Grigory Vorontsov rarely thought of his grandfather. The old man had been far too eccentric by his standards, but that night, memory decided to play a cruel trick on the Baron, dragging a vivid fragment of their shared past from the depths of his subconscious.
In his dream, he saw his grandfather, Vladimir Vorontsov, the man who had stepped down as head of the family thirty years ago, solemnly wheeling a strange glass capsule into the grand hall of their estate. Inside, like an exotic butterfly pinned in a jar, sat a girl of about twelve with pink hair. She stared blankly ahead, oblivious to the world outside her transparent prison.
"Look, Grisha," the old man's commanding voice echoed, making the crystal chandeliers tremble. "This is our new family heirloom. The crown jewel of the Vorontsov line, to be passed from father to son."
Young Grigory shuddered, unable to look away. His magical instincts screamed in warning, triggering a primal, subconscious fear of the mysterious entity before him. The capsule opened with a soft hiss, releasing a puff of frigid air. The girl didn't move. Her glassy eyes slowly drifted toward his grandfather, then to him. In her small hands, she clutched a tattered pink rabbit that looked as out of place in this world as she did.
"Where... where did you get her?" Grigory had read his father's secret library. He knew that such creatures, homunculi, were incredibly rare. They outlived their creators, the ancient alchemists, and barely a dozen remained in the entire world.
His grandfather lit a cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. A sly, almost predatory smile crossed his face.
"I won her," he declared with a bravado uncharacteristic of a high nobleman. "Playing cards. Against a pompous American from Wall Street. A stroke of absolute luck." The old man coughed, and for the first time, Grisha heard a hint of genuine shame in his voice. "He asked me to bet our entire estate. I decided to take the risk. I went all in. And I drew the lucky ace. Here she is, our fortune, wrapped in glass and a gift ribbon."
Grigory stared at the girl. A strange cocktail of disgust, fear, and a haunting sense of regret filled his young soul. She didn't look like a success. She looked like a mistake.
"Grandfather, is it truly possible to keep them without consequence? I heard the one who destroyed their Order..." He risked the question. Vladimir snorted, waving a hand dismissively.
"Nonsense! Grisha, a tool is meant to be used. Whoever destroyed those alchemists is long dead, or perhaps wasn't human at all. Do you think they care about our kind?"
Grigory Vorontsov woke with a start. Sitting up in bed, he felt his shirt clinging to his back, soaked in cold sweat. The room was draped in the grey gloom of pre-dawn. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. Why now? Why remember this story after all these years?
His gaze, still clouded by sleep, drifted toward the large arched window and froze. On the stone sill, silhouetted against the fading stars, sat a bat. A small, pitch-black creature that looked as if it were carved from obsidian. It sat motionless, not sleeping or preening its wings. It was simply watching. Its tiny eyes seemed fixed entirely on him.
"You disgusting creature!" the Baron hissed. His voice sounded hoarse in the silence of the bedroom. He lunged for a heavy crystal ashtray on the nightstand and hurled it at the window. The crystal struck the reinforced glass with a deafening clang, leaving only a few scratches before thudding onto the Persian carpet. The bat didn't even flinch.
"Out! Get out!" Vorontsov shouted, leaping from the bed.
Only then did the creature react. It seemed to stare at him with mockery. Then, with a lazy flap of its leathery wings, it vanished into the fireplace.
The Baron breathed heavily, his hands trembling against the mattress. His heart hammered against his ribs. Since when did he throw ashtrays at nocturnal animals? But how did it get in? His bedroom was on the third floor. The windows were always sealed, and the ventilation grates were fitted with magical filters. Even the chimney was protected. Had it found a gap?
Composing himself, he dialed the head of security.
"There was a bat at my window," the Baron spoke, trying to remain calm. "Find out how it got in. Check all security systems. Immediately!"
Deciding not to dwell on it, Grigory dressed and headed down to the kitchen. However, the usual morning bustle was soon interrupted by the sound of expensive porcelain shattering. Remnants of an omelet splattered across the floor.
"Where is she!?" His voice, usually cold and controlled, now sounded like grinding stones. "It's been twelve hours! Twelve hours, and you still haven't found the pink-haired girl!?"
The guard at the door stiffened. His face remained a mask, though his unnatural pallor betrayed the terror in his heart.
"We've checked every camera within a kilometer, sir," the servant's voice was mechanical. "The last signal we recorded was at the sixth building on Lenin Street."
