Ranni silently weeps to herself. My ascendance is her nightmare.
Like a butcher, I saw around Darrow's chest. Flesh sloppily shreds along my Shiv's edge.
I keep sawing and sawing. This whole process is so grotesque and unprofessional, akin to a toddler trying his damnest to butcher a pig.
Blood gushes, drowning my hand and Shiv, flicking specs of red onto my cloak and face.
He still hasn't died. Tough bastard. He's one of the strongest beings to ever live, to be fair. Even after 100 years of being comatose, the Hero still fights to the very end.
Darrow won't live long after this.
I set my Shiv aside, catch my breath, and stick my hand in.
I grab at flesh, at bone, at innards, ripping and tossing them to the side like trash. How much can I sell the Hero's lungs for, I wonder?
Eventually, I take hold of my prize. A slimey, bloody, throbbing piece of matter.
YANK.
Darrow's heart rests in my blood-stained hand
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The warm organ still pumps, even after touching cold air for the first time.
I stare at the peculiar thing; the object of all my desires.
This is power itself, beating in my hand.
The Hereditary Imprint.
It's mine—a fraction of the power that managed to conquer the Seven Realms is entirely mine, resting in my grasp.
It even comes with its own goody bag.
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SSS-Rank Human slain.
►Shards Obtained
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WARNING
Shard Storage Overload
►Automatically Distributing
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┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
D-Rank Achieved
►Skill Slot Unlocked
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┌─────═━┈┈━═─────┐
C-Rank Achieved
►Imprint Manifestation Activated
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I begin to boil inside. Heat infests my body. White wisps tangibly flood out of Darrow, weaseling through my pores, into the depths of my Soul. It takes all my willpower to remain standing.
I'm forced to my knees as my Imprint manifests. A maze of jagged lines runs hot along my arms. Like a branding iron, it burns searing marks into my skin, so hot that it turns cold.
I crumple to the ground in a pile of bloody spit. I don't know how my body has endured so much strain. So long as my mind endures, the body will follow, or it will die; more applicable wisdom from Master Nero.
Eventually, I cool. Steam rises from my body, my skin pink and tender. I am reborn.
Shakily coming to a stand, my body teems with vigor. Even through all that, I did not relinquish my gentle grasp on Darrow's heart.
Killing an SSS-Rank alone would've been worth the trip alone. It's the watermelon-sized cherry on top of a gargantuan sundae that is the main course—the Hereditary Imprint; in more ways than one.
Now's the proper time, of course.
There's a reason why I've been so secretive, evasive, unclear, about the Hereditary Imprint's method of transfer.
It's because it's abhorrently macabre.
The heart gently quivers, beating its last beats. I swallow.
I've done some truly awful things in this world. You always have to do awful shit for power, as I said. This will take the cake.
I've killed innocents. That Shacktown boy's broken face, hanging eyeball and all, lying in the mud, all while I eat his loaf of bread without remorse. Completely awful, and depraved. We shared the same struggle—I just happened to be stronger, or craftier.
Sure, killing the Hero of Humanity in front of his wife and cutting out his heart might be the worst thing ever, from some perspectives. I personally think that it's the best thing ever.
But after I do… this, then it'll be the worst thing ever, from any perspective.
Do… Gods… I can't even function—can I cook this? Will the transfer work if I cook the heart over the fire? Do I dare risk that?
Yes. I have to eat the heart.
No, I'm not a pussy. This is fucking disgusting.
I can't possibly chicken out. I've been thrown so far into the deep end that I've drowned, bloated, my corpse risen to the top, so in the end I could claim that I swam. Corpses can't leave the pool, I'm afraid.
I thought my anger would be enough. That I could just chew it like a rabid animal.
Maybe if I were still that poor, starving orphan living in a slum of starvation, then this would be the greatest meal of my life.
Now I'm a fat noble, too good, too pompous to ever eat the heart of a legend.
Whatever. No point lingering now. There's a job that needs to be done.
To make it taste better, I dream of all the riches, all the filthy Humans I can kill with the heart's power.
Here goes nothing.
I bring it to my mouth, sniffing it. It's the bloody, thick, rank of iron.
Valves at the top. Make my way down. I take a deep exhale, bordering a sighing sob.
CHOMP. CHEW. CHEW. GAG. I cover my mouth with my stump, preventing me from involuntarily spitting. Chewing and swallowing. Just keep chewing and swallowing.
It's awful. Everything is awful. I feel like the dead. I recall the time not too long ago that I drank an alcoholic beverage and said it "tasted like a raccoon's asshole," but if that's what a raccoon's asshole tastes like, then I yearn for that taste.
Because this tastes like pure battery-acid-infused dogshit dipped in the rabies foam from a rabid possum.
After swallowing the first bite, I had to take a breather. I paced around a little bit, mentally preparing myself for the next.
After the next bite, I rest against the oak roots, staring above at the grey-green leaves.
Each bite, I appear at another point in this dreadful crypt, trying to find new ways to distract myself from this madness.
Why am I so greedy? This lust for power to fuel my hatred will be my undoing. It will. This is a guarantee. I'm on a path of no return.
Yet, this feels right. Natural, like there is no other option.
This is the sublimity of sensing destiny.
I swallow the very last of the Hero's heart.
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Hereditary Imprint Integration Complete
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