The Vecronomicon.
A book of immeasurable power and limited use cases.
For fuck's sake. I hate this godsforsaken tome. The most powerful catalyst there is, yet using it comes at a cost to the user.
How did I forget about this tome's existence?
Surely Kindread had something to do with it, that bastard.
Now that the tome has been officially rediscovered, it currently sits on the desk of the Divine Tree. I stare at the cover. The face is almosttoo peaceful. It creeps me out.
Ren and I plan on reading it cover to cover, leaving no page unturned.
There has to be something in here to undo the Red Death.
I just know it.
Note written by Whisperer Firedeath around 2,500 years ago.
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Anastasia complained loudly to a room full of servants.
"This is unbelievable."
A particularly short servant with a twirling mustache addressed the woman.
"What is, Young Mistress?"
"That Chosen One thinks she is so much better than me. I even let her hit me, and know what? Didn't even hurt. She couldn't even cast at the Meeting of the Chosen. Now she's fucking my ex-boyfriend." Anastasia let out an irritated grunt. "Her and that Bloody bitch."
Anastasia stomped around the room as several servants quickly followed behind her, pampering her as she paced.
"No one matches your ability, Young Mistress," the servant said boredly.
"I know no one is better than me," she hissed. "Ugh, that bitch, I fucking hate her smug face. 'Don't wear it out.' What a fucking idiotic, childish thing to say. What is she? Fifty-five?"
"Why are you involving yourself with the trash on Keceo? We are part of the greatest family of them all, the Sylivian's, Demeteor's, and Kosmairian's are pathetic excuses of inbred lesser beings fighting a war they cannot win."
"I am well aware of what they are to us, Reginald," she hissed.
"Ma'am, you are getting yourself in a fuss over nothing." Reginald continued. "This Gwynevere Grim will start the next semester soon."
"What about it? That's another thing that pisses me off: how is she learning magic so quickly? I thought she was a talentless freak." Anastasia clicked her tongue. "Probably that stupid idiot Artero is teaching her magic. You know if it wasn't for me, he wouldn't be half as talented as he is now."
The thought of Artero being shirtless and teaching Gwyn how to wield magic sent Anastasia into a fury. She knew he'd probably wrapped his muscular arms around the Chosen One, caressing her body.
"That ugly... stupid!"
She cast a wind blade spell and sliced a decorative vase in half, both halves slowly separating from themselves before crashing to the floor into fragments.
"I just want to kick her fucking ass," Anastasia said.
"Young Mistress, you know about the protection your father put on her," Reginald reminded. "You can't kill her."
"Obviously. I know that," she said as if telling things she already knew was an insult to her very being.
A different servant tried to cross the last braid in her hair perfectly, but it was quite difficult with Anastasia pacing all over the room. When Anastasia came to a sudden stop. The servant accidentally stepped on her shoe, scuffing it slightly.
Anastasia yelped.
"You worthless, lesser being! You know if it wasn't for my family, you would be on the streets!"
Anastasia smacked the servant. The young woman recoiled and shrank before her, prostrating herself.
"S-sorry, Young Mistress," The servant said to the floor.
"Did I give you permission to speak?" Anastasia lifted her foot. "Look, you've scuffed up my shoe. Fix it."
She dug the heel into the hand of the servant.
"I c-can't, I don't have m-magic," the woman pleaded.
Anastasia just kicked her in the head, then stood back, crossing her arms, looking down on the young servant.
"Reginald?"
"Yes, Young Mistress."
"Did I give this pathetic worm permission to speak?"
"I do not recall."
"That's interesting because what I had just said was not to say anything to me. But what did she just do, Reginald?"
"She spoke to you, Young Mistress."
"That's soooooo interesting."
Anastasia kneeled before the servant, who was holding back tears.
"Please… my daughter…" The young woman pleaded.
Anastasia stood above the servant.
"Reginald."
"Yes, Young Mistress?"
"What do we do with trash that won't listen?"
"We take them out, Young Mistress."
Anastasia proceeded to stomp on the young woman's hand over and over again. At the same time, Anastasia was using strength enhancements on herself to make the task easier, so as not to tire herself out.
Anastasia continued until the squishing of the servant's soft tissue became a click of her heel on the floor. When the hole was sufficiently circular, she stopped. The young servant gritted her teeth and tried not to cry.
"Show me your hand," Anastasia said plainly, as if she were speaking to a child.
The young servant raised a trembling hand before the elf. She could see the servant's face through the hole she tore through her as the blood traced down her arm.
"Now what did we learn today?"
"That—" But when the servant spoke, Anastasia raised her eyebrows, then she went silent, and Anastasia wore a smug smile.
"You have permission to speak, worm."
"T-that I do not s-speak without permission."
"Good." Anastasia turned to her favorite servant. "Reginald."
"Yes, Young Mistress."
"See to it that this one doesn't get any healing. Let it be a reminder of what happens if you speak out of turn. Still, I can't have her bleeding everywhere. Let it be a testament to my kindness that the wound is at least closed. Make sure her worthless blood doesn't continue to stain our flooring, will you?"
"Right away, Young Mistress."
Reginald then ordered two other servants to pick up the young woman and carry her off. He followed close behind.
"The rest of you are dismissed, fucking worthless nomages." The rest wordlessly stepped from the room as all that remained was Anastasia and the pool of blood left over from her assault on the young servant.
What Reginald had said was filled with wisdom. Although killing the new Chosen One would be rather easy, she was not allowed to do so.
She couldn't kill Gwynevere. Maybe what she had just done may have proven quite relevant to her predicament. Maybe it wasn't about ending her life, just making it as miserable as possible.