formation, a man sat bound—his wrists raw from the restraints, his mouth gagged to muffle his screams.

  His body trembled violently. His chest rose and fell too fast, panic overriding reason. He knew what came next.

  A cultist stepped forward, the leader, his hood concealing all but his lips—thin, cracked, and twisted into something that was almost a smile.

  The chanting grew louder. The walls seemed to pulse, the very air pressing in on them. The bound man shuddered violently, his pupils dilating as an unseen force clawed at his soul. A sickening, wet sound followed. Blood seeped from his eyes. It ran down his cheeks, thin streams of red against his pale, contorted face. His body jerked once more—then went limp. The ritual had failed. Again.

  Cultist 1: We failed again.

  The leader stepped forward, crouching near the corpse. He studied the lifeless body, unbothered by the blood pooling beneath it. His fingers traced the man's forehead, feeling the remnants of energy that had come and gone too quickly.

  A loud crack echoed through the tunnel, cutting through the murmured disappointment. Something—someone—fell from thin air, landing with a sickening thud. The cultists recoiled, their voices falling into hushed uncertainty.

  Cultist 2: Transportation spell?

  One of them gasped, eyes widening in recognition.

  Shun!!

  Before the boy could react, a cultist moved faster than thought, striking him across the temple. Darkness swallowed him whole.

  The leader approached the unconscious figure, his presence cold and calculated.

  Cultist 1: What should we do about this, Cult Leader?

  He stared at the boy, his mind already moving three steps ahead. The ritual had failed—but something else had been delivered to them. Something that shouldn’t have been here.

  Cult Leader: This is a gift from God. Tie him up.

  Shinjiro was dragged into the center of the circle, his wrists bound tightly with rough rope. The cultists chanted once more, the dim glow of their spell casting eerie patterns across the damp floor.

  Shinjiro stirred. His head pounded. The world felt wrong. The air was thick, almost suffocating, pressing down on his chest. He could hear the muffled voices, the whispers threading through his mind like a thousand creeping vines.

  He opened his eyes, vision swimming in and out of focus.

  A brilliant light flared above him—then collapsed. Darkness swallowed everything. His breath hitched.

  Cultist 2: His face changed!

  A ripple of unease passed through the group. The leader frowned, stepping closer.

  Cult Leader: That does not happen.

  A cold dread settled over the cultists as they studied the unconscious boy. It wasn’t just the ritual that had gone wrong. Something ancient had stirred.

  The soul is transferred without the body, but for the face to change—this was unheard of. The cult had spent years attempting to pull the souls of the dead from another world, but every time, only remnants of consciousness came through.

  One of the older cultists stepped forward, voice trembling.

  Old Cultist: I remember the last time it happened… It was V…l…

  His breath hitched. He staggered back, his face draining of all color.

  Old Cultist: Vulcan!

  His body collapsed, shaking. The room erupted into panic.

  Cultist 2: Another like him?!

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The leader did not flinch. If the others were frightened, then good. Fear meant obedience.

  Cult Leader: No. I have prepared something in case this happens.

  Cultist 1: What?

  Cult Leader: Memory transfer.

  The murmurs grew louder.

  Cult Leader: The human we use for the ritual does not die. His soul merges with the otherworldly soul.

  Cultist 2: Like a deviant?

  Cult Leader: Yes. But we will seal the otherworldly soul’s memory and transfer the real person’s memories back.

  The ritual began again. It lasted eighteen hours.

  The cultists stood unmoving, their voices hoarse, their bodies drained. No food. No water. Only the will of their god keeping them upright.

  And then—a mistake.

  Cultist 1: There is a problem.

  The leader, exhausted yet unwavering, barely turned his head.

  Cult Leader: What?

  Cultist 1: The old man collapsed… and so did a few others. The spell was interrupted. The memory transfer is complete, but the seal is weak.

  A pause.

  Cult Leader: Meaning?

  Cultist 1: The otherworldly soul’s memory will return. The seal will break.

  A heavy silence. Then—a sigh.

  Cult Leader: We can’t have that. Looks like we failed again.

  Cultist 1: What should we do then?

  Cult Leader: Kill this human.

  Shinjiro lay still. Unmoving. Breathing, but barely. A cultist stepped forward, blade in hand, gripping the hilt with silent conviction.

  Shinjiro’s eyes fluttered open. The first thing he saw was a blade aimed straight for his heart.

  Shinjiro: Where… am I?

  Cultist 1: Hell. Die!

  The cultist drove the sword downward—

  A blinding light flared.

  The cultists cried out, shielding their eyes. The tunnel shook, the torches flickering wildly as if caught in a storm.

  Cult Leader: What’s happening?! I can’t see!

  The glow faded. Silence.

  Cult Leader: Where is he?

  Cultist 1: He’s… gone. But I stabbed him.

  The leader’s lips curled downward.

  Cult Leader: Did you pierce his heart?

  Cultist 1: I missed…

  The leader turned, his gaze falling on a nearby cultist.

  Cult Leader: Your name?

  Cultist 1: N-Nathan.

  Cult Leader: Have you ever killed anyone, Nathan?