The Baron stood abruptly, shoving his heavy oak chair back. His charcoal suit fit him perfectly, but now he felt as though he were being strangled by an invisible noose.
"Whose apartment is it?" he whispered so quietly the guard had to step closer.
"A Kristina Krivtsevich lives there currently, sir, along with her son. A young man who recently joined the Free Hunters Guild, the one you sent..." The guard trailed off. Vorontsov froze, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the table. Could she have gone dark because of the brat who beat his son? No, that was too absurd. His mind, sharpened by years of intrigue, rejected the theory.
"Are you seriously asking me to believe that a fresh graduate who tames stray cats defeated a homunculus?" His voice was ice. "Irina was created to kill A-rank geniuses, not to vanish after a scuffle with a novice tamer."
The guard lowered his gaze. The Baron felt a pulse of fury in his temples. This whole situation reeked of a conspiracy. One of his rivals had found out about the homunculus. Perhaps the Prince himself, who always looked down on his family.
"Tighten the surveillance on this Krivtsevich," he ordered, massaging his head. "Check all his connections. Trace every meeting, every movement. Find everyone he met before my property went missing."
After a tense breakfast, the Baron headed to his office. Each step up the stairs sent a throb of pain through his skull. The study greeted him with the scent of old leather and furniture wax. He sat heavily in his leather chair, his fingers digging into the armrests.
"Damn it," he whispered, clenching his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms. "That cursed old man and his card games."
He spent an hour reviewing financial reports, hoping to clear his mind. But the numbers danced before his eyes. His thoughts, usually sharp as a razor, were now a blunt knife. A knock at the door interrupted him, three cautious, almost timid taps.
"Come in," he said without looking up.
The same guard returned, avoiding his master's gaze. "Sir, we've received information. The mother of that Krivtsevich boy. She's been going around to neighbors, asking about her son. She seems extremely agitated."
The Baron looked up slowly, his cold blue eyes narrowing. "What exactly happened?"
"He didn't come home last night, sir. She's worried. She's asking if anyone saw him."
Vorontsov leaned back, tapping his fingers on the desk. This made no sense. If his homunculus had executed her task, why would she disappear near their home?
"So, no one saw him? No trace? Just vanished on his way home?" He felt the headache intensifying.
"That seems to be the case, sir. If the victim's word is to be believed."
The Baron waved him away. He returned to his paperwork, seeking an island of stability in a world that was becoming increasingly unpredictable. Profits, losses, investments, that was what mattered, not missing teenagers and their frantic mothers.
Finally, he found a rhythm. His fingers slid over the columns of figures when, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. The same black bat sat on the windowsill, motionless. Its tiny eyes watched him with a hidden, mocking glint.
An uncontrollable rage flared within him. His fingers tightened, and magical energy answered his call. The air around his hands thickened, forming a heavy stone the size of a fist.
"Enough!" he roared, leaping up. He hurled the stone with such force that it shattered the armored glass. "Security!"
Two guards burst into the office. "Sir? What happened?"
"Are you blind!?" He pointed a trembling hand at the broken window. "It's here! Again! That creature!"
The guards exchanged a look. The senior officer stepped forward cautiously. "Sir, we didn't see anything. We checked the security footage from this morning, there was no bat. We can check the feed right now."
"Impossible!" Vorontsov slammed his fist on the desk. "It was here! I saw it! Are you doubting my sanity!?"
His chest heaved. He had seen it. The creature had looked at him with an air of superiority. It was mocking him, the head of an ancient clan.
"Increase the guard," he hissed, nearly losing control of his voice. "Check every system again. And find whoever is behind this. Bring me that bat and I'll roast it for dinner. Move!"
The guards hurried out, leaving the Baron alone with his rage and the broken window. A cold wind blew in, scattering papers across the floor, but Vorontsov didn't notice. He stood there, staring into the void outside, feeling reality beginning to slip from his grasp.
That evening, in his bedroom, Grigory Vorontsov struggled with his jacket. Every button seemed to resist his trembling fingers. A nervous shiver pricked at his resolve. All day, shadows had haunted him. His guards looked at him as if he were insane. Rumors were spreading. He saw it in the servants' eyes. Pity. Pity for him, the head of the Vorontsov family!
"This is nonsense," he hissed, tossing his jacket over a chair.
He paced the room, seeking comfort in familiar things. Instead, every corner felt like a hiding place for another hallucination. He stopped by the window, staring into the night. Nothing. Just city lights and his own pale reflection.
