"Burn the corrupted!"
Before me, men with black, bulging veins were dragged through the mud, their faces twisted in terror, stained with blood and tears.
Corrupted... so they said.
Around them, their executioners — soldiers of my family — proudly displayed the Von Kurnotch crest as they carried out the slaughter.
"Burn them! Burn them all!"
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The deep beat of drums mixed with the crowd's fervent cries, hungry for this weekly spectacle.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
"Show no mercy! Man, woman, child, or elder—hang them… BURN THEM!"
The town crier, a scarred man of middle age, bore Eudorian markings carved directly into his flesh. He was my mentor, the Grand Knight of the county — a survivor of countless battles… or perhaps an undead who didn't know he was dead.
The chief executioner of today's massacre. Beside him, soldiers hurled the corrupted into a pit of fire, sentencing them to a slow death. Around the pit, the townsfolk cheered at their suffering.
And me? I stood elevated on a platform of black stone, next to my father. My only family.
I looked away from the grisly scene I had long grown used to, fixing my gaze instead on my father, Count Léopold Von Kurnotch.
A chill ran through me, an involuntary reflex born from the brutal education inflicted by this beast in human skin.
His massive frame rivaled that of a flesh-eater. His face, partially burned and mutilated, bore Eudorian inscriptions fused into blackened, rotting flesh—a testament to a failed ritual from which he'd miraculously survived… or cursed to live.
Once a great warrior in his youth, he fought alongside the emperor in the First Balkan War.
"Father, what crime have they committed?" I asked, moistening my lips.
"Their very existence is a crime," he said coldly, piercing me with his gaze.
"They are the product of a cursed people's corruption, those who came to Vultorian lands."
He spat the words with hatred. A corrupted person has, in their recent lineage, a relative who made a pact and lost control of mind and body, cursing their family with sin.
"They have defiled us in turn, spawning monstrosities ruled by the old gods."
Years of tension between imperials and corrupted had led to purges throughout the empire—purges orchestrated by the conservative faction aiming to weaken the reformists, who supported the emperor and the use of the corrupted.
Indeed, the corrupted were more powerful and possessed a strong affinity for sorcery.
"M-mother… HAAA… p-pity! ARRRRHG–"
The screams of a child burning alive mixed with the crackle of the pyre. Then, suddenly, silence—only the crowd's cheers remained.
The treatment of the corrupted is harsh, no matter their age or gender.
I remained expressionless. My attention stayed fixed on my father's oppressive presence.
That man... I hate him. I hate everything about him: his voice, his gaze, his repulsive body, even his light brown hair—just like my mother's, who died giving birth to me.
I hate his "knightly lessons"… and the scars they left all over my body.
"Turn and watch. See the justice we must inflict on these corrupted. Watch and learn."
He gripped my neck, forcing my eyes back to the scene below.
Children and elders, men and women, all piled on massive pyres, screaming in agony, begging for mercy. This week's execution was especially brutal, like a hellish maw demanding flesh and blood greedily.
My father's grip tightened. He stood, pulling me with him to the balustrade overlooking the fiery pit.
"Look, Frederic! This is the fate those cockroaches deserve!"
Blackened blood stained the walls of the arena. Chained victims awaited their turn like animals led to slaughter—an assembly line of death. The acrid stench of blood, urine, and filth hung heavy, clinging to my clothes like a curse to my indifference.
The sight was as beautiful as it was revolting—a blood-red flower blooming in its last light before withering into ash, earth, and dust.
"...Yes, Father."
Releasing me, he sat back down with a clang of purple-ornamented armor—the color of the imperial elite.
"Everything is ready for your first ritual. It will happen in a week."
My body froze at those words.
My legs stiffened, heart pounding, chills running through me.
My first inscription ritual, in seven days... and I'm only twelve. Cold sweat ran down my forehead.
Inscription rituals are rites of flesh, blood, and pain that grant knights ogre-like strength, orcish resilience, and powers to battle the horrors of this world. They involve costly devices combining sorcery, alchemy, and sacrifice.
Sacrifice of beasts?
No. Humans. Humans slaughtered to fuel the ritual's power.
But none of that matters… no. The real horror is the process itself: mutilating flesh, tearing out veins and organs, flaying skin to replace it with alchemical compounds made from monstrous remains.
I closed my eyes, clenching my fists until they bled.
"Y-yes, Father."
The cries of children calling their mothers echoed on. But it didn't matter to me… I might die in this ritual.
To hell with those noisy cockroaches.
To hell with this ritual.
To hell, to hell!
Why should I suffer? To protect an empire gasping for breath? A dying emperor? To inherit a cursed fief?
To hell with it all!
"You may leave. Prepare yourself properly. I want no weakling as heir."
Léopold spat with disdain, a sneer twisting his lips.
That bastard despises me. I hate him, hate him, hate him!
Blood dripped from my fists onto the ground in small drops.
"… Understood."
I turned away, rage burning inside me, heart pounding, face twisted in anger.
Around this place of death and hatred, vast fields of flowers had blossomed. Blood-red flowers—some small, just a few centimeters tall; others enormous, reaching even my ribcage.
Flowers of blood.