Devon leaned against the cold, sturdy workbench, his palms pressing into the scratch-riddled wooden surface until his knuckles turned white. The silence in the basement was so thick, so absolute, it felt like a physical pressure on his eardrums. It was a silence filled with echoes—the echoes of his own screams, the echoes of his broken, hysterical laughter, and, most terrifying of all, the echoes of decades of mad obsession that had seeped into these very stone walls. He stared at the pooling of his own drying blood on the dusty floor, its dark red appearing black in the flickering lamplight. His newly healed body felt alien, a clean canvas that still remembered every torturous scratch, every needle prick, every searing touch of a white-hot blade. He was whole, yet he felt more broken than ever before.
He took a long, shuddering breath, the air leaving his lungs carrying with it the last remnants of blinding panic and foolishness. Yes, this was horrifying. This place was a cathedral built to worship death and suffering. Every object in this room—from the surgical knives caked in dried blood to the grotesque specimen jars—was a verse in a psychopath's holy scripture. But amidst the stomach-churning revulsion, a cold, clear thought began to form, a weed sprouting from scorched earth.
"But at least..." he whispered to the silence, his voice hoarse and foreign to his own ears. "...at least now I have plenty of tools to survive."
The realization didn't come as a joyful epiphany, but as a grim acceptance. This was his inheritance. An inheritance he had never asked for, born from a cruel cosmic lottery. He had fallen into the monster's den, and the monster had left him the keys to his kingdom. He could either curl up in a corner and die from the trauma, or he could stand up, take those keys, and learn how to lock the door from the inside.
He pushed himself away from the table. His first step was to reclaim a small piece of his humanity. He was naked, vulnerable, and smeared with blood that was no longer entirely his own—it was the mark of his foolishness. He walked past the gruesome murder map, his eyes deliberately avoiding the countless pins. In the corner of the workshop, tucked between shelves of strange chemical jars, was a simple wooden chest. He opened it. Inside, neatly folded, were several sets of clothes. Not fine clothes, but clothes made for a purpose. He picked up a black t-shirt made of a thick yet soft material, a pair of dark canvas trousers reinforced at the knees, and a pair of sturdy, high-ankled leather boots, their soles seemingly designed to muffle sound.
Putting on the clothes felt like a ritual. The clean, dry fabric against his new skin felt like an unimaginable luxury. The shirt fit his lean frame snugly, and the trousers felt sturdy and protective. As he tightened the laces of his boots, he felt as if he were donning a layer of armor, not just against the wilderness outside, but against his own fragility. He was no longer Devon the drenched victim. He was the new inhabitant of this place.
With his newfound shred of dignity, he returned to the armory, his lantern light dancing across rows of cold, deadly metal. He saw it with different eyes now. This was no longer just a psychopath's collection; it was a library, and every weapon was a book written in the language of power. There was a cruel logic to its organization. Melee weapons on one wall, projectiles on another, and explosives and traps on sturdy shelves. Corvus Nightshade had been an artist, and his medium was death.
"He may not have been able to use magic," Devon muttered to himself, his voice a little stronger now. He touched the hilt of a dagger whose blade looked as if it were forged from darkness itself. "But if all his weapons are equipped with magic crystals... well, what's the difference?"
It was a terrifying and intoxicating thought. He, who had been thrown into this world of magic without a single drop of magical talent, now stood in the middle of an arsenal that had bridged that gap. He saw crossbow bolts with crystal heads designed to explode on impact. He saw a wire net threaded with energy from small blue stones embedded at its junctions. Corvus didn't fight magic; he dissected it, studied it, and then enslaved it, forcing it into his killing machines.
Then his eyes fell upon the rack of firearms. His heart beat a little faster. This was something he recognized, at least conceptually, from his old world. But these were mutated versions, versions that had dreamed in a fever. There was a long, sleek sniper rifle, its scope made not of glass but of a series of spinning crystal lenses, its barrel shrouded in faint, glowing runes. There was a brutal-looking assault rifle, its magazine designed not to hold brass casings but to channel energy directly from a large power crystal clipped beneath it. There was even something that looked like a light machine gun, mounted on a tripod, with an ammunition belt made of interconnected slabs of magic-infused stone.
"How... how did he get all of these?" Devon wondered aloud, his astonishment momentarily overriding his fear. The designs felt familiar, modern, yet their construction was clearly otherworldly. Was Corvus a genius who created all this from scratch? Or was he, like Devon, an outsider from another world? An outsider who, instead of becoming a victim, decided to become the apex predator?
The answer, perhaps, lay on a nearby table. A large stack of blueprints and rolled-up parchments. Devon picked one up and unrolled it in the lantern light. It was a minutely detailed schematic of one of the energy rifles. The script was in a language he didn't recognize, but the drawings were universal. There were notes on how to focus the energy from the crystal, how to stabilize the particle beam, calculations on barrel cooling, and even theories on different energy frequencies for piercing various types of magical shielding. This was not the work of a copycat. This was the work of a pioneer. A mad genius who had rewritten the laws of physics and magic.
