Whispers echoed through the dark, abandoned mausoleum. A circle of figures in black cloaks huddled around an altar, their faces half-lit by flickering candlelight. Shadows clung to the cracked marble walls, swallowing everything except the trembling flames.
At the center lay a girl with black hair spilling like ink across the cold stone. Her skin was pale, almost translucent—her body motionless.
In front of the altar was a small staircase circling it, three steps in all. Around it lay a strange assortment of offerings: pieces of jewelry, the severed head of a pig, fruits and other objects one might use for rituals. At the bottom, drawn on the ground, was a half-finished magic circle—its symbols unreadable, its meaning lost even to those who gathered around it.
One of the cult members began pouring blood from the containers they had brought, letting it spill across the rough edges of the circle they'd clumsily copied from a worn book.
As the man poured, the others—tasked with deciphering the text—started to argue.
"Are you sure you're doing it right?" one muttered.
"Yes. What do you take me for—an idiot like you?"
"What? I never said that."
"Just finish it already, you two," another snapped.
"I'm trying! But I can't understand this part."
"What part?"
"Let me see."
A pause. Pages rustled.
"Hm. Athymía[1]?"
"What's that?"
"I don't know. First time I've seen the word."
"Hey, you three!" someone hissed from the corner. "Is it still not done? What if that girl wakes up?"
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the group. They bent over the ancient book again, tracing the fading ink with trembling fingers. The tome was old, nearly falling apart—its pages torn, its edges blackened with age.
They believed it belonged to their god—the one they called the Evil God. From what they understood, the book would guide them to summon it into this world… to let it pass judgment upon humankind.
Finally, the quietest among them stepped forward. Without a word, she took the book from their shaking hands and began to read the final passage aloud.
"Ho kosmos sos esti geusesthai, kai hē athymia sou akolouthēsei."[2]
Her voice echoed through the mausoleum. For a moment, nothing happened.
The cultists glanced toward the altar, waiting for any sign of change—but the girl on the cold stone remained still. They looked around, even glanced upward, as if something might descend from the ceiling. Nothing. Only silence and the dim flicker of candles.
A minute crawled by. Then a sigh of disappointment broke the stillness.
"I knew it," one of them muttered. "This book's a fake."
"If you knew, then why did you even come?" another shot back.
Voices rose. Someone tried to stop the argument, but no one listened. Soon, everyone was shouting—complaints, curses, frustration echoing off the marble walls.
And then the quiet girl spoke.
"...Hey. Did you hear that?"
Every voice stopped mid-sentence. They froze, listening.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Someone forced a laugh. "It's just water. Don't scare us like that."
But no one believed it. There shouldn't have been any water in a place like this. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
They started gathering their things, muttering about leaving the mausoleum before someone truly lost their mind.
That was when it happened.
A faint glow shimmered in the dark—small, crimson orbs rising from the floor, floating through the air like drops of light. The smell of iron filled the room.
"...Blood?" one of them whispered.
The question barely left his lips before a wet, slicing sound tore through the air.
Something hit the ground with a dull thud.
The red orbs shot forward, sharp as blades, ripping through flesh one after another.
Screams filled the mausoleum. Panic broke loose. Some of them ran toward the door—but before they could reach it, it slammed shut with unnatural force.
The man in front never even got to scream. The door crushed him in an instant—bone and blood bursting in a single, sickening sound.
The girl on the altar stirred. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. She sat up, watching the chaos around her in silence.
Her lips began to curl upward. A smile.
One of the surviving cultists saw her and, trembling, tried to speak.
"P-Praise the—"
He never finished. Blood streamed from his eyes, his body convulsing before he collapsed beside the others.
Still seated on the altar, the girl tilted her head, expression curious. Fragments of the body's memories flickered through her mind, faint and confused. She could guess what had happened, but not quite all of it.
She rose from the altar, stepping lightly across the blood-slick floor. One of the crimson orbs floated down, hovering above a nearby corpse. Then, like a blade, it plunged into the dead man's skull.
A minute later, it emerged—dark, pulsing. Without hesitation, the girl caught the orb and swallowed it whole.
Memories flooded her again, sharp and raw. They weren't hers, but they filled her mind nonetheless. She frowned, her gaze falling on the tattered book the cultists had used for their ritual.
The so-called "book of the Evil God."
She flipped through its pages, lips twitching in something between amusement and pity.
Even newly awakened from a thousand-year slumber, she could tell it was nonsense.
"So this is what they thought would summon an Evil God," she murmured. "At least they got something evil out of it."
A quiet laugh escaped her—low and humorless.
Then something inside her shifted. Her smile faltered. She touched her lips.
Smiling? Me?
Maybe it was this body. This vessel came with traces of emotion still clinging to it, guiding me to react in such ways.
But ultimately, she didn't care.
Her eyes drifted around the mausoleum. The place was in ruins, but still standing.
Somehow, the sight stirred a faint nostalgia. A thousand years gone, and yet this tomb remained.
When her thoughts settled, she returned to the altar and idly picked up one of the fruits left as an offering. She bit into it, unbothered by the blood and wreckage around her.
Above her, the floating orbs of blood began to break apart, dissolving into a crimson mist. It fell like rain, hissing softly as it touched the corpses. The air filled with the stench of iron and decay. Flesh melted, bones sank into the red pool forming on the floor.
Eventually, the blood gathered, reshaping itself. A woman's silhouette emerged from the pool—fluid, graceful, sculpted from pure crimson.
The girl on the altar kept eating as she watched the figure solidify.
When it was complete, the blood-formed woman bowed deeply.
"Master," she said. "Thank you for allowing me to serve you once again."
The girl simply nodded.
The woman hesitated. "Is that the form you will take, my master?"
"Come closer," the girl said.
The woman obeyed, stepping near. The girl reached out, cupping her face with one hand. Her eyes met the woman's—and in their reflection, she saw her own new form.
The woman's eyes began to weep blood. Neither of them moved to stop it.
[1] despair, loss of spirit, dejection, hopelessness
[2] "Let the world be yours to savor, and may your despair follow you forever."