A man strode through the marble corridors of the castle, his boots clacking against the floor like a ticking clock that demanded attention. His hair was short and spiky, silver with a faint glint of blue under the torchlight. Bright purple eyes glimmered behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. His skin was tanned and weathered, his jawline sharp, his face marked by a single wedge-like scar that ran across his left cheek — a souvenir from some holy war long past.
He wore a long purple cassock overcoat over a pitch-black cassock with a clerical collar. A golden cross hung around his neck, gleaming with each confident step. White gloves tinted faintly blue covered his hands. The air around him smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and holy oil.
He pushed open the great doors to the council chamber.
Inside sat nobles, scholars, and healers, the air thick with candle smoke and paranoia. At the head of the long oak table sat Gunlaug.
Gunlaug lifted his gaze. "Alexander Anderson," he said slowly, "how did your crusade go?"
Anderson grinned wide, his Irish accent cutting through the stale air like a blade.
"Very well, Father O'Mally O'Connell O'Carrol O'Reilly O'Brian O'Sullivan O'Gunlaug, who just so happens to be the bright king of this fine castle — though we both know there is only one Lord. Our Lord and Savior — the Sun God."
Half the table groaned.
Murmurs followed, whispered curses slipping from under their breath.
"Why couldn't he have stayed gone longer?"
"Preaching again… always preaching."
"He worships a dead god—"
A silver dagger whistled through the air.
It missed by an inch, slicing the man's ear and a strip of his hair clean off before embedding itself in the wall.
Anderson's smile widened. "Was that a bloody heretic I heard? Anyone else wish to insult our Lord in my presence?"
The wounded man clutched his ear, trembling. Gunlaug raised a hand before another dagger could fly.
"Enough, Anderson. Sit."
Anderson sat, still smiling.
A scholar stood next — thin, pale, with brown hair tied back and a monocle gleaming in the candlelight. His hands trembled slightly as he spoke.
"Th-the next issue concerns a… new type of nightmare creature," he said, tapping his monocle. A projection flickered across the wall — corpses impaled outside the castle. Monsters and men alike, drained of blood, their heads mounted like trophies.
"This creature appears intelligent," he continued, "and every night for five months, a new group of them appear at the outskirts. By morning, they're dead — all of them, beheaded and impaled. Drained dry."
Anderson chuckled, low and eager.
"A bloody undead, then. Wonderful. I shall send it to meet the Sun myself."
"Please don't," the scholar whispered, before clearing his throat and adjusting his papers.
"We've given it several names. Butcher of the Dark City is the one most commonly used."
Blood rained softly from above, a mist of red drifting through the air like dust motes. In the ruins beneath the black walls, a beast snarled.
The Blood Beast lunged, claws flashing, and tore into a nightmare creature's throat. Its victim's body convulsed before collapsing, its blood sucked out in seconds. Another creature lunged — faster, smarter — but it didn't get far.
A blur of motion.
Arrows made of blood exploded from the shadows, whistling through the air with impossible speed. They pierced the monster's eyes, shoulders, and knees in a single heartbeat, pinning it to the ground.
The shooter stepped into the moonlight.
A man clad in dark, vein-like armor that pulsed faintly with shadow's. His movements were deliberate — too smooth, too silent. He drew back his crossbow — a weapon of bone and black steel — and fired again.
Each arrow melted into red mist as soon as it left the bowstring, only to reform mid-flight, splitting into several projectiles.
The nightmare creature shrieked, black ichor spraying as it collapsed.
The man lowered the crossbow and clenched his fist. The blood on the ground quivered, gathering into a sphere around the surviving monsters — a blood bubble, thick and trembling. Then, with a flick of his wrist, it burst.
A red explosion engulfed the creatures, shredding flesh and bone in an instant.
The Blood Beast howled triumphantly.
"Good boy," the butcher said, patting the creature's slick hide. Its body pulsed with veins of crimson light as it wagged its tail like a loyal hound. "Now let's harvest the goods."
He walked among the corpses, boots splashing in shallow puddles of blood. He lifted soul shards, the glow reflecting in his pale red eyes. Crushing them in his hands, he inhaled as the power flowed into his veins.
This was the Butcher of the Dark City
Or in other words
me.
I carried three of the corpses myself, while Beast dragged five, its claws scraping the stone.
The path led to my base — an ancient cathedral half-consumed by the dark.
The stained-glass windows were long shattered, the saints' faces eaten by decay. A gaping hole in the roof let the moonlight in, cutting through the darkness like a blade.
I climbed up the side with ease, landing silently on the broken spire, then dropped through the opening into my private sanctum.
Piles of heads greeted me — nightmare creatures mostly, a few human ones mixed in. All of them drained dry, their faces frozen in fear.
I went to work methodically — decapitating the new corpses, tossing their heads onto the growing pile, and draining their blood into the pit below. The pit bubbled faintly, thick and endless, the liquid crimson reflecting faint moonlight.
With a lazy gesture, I pulled blood from the pit, shaping it into a bottle and taking a long drink.
"Ahhh… sweet, sweet blood."
For a moment, I almost felt human again.
Almost.
The corpses were mounted on spikes along the outer wall — a warning, a ritual, a habit. I used to leave them lying around, until scavengers started selling them to the Host for shard's. Now I let my handmaidens handle the cleanup and trade.
Beast growled softly behind me, sensing something — movement near the upper levels. I smirked.
"Go place the corpses where you like," I said, leaping up onto a shattered pillar. "I have a visit to make."
I climbed the ruined walls, silent as a shadow, until I reached a high window of the castle.
The light inside flickered warmly.
I crouched by the edge, my reflection missing from the window almost like a monster staring at a world that had already moved on without him.
I waited, half in the dark, half in the light.
Then, with a small smirk, I whispered through the glass —
"Hi."