  Cultist 1: N-no.

  The leader’s expression did not change.

  Cult Leader: Glutton. Kill Nathan.

  Nathan barely had time to beg before the towering mass of a man stepped forward. Glutton was a monster of flesh and steel, standing seven feet tall, his body rippling with unnatural muscle.

  Nathan screamed. His pleas were drowned by the sickening crunch of bone. Blood splattered against the stone floor.

  Glutton: Where are you going?

  Eric, the cult leader, turned toward the tunnel’s exit.

  Cult Leader: To the royals. We need to find the boy.

  Shinjiro was found on the outskirts of Lennox, unconscious but alive. He could not be legally executed without proof of his crimes.

  Hirako found him. Helped him. Brought him to the Aetherblades.

  It was Shinjiro’s body. His memories. But the person inside him was different. The only one who could tell? Shun.

  And he did.

  Now back to the present after Shinjiro’s trial. The trial was over, but something far worse had just begun.

  Scene: Priest Patrick’s house.

  The house stood in near darkness, the faint glow of candlelight barely pushing against the shadows. The air inside was thick—not just with the scent of old parchment and incense, but with fear itself.

  Patrick’s hands shook as he closed the door behind him, the wooden latch clicking into place. His breaths came fast, shallow. He was running out of time. The trial had failed. The boy had survived. And now, Patrick knew exactly what came next.

  His legs felt weak beneath him, but he forced himself forward, mind racing. I have to leave. Now. Tonight.

  But he was not alone.

  A slow clap echoed from the corner of the room, the sound unnervingly calm. Patrick froze, every muscle in his body locking into place. He didn’t need to turn around to know who was sitting there.

  Damian: I was waiting for you.

  Patrick turned, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. Damian sat comfortably in the old wooden chair, his dark cloak draped over one shoulder, a gloved hand resting against his temple. He looked at ease—too at ease.

  Patrick swallowed hard.

  Patrick: How did you come inside?

  Damian: (leans forward slightly) How did you fail?

  Patrick took a step back. There was no point in lying. He had seen the look in Damian’s eyes before—the kind of look a man gave right before he decided you no longer needed to exist.

  Patrick: The boy knew how my spell worked. That’s the only explanation.

  Damian exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

  Damian: You have brought great shame upon me.

  Patrick’s throat tightened.

  Patrick: I am sorry.

  Damian’s fingers twitched. The wooden cup in his hand shattered, pieces of ceramic scattering across the floor. His voice was even, but the rage beneath it was unmistakable.

  Damian: How could you be outsmarted by a child?

  Patrick flinched but kept his composure.

  Patrick: I do not know, sir. Please! I will help you.

  Damian: (coldly) You can’t help me anymore. You are useless.

  Patrick: I have a family.

  Damian finally looked at him directly.

  Damian: Where are they?

  Patrick’s breath hitched. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

  Patrick: Lennox.

  A small, cruel smile tugged at Damian’s lips.

  Damian: (mocking) You really are stupid.

  Patrick realized his mistake too late. His knees nearly buckled.

  Patrick: No!! Please!! (grabs Damian’s foot)

  Patrick: Don’t do anything to me! My family!

  Damian: (brushing him off) I won’t. But he will.

  From the shadows, a massive figure stirred.

  The room’s candlelight flickered as Glutton stepped forward—seven feet of raw muscle, his body a grotesque monument of strength. The air seemed to grow heavier with every step he took.

  Patrick scrambled back, his hands gripping the floor beneath him.

  Patrick: Nooo! Please!

  Glutton moved without hesitation.

  His hand lashed out, wrapping around Patrick’s throat like an iron vice. Patrick gasped, feet kicking uselessly against the wooden floor as he was lifted off the ground.

  His vision blurred, the pressure crushing his windpipe, the world tilting around him.

  Then, the pain came.

  Glutton’s thick fingers dug into Patrick’s eye sockets.

  Patrick: Arghhhhhhhhhhhh!!

  His screams were high-pitched, raw. Wet sounds filled the room as his eyes were ripped free. Blood gushed down his face, drenching his robe in crimson.

  He twisted, convulsed, arms flailing weakly.

  Glutton didn’t stop.

  With a single crushing movement, Patrick’s skull caved in.

  The sickening crack echoed through the room as bone fragments splintered beneath Glutton’s grip. Patrick’s body twitched once. Then fell still.

  Glutton let the corpse drop to the floor like discarded waste. Blood pooled beneath it, seeping between the floorboards.

  With eerie precision, Glutton ripped the limbs apart. His massive hands worked methodically, tearing through flesh and sinew as easily as breaking bread. The lifeless hands. The legs. The remains stuffed into a sack.

  A perfect cleanup.

  Damian watched without expression.

  When it was done, he stood, brushing a speck of dust from his coat.

  Damian: Burn the house.

  Glutton did not question. He drenched the walls in oil, the scent of it mixing with the coppery stench of blood.

  As Damian stepped outside, fire erupted behind him, swallowing the house in moments.

  The flames reflected in his crimson eyes.

  The last trace of Patrick—erased from history.