Bloody Odyssey

Chapter 94 94: The Beginning

Ha!

Ha!

Ha!

Sir Jacob's chest heaved as he fled through the narrow alleys, his legs burning, his lungs screaming. The inn was far behind him now—but the terror followed.

Monster!

He stumbled and kept running.

At first, I thought I was mad when I suddenly couldn't hear my own voice.

The memory clawed at him. The inn. The young lord. The guards frozen in place like statues. Alfonzo—that kind young man—writhing on the floor while his eyes cracked.

Then I witnessed it.

He turned a corner. The alley was dark, lit only by a single lantern hanging from a rusted hook.

That is not normal. No, no.

His feet hurried through the narrow passage, splashing through puddles that reflected the bruised sky above.

Crack.

Crack.

He stopped.

Before him, a figure crouched in the shadows. Blood covered its face, its hands, its clothes. Its mouth was busy—munching—on something that looked like a leg.

Sir Jacob fell onto his behind.

The sound alerted the figure.

Real fear washed over him then. Cold and deep. The kind of fear that made a man's bowels loosen and his thoughts scatter.

I just wanted an honest life.

The figure before him shifted. The blood seemed to melt away, the twisted features softening, reforming. In the span of a breath, the monster was gone—leaving behind the image of a lifeless body.

Sir Jacob pushed himself backward across the wet cobblestones, his palms scraping, his heart hammering.

"Ahh!"

He screamed—then instantly clamped a hand over his mouth.

To his left, he heard another sound.

He trembled, turning his head, his heart skipping beats.

A child.

A little boy stood at the mouth of the alley, his eyes utterly broken—empty, hollow, the kind of emptiness that came from seeing something that should not be seen.

Sir Jacob's throat tightened.

My lord… don't tell me that child witnessed this.

He looked at the boy's face. At those dead eyes. At the small, trembling hands.

Something in the fat man's chest cracked—not his bones, but his heart. He was a father. He had a child of his own, somewhere, dreaming of crafting school.

He couldn't abandon this boy.

"If I return to the inn with this child…" He pushed himself to his feet. "We should be safe."

He moved toward the boy. The child didn't react—just stood there, feet dragging as if they were made of stone.

This boy can't move well. It must be because of what he witnessed.

Sir Jacob knelt. His knees popped. His belly pressed against his thighs. But he reached out and took the child's hand.

"Child, don't worry. This uncle will keep you safe."

He lifted the little boy into his arms. The weight was lighter than it should have been—much lighter. But Sir Jacob didn't notice. He was already moving, already hurrying back toward the inn, already thinking of safety and the Godfalls waiting there.

Minutes away from my inn.

He was so close. He could see the lanterns. Could hear the faint murmur of voices.

Then the child's hand pierced into his chest.

Digging.

Searching for his heart.

Sir Jacob's eyes widened. His mouth opened. No sound came out.

The child laughed. Its form shifted, melting into the shape of a woman.

She held Sir Jacob's terrified face close to hers, her breath warm against his cheek.

"Stupid man." Her voice was soft. Almost kind. "You could have saved yourself. But…" She tilted her head. "If not for sentiment."

Why?

The word formed on his lips. But it died before it could escape.

The woman's hand was still in his chest. She moved her fingers, and he felt something grip.

"Do I need a reason?"

She smiled.

"I ate that child this afternoon. And the mother at night." She licked her lips. "But she was nothing comparable to that little boy." Her expression was disappointed.

Her face shifted again, becoming his face. Sir Jacob stared into his own eyes—saw the coldness there, the hunger, the absence of anything human.

"Don't blame this on me. Blame your soft heart." His own voice mocked him. "You died of your own volition. You had no strength. And you decided to help a child."

Rebecca.

At the moment of his death, Sir Jacob could only see her—his wife. The woman he had wanted to retire with. The woman he had dreamed of growing old beside.

With my new fortune… we could have…

The killer ripped his heart from his chest.

Raising it to the sky.

