The dark sky bled shades of red and obsidian as Elias Black stood at the edge of the forgotten cemetery, his breath curling in the frostbitten air. Gravestones jutted like broken teeth, relics of a time buried in lies. A raven cried from atop a crypt, its wings slicing the air like a scythe.
He could feel it.
The surge.
The System whispered, more urgent now. "Collect the marked soul. He awaits beneath the tomb of the hollow king."
Elias moved, each step echoing with purpose. The new upgrade to his system—Soul Reaping Phase II—allowed him to absorb more than just life energy. Now he could see sins.
The target this time was not a brute. It was something worse.
A priest.
Father Jericho—celebrated by the public but whispered about in alleys. Dozens had disappeared in his parish over decades. The Church of Luma had covered it all up.
Until now.
Elias pushed open the creaking mausoleum door. Candlelight flickered down the stone spiral steps, and the stench of myrrh couldn't mask the rot. Shadows twisted with each step he descended. His fingers brushed the hilt of the obsidian blade gifted by the system in Chapter 13—Reaper's Brand.
At the base, a hidden chapel.
Marble altar. Gold-plated crucifix. Rows of pews lined with wax figures that—on closer look—were not figures at all.
Bodies.
Wax-dipped corpses, posed as parishioners in eternal prayer.
"You made it," a voice crooned from the altar.
Jericho.
Elias turned, eyeing the man draped in blood-red vestments, eyes glinting with madness. "You don't deserve to wear that robe."
"Oh? But I've shepherded more souls than you ever will. The difference is, mine scream forever."
The System pulsed.
"Marked Soul confirmed. Begin collection sequence. High resistance detected. Combat advised."
Elias drew Reaper's Brand, the blade dripping with a shadowy aura.
"Let's see what screams louder," he said, charging forward.
The battle erupted in an inferno of cursed hymns and soul energy. Jericho summoned chains of blessed gold that hissed at the touch of Elias's corrupted aura. The floor cracked. The ceiling trembled. Waxen corpses burned and moaned.
Elias took a hit to the ribs—crack.
Jericho summoned a seraphic mirror, reflecting Elias's attack back at him.
The system screamed.
"HEALTH AT 32%. SOUL TETHER UNSTABLE. DEFENSE MODULE LOCKED—UNLOCK NOW?"
"DO IT!" Elias roared.
Wings burst from his back—black feathered and veined with crimson light.
Jericho's smile faltered. "What—what are you?"
Elias didn't answer. He vanished, reappeared behind the priest, and stabbed Reaper's Brand through his chest.
A blinding light.
And silence.
When the flames settled, Elias stood alone, the blade humming softly.
The soul floated above the altar, swirling with screams and memories.
"Soul captured. Uploading to System. Guilt index: 97%. Processing as fuel."
Elias exhaled, staggering as the pain caught up to him. His wings folded in.
He looked up at the hollow cross.
"Redemption's a myth," he muttered. "But revenge? That's real."
As he ascended the steps back into the night, his next mission pinged into his vision:
"NEW TARGET: 'Thorn Queen' – Sinner Class: Cataclysmic. Location: City of Blackwell."
Elias smirked.
"Let's dance, bitch."
The moon hung low over the horizon, veiled in an eerie crimson hue that painted the clouds like blood spilled across the sky. The wind whispered through the twisted trees of the Blackthorn Forest, carrying secrets and sorrow. In the heart of the woods, where no sane soul dared venture, a clearing lay bathed in the glow of spectral fire. And from that fire, she emerged.
She wore a crown of thorns upon her raven-black hair, each barb soaked in centuries of curses. Her eyes glowed violet, filled with ancient pain and cruel delight. She was the one they spoke of only in terrified murmurs—the Thorn Queen.
Elias Black felt her presence long before she stepped into the waking world. From within the Devil's System, a ripple ran through the core interface—like a cold hand trailing down his spine.
"New anomaly detected," the system announced. "High-risk target classified: Sovereign-class entity."
Elias paused mid-step in the ruins of an old chapel, glancing out through the shattered stained glass. He saw nothing, but the sudden silence in the air unnerved him. No insects. No wind. Not even the familiar thrum of dark energy that followed him since his rebirth.
"Who is she?" Elias asked, staring into the darkness.
The system replied with a single word: "Nemesis."
---
Meanwhile, in the valley beyond the forest, the once-humble village of Durwich lay abandoned. Ashes clung to the bones of cottages, and scorch marks lined the streets like veins of pain. Bodies lay strewn in grotesque positions—not from battle, but from a sacrifice. A ritual. At the center of the massacre stood Steve, the corrupted vampire warlord.
He was cloaked in shadow, feeding on the dying life-force of the villagers with a grin of monstrous satisfaction. Their agony made him stronger, and now his ambition soared beyond mere bloodlust. He sought the Thorn Queen.
"Let her come," he muttered. "Let the queen rise so I may tame her too."
His followers, a gathering of broken souls and frenzied night beasts, roared in approval. They marched into the forest, answering a pull none of them understood.
---
Back in Whitmoor, Adam tossed and turned in his bed, a fevered sweat covering his brow. Since being bitten by Steve, his dreams had grown darker, more visceral. He saw flashes of red eyes, felt claws tear into flesh, and heard laughter—cold, female laughter that echoed like a curse.
"She's coming," he whispered, sitting up with a gasp.
A pair of eyes glowed faintly in his mirror, and then faded. He knew something ancient was waking, and the world would never be the same.
---
Elias arrived at the mouth of Blackthorn Forest by midnight. The ground trembled beneath him, and the trees bent toward the center as if bowing to something regal yet monstrous.
"System, analyze my current power level."
"Current stats: Corruption Level 37%. Soul Harvested: 42. Combat potential: Increasing."
Elias nodded. "Activate Phantom Ward. Prepare Devil's Grasp."
He stepped into the forest. The air was cold, unnaturally so, and every breath felt like inhaling secrets he wasn't meant to know.
A few paces in, he saw her. The Thorn Queen, hovering just above the mossy ground, her arms spread like a goddess awaiting tribute.
"So," she said, her voice silk and steel, "you are the Devil's vessel. I've waited long to meet you."
"And you're the anomaly," Elias answered. "But I don't bow to queens."
Her laughter rang out, beautiful and terrible. She raised a hand and the forest screamed. Vines lashed out from every direction, tipped in venom and shadow.
Elias dodged, countered with Devil's Grasp—a clawed hand of infernal energy that shredded through the tendrils. The Thorn Queen smirked.
"Good. I like a man who fights."
They clashed.
It was not a battle in the traditional sense. It was a war of wills, a duel of destinies. Every blow Elias landed caused the forest to bleed. Every kiss of her thorned magic left him reeling in memory and doubt.
"Do you even know why you were reborn, Elias Black?" she hissed. "Do you know who watches from within your shadow?"
"I don't care!" he snarled, summoning twin blades of spectral flame. "I'll carve my fate—and yours—from this cursed world."
She laughed again. Then vanished.
Elias stood alone, panting, blood dripping from a dozen wounds. The trees straightened. The silence returned.
The Thorn Queen had tested him—and left. Not defeated. Merely amused.
"System," Elias whispered, "track her."
"Unable to comply. Target beyond dimensional veil."
He sheathed his blades. Looked up at the blood moon. And knew that everything had changed. The Thorn Queen had returned. And Steve… Steve was hunting her too.
The game had begun.