Amidst his horrified admiration, Devon saw a single handgun lying alone on a swatch of red velvet. It stood out in its brutal simplicity. The design reminded him of a large-frame Magnum revolver he'd seen in his father's old movies. Six chambers in a thick cylinder, a heavy barrel, and a grip made for a large, steady hand. There were no glowing crystals, no intricate runes. Just blued steel and dark wood. It felt... honest.
Next to it was a small, leather-bound book. Not a printed manual, but a journal. Devon opened it. The pages were filled with the same precise handwriting as the blueprints—neat, slanted, and efficient. On the first page was a sketch of the revolver.
The Redemption Project, the title read. A weapon for a simpler age. No magic. No tricks. Just momentum and kinetic force. Sometimes, the most elegant solution is the most brutal.
Below were the instructions. Diagrams on how to open the cylinder, the type of gunpowder to use—a meticulously written chemical recipe—and most importantly, a description of the bullets. Casing: steel-silver alloy. Projectile: lead core wrapped in hardened metal, tip inscribed with an armor-piercing spiral. Beside it, in smaller script, was a note: Effective against most physical armor and beings with low regeneration. Not recommended against Golems or Fire Elementals.
Near the book was a small wooden box. Devon opened it. Inside, nestled in neat rows, were twelve gleaming silver cartridges. They were heavy, cold, and felt utterly real. This was something he could understand. Something he could use.
With a slightly trembling hand, he picked up the pistol. Its weight was surprising, far heavier than it looked. The cold steel seemed to leech the warmth from his hand. He followed the journal's instructions, his thumb finding the cylinder release. With a satisfying click, the cylinder swung out. He took six rounds from the box, his fingers fumbling slightly as he slotted them one by one into the chambers. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Each sound was a step away from Devon the teenager and closer to... something else. He snapped the cylinder shut with a solid clack. The gun was loaded. The gun was live.
He aimed it at the far stone wall of the basement. The wall was thick; there was no risk of the bullet going anywhere else. He mimicked a stance he'd seen in movies, both hands gripping the handle, arms outstretched. His heart hammered against his ribs, a war drum only he could hear.
He took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed, focusing on a crack in the stone. His finger found the cold, curved trigger. He was no longer thinking. He was just acting.
He squeezed the trigger.
The world exploded.
It wasn't the sharp 'bang' from the movies. It was a deafening roar, a shockwave that slammed into him like a physical blow, echoing in the confined basement and vibrating deep into his bones. A brilliant orange muzzle flash erupted from the barrel, momentarily illuminating every dark corner of the room in a harsh, brutal light.
And then there was the kick.
It wasn't a push. It was a blast of pure violence that shot up his arms, into his shoulder, and threw him backward. His feet left the floor. Devon had no experience, no strength, no preparation for this kind of power. The gun was ripped from his shocked grasp, flying through the air in a lazy arc before landing with a loud clang on the stone floor several feet away. Devon himself was thrown back, his shoulder hitting the stone wall hard before he crumpled to the ground, dazed and gasping for air.
On the wall across the room, a new hole had appeared, the size of his fist, with spiderweb cracks radiating from its center. Smoke that smelled of sulfur and burnt metal filled the air, making his eyes water and his throat itch. His ears were ringing relentlessly.
"Okay..." he wheezed, as he pushed himself into a sitting position, his shoulder throbbing. "...that's a hazard."
He stared at the pistol lying on the floor. It was no longer just a tool. It was a leashed beast, one that had just shown him how easily it could turn and bite its master. He had survived scalpels and fire, only to nearly break his own arm out of sheer hubris. He needed more than courage or desperation. He needed control. He needed discipline. He needed lots and lots of practice.
He got to his feet, his body aching in a new and different way. He picked up the gun, this time with a newfound respect. He ejected the spent casing—it was blackened and smelled of heat—and carefully placed the revolver and its remaining ammunition back on the table.
Now, a plan began to form, no longer a vague hope, but a series of concrete tasks.
"Alright," he said to the quiet room, his voice steadier. "First, we clean."
He had to clean his blood off the floor. He had to get rid of the dust and the cobwebs. He had to take inventory of the food supplies, if there were any. He had to understand every weapon, every tool, every book in this place. He had to turn this mausoleum into a fortress.
"Then, to make this place the perfect home," he continued, a thin, ironic smile touching his lips. "Yes, the former home of a serial killer... ah, well, that's in the past."
The owner was dead. His legacy was now his, to shape as he willed. He didn't have to become Corvus Nightshade. He just had to survive, and Corvus had given him the blueprint to do it.
With a new purpose burning in him, he picked up his lantern and started back toward the stairs. As he ascended, the light washed over the specimen jars one last time. He paused for a moment on the top step, looking at the horrifically preserved and modified creatures. Goblins with mechanical arms, lizards with crystal eyes. They were a reminder of the other side of Corvus's genius—the side that didn't just kill, but created, twisted, and played god.
"Ah," he murmured, turning and continuing up the stairs. "I'll think about that later."