"Such emotions." The killer's voice was reverent, filled with worship. "It is complete."

In his palm, three hearts burned—each one pulsating with a different color, each one carrying the weight of a life taken. Emotions crystallized into offering.

Three hearts burning with emotion. An offering to the Blood God.

"Grant me thy blessing, as you littered the first world—Damascus—in blood."

He drew a knife across his eyes.

The killer trembled in Sir Jacob's form.

His eyes were empty. Revealing empty eye sockets.

He bit into Sir Jacob's heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Closed his eyelids like a man savoring a meal. But this was no meal—this was digestion of memories.

The essence of the man whose face he wore.

"Ahh!"

"Ahhh!!"

His voice dragged like one oppressed by demons—low, guttural, not entirely human.

"The lord has blessed me with the offering of approval."

He opened his eyes. Worms crawled across them—pale, writhing, healing. The wounds closed. The blindness lifted.

I know now why you separated me from the others.

He smiled.

In his palm, the half-eaten heart had transformed. Thorns sprouted from its surface, curling around his fingers, embedding themselves in his skin. A seed. Dark. Pulsing.

"I will not fail my lord's trust."

The killer entered the inn.

Wearing Jacob's appearance, he displayed a hesitant, nervous smile. He had inherited enough of the man's memories to pass—for a little while, at least.

The Godfall guards were scattered across the main room. Some sat at tables. Others leaned against the walls. All of them looked tired.

The killer's gaze swept across them.

Rank fours.

He was not surprised. The ritual had prepared him for this.

Then his eyes fell on Dax.

Red eyes.

The killer's heart—Jacob's heart—skipped a beat. Something cold ran down his spine. But he was used to this. Used to the fear that came from standing before things like this. Still, he couldn't quite grasp why this one felt different.

Calm. Be calm. He doesn't know.

He moved toward the stairs.

Madeka's eyes followed him.

Through the reflection of her broken mirror—invisible, subtle—she saw something wrong. A flicker. A shadow that did not match the body casting it.

She tugged on Dax's sleeve.

"I know."

Dax smiled.

The killer felt that smile on his back like a blade between his shoulder blades.

He did not turn around. Did not quicken his pace. He climbed the stairs slowly, casually, the way Sir Jacob would have climbed them after a long day of work.

I see the strongest here is a rank seven master.

He remembered Nadia's graceful figure.

A mage at that.

He laughed inwardly.

But I don't know why that red-eyed one gives me the creeps, but…

He reached the top of the stairs.

I will kill them all here. Then catch up with the others.

He thought of the white-haired children and how badly he wanted to eat them. Their soft flesh. Their sweet blood. This killer was the 5th Apostle of Blood.

Those lovely white-haired children. I wonder if these will taste as good as that brat.

He put two fingers into his mouth, sucking on them.

Then his eyes began to tear up.

Uncontrollably. Violently. Like invisible knives were grating across them.

He touched his face. His fingers came away wet.

What—

Flashes. Images of what was to come.

My god… I—

He didn't finish the thought.

A figure appeared behind him.

Pale. Slender. Wearing armor that moved like skin.

A pale finger with long nails pointed at his head.

Bang.

His head was gone.

Alfonzo stood beside the headless corpse.

His face showed no emotion, nor disgust. He was simply… there. A six-foot figure in a bio-suit, his skin pale as bone, his eyes the color of the gun that had changed him.

Without a word, he returned downstairs.

Kneeling before Dax.

"I shot him in the head, like you ordered."

The Godfall guards stared.

Their mouths hung open. Their hands hovered over weapons they had not drawn.

"Is that really Alfonzo?" one of the younger guards whispered.

No one answered.

The old man—the Scared Wolf—broke the silence.

"You're not asking the right question."

His eyes were fixed on Dax.

"The question should be… why did he decide to kill Sir Jacob?"

The other guards turned to him.

He had expected change from Alfonzo—the weapon, the transformation, the new power. But the suddenness of it…

He looked at Dax's all-knowing expression.