Then, in the darkest corner of the room, he saw movement. It was subtle, as if a mysterious stranger had grown tired of waiting. A figure in a tattered, dirty beige robe sat in the chair by the fireplace. Beneath the hood, a swirling, absolute darkness obscured its face.
"Who are you!?" Vorontsov's voice broke. Rage mixed with freezing terror. His hand twitched instinctively. Magical energy should have solidified, sending a lethal boulder at the intruder. He felt the wave of power, saw the air shimmer around his fingers, and then... nothing. No debris, no stone, only a weak, helpless hiss of raw magic dissipating in the air.
"What!?" The Baron waved his hands again. He tried repeatedly to call upon his ancestral bloodline, but he received only a mocking silence.
A monotonous, lifeless voice came from beneath the hood.
"Psychological exhaustion of a gifted one," the figure said, unmoving. "So severe that even mundane tricks become impossible. Your own consciousness is hindering you. Ironic, isn't it?"
"Silence, monster! I will have my guards destroy you!" Vorontsov backed toward the bed, his heart hammering.
"Your threats are those of a child in a sandbox, threatening to call the teacher," the figure rose and stepped forward. "I have been threatened by the greatest demons of Hell. They enjoyed detailing how they would tear my body apart for centuries. Do you think the threats of a mortal man frighten me?"
"You're just a hallucination!" the Baron cried, clutching his head.
"Your family has accumulated sins for centuries," the figure drifted across the floor, its steps weightless. "You oppress the weak and betray your allies. Your grandfather thought he won a treasure in a card game, but in reality, he lost the fate of his entire lineage. And you sent an assassin after a child. The son of a woman who now wanders the city in despair."
"I was defending family honor!" the Baron shouted, though his voice sounded weak.
"Honor?" For the first time, the voice held a trace of contempt. "What honor is defended by avenging a son who suffered at the hands of a commoner? You were merely trying to save the remnants of a wounded ego. A commoner defeating the heir of a Great House, perfect gossip for high society."
"Were you sent by my enemies? By whom? The Prince?"
The figure shook its head slowly, a chilling laugh echoing from the hood. "All your enemies, Vorontsov, are but children. They have nothing that could pay for the services of a Demon Prince."
The Baron flinched at the title. He knew of the Overlords, had studied the power of the Sins, and understood the risks of meeting the Apostles. But he had never heard of a Demon Prince.
"You cannot be a Prince!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There is only one being above the Sins!"
The Baron's legs gave way. He fell to his knees, gasping. The mere thought that someone higher than the Apostles had come for him was enough to drive a man mad. It was like comparing a common baron to the Emperor, and this being ranked even higher in the demonic hierarchy.
"Now you will experience the torments of Hell firsthand," the voice continued, ignoring the screams of the cornered victim.
Expanding his aura, the Demon Prince absorbed the Baron's soul, replaying scenes of his own life in Hell. He showed him decades of torture at the hands of the Lord of Pain. He showed him nights with the Deadly Sin of Lust. He showed him the inside of a fire-breathing dragon's belly, where he spent a week being charred alive.
Vorontsov began to convulse. His screams were muffled by painful gasps. He clawed at the polished wood of the floor, trying to escape the nightmare.
"No... stop..."
"You wanted proof?" The hooded figure's face was level with Vorontsov's. "This is but a fraction of my memories. Not the most vivid, but memorable."
Suddenly, the Baron leaped up and lunged at the wall, his head striking the stone. Blood poured down his face, staining his white shirt.
"The Auction!" he cried, his eyes wide with madness. "Ancient Rome... The Mother of Humanity... The First Son... The Fiery Sword!"
The cloaked figure froze. "Interesting... did you take that from my memories?"
But the Baron didn't hear the question. Dipping his fingers in his own blood, he began to draw a crude sword symbol on the wall, muttering softly.
"Mother of Humanity... First Son... Fiery Sword..."
The bedroom door burst open. Terrified guards rushed in. Their eyes widened as they saw their master smearing blood on the wall, but they found no one else in the room.
"Sir, calm yourself!"
Vorontsov turned to them. His face was a mask of madness. Foam bubbled at his mouth.
"Mother of Humanity," he whispered weakly. "Eve! EVE!!!"
His eyes rolled back. His body went limp, falling to the floor. The guards stood frozen in shock, staring at their master before finally remembering to call for a doctor.