Alucard staggered slightly before steadying himself, forcing his breathing to even out as the last remnants of pain faded from his body. The burning sensation of the newly acquired lineage slowly dulled, replaced by something far more unsettling—a quiet, creeping heaviness settling deep within his bones.
He exhaled, then focused.
A faint shimmer of runes appeared before his eyes.
---
[The Sin of Sloth]
Description:
"Sloth was the last of the sinners, both to accept [Redacted] and to achieve power equal to true abominations.
Sloth is a sin that represents taking the easy way out, no matter the cost.
Sloth is a sin that slows both mind and body.
Sloth makes a man weak.
Sloth died a slow and painful death, alone in a cruel world.
So will your enemies.
Now you are Sloth's successor.
So make your enemies weak for you."
---
Alucard stared at the runes for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
"…Well," he muttered under his breath, voice dry, "that's… encouraging."
But his thoughts were anything but calm.
It says Sloth died…
Slowly, his gaze drifted toward Lysander, who stood a few steps away, watching him with a soft, almost delighted expression—as if observing a particularly interesting experiment.
So what the hell are you, then?
His mind raced.
Lysander had mentioned his mother was a sinner.
So maybe—maybe—this description wasn't about him at all.
Maybe it was about her.
But that didn't make things better.
If anything, it made them worse.
Because that meant the thing standing in front of him… wasn't just a sinner.
It was something that came after one.
Something that survived one.
Something that had no right to exist.
Alucard opened his mouth to speak—
Then froze.
His eyes lowered instinctively.
His armor… was gone.
No—not gone.
Gone implied removal.
This was something else entirely.
His chest was exposed—but not skin.
Muscle.
Raw, exposed muscle.
His skin had been peeled away as cleanly as if it had never existed.
And yet…
There was no pain.
No screaming nerves.
No burning agony.
Just… pressure.
Warmth.
Wetness.
He could feel the blood pouring out of him, cascading down his torso in thick streams, and yet his mind registered it with a strange detachment.
Like watching someone else bleed.
For a brief moment, something primal inside him screamed to move—to recoil, to defend himself, to run—
But his body didn't respond.
He stood there.
Still.
Obedient.
"…Ah."
Lysander's voice broke the silence, soft and almost amused.
"It seems the lineage is weaker in you than it is in me."
He tilted his head slightly, violet eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"Though that might simply be because you are… incredibly weak."
He laughed.
Lightly.
As if he had just made a harmless joke.
Alucard didn't laugh.
"…Yeah," he said flatly, though even his own voice sounded distant to him. "Hilarious."
Lysander stepped closer.
Too close.
"Don't worry about the bleeding," he said gently. "I'll fix it right away."
Before Alucard could react, a needle appeared in Lysander's hand.
It hadn't been drawn.
It hadn't been summoned.
It was simply… there.
Thin.
Elegant.
And wrong.
The thread that followed was even worse.
It shimmered with a deep violet hue—not quite solid, not quite liquid. It caught the light like polished amethyst, yet seemed to shift when not directly observed, as if it didn't fully exist in the same space as everything else.
Without hesitation, Lysander pressed the needle into Alucard's exposed flesh.
And began to stitch.
The sensation was… indescribable.
There was no pain.
But there should have been.
Every movement of the needle dragged across nerves that refused to react. Every pull of the thread tightened something that felt deeper than muscle—something closer to his very being.
Alucard's jaw tightened.
He didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't speak.
And all the while, Lysander worked with calm, almost practiced precision—like someone mending a tear in fabric rather than stitching together a living body.
"Mm… yes," Lysander murmured thoughtfully. "This should work just fine."
He tied the final knot and leaned back slightly, admiring his work.
Alucard looked down.
His chest was… whole.
Perfect.
As if nothing had ever happened.
No scars.
No blood.
Nothing.
"…Well," Alucard muttered, flexing slightly. "That's not terrifying at all."
"Ah, I'm glad you like it," Lysander replied brightly.
Then, as if suddenly distracted, he turned his attention elsewhere.
"Oh! And speaking of interesting things…"
He walked over to Saint.
Just… walked.
Like nothing about this situation was wrong.
He reached out—and casually patted her chest.
Alucard's eye twitched.
Saint didn't react.
Didn't attack.
Didn't even move.
She just stood there.
Silent.
Still.
As if this was normal.
"…How did you acquire this one?" Lysander asked curiously. "Though, if you ask me, her proportions are a little strange especially in the chest area usually they are way bigger in that area."
Alucard stared at him for a second before answering.
"…She's not mine. She's Sunny's Echo."
Lysander paused.
Slowly turned his head.
"Echo?"
He blinked.
"What is an Echo?"
Alucard frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck.
"It's… like a copy of a Nightmare Creature. The Spell gives it to you after you kill one."
Silence.
Then—
"…What… are you talking about?"
Lysander's tone wasn't mocking.
It wasn't amused.
It was genuinely confused.
"Nightmare Creatures? Spell?" he repeated slowly, as if tasting unfamiliar words. "Are you unwell? I could bring you to the Underworld if you need treatment."
Alucard blinked.
"…You don't know what the Spell is? Are you even human?"
Lysander stared at him.
Then—
He burst into laughter.
Not a normal laugh.
It echoed.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
Too… wrong.
"Oh, Alucard," he said between breaths, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. "Your human humor is truly something else."
His smile widened.
"For a moment there, I almost thought you believed I was a lowly maggot like those things you travel with."
A chill ran down Alucard's spine.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
But he forced himself to stay calm.
"…Right," he said lightly. "Joke."
Then, quickly tried to change the subject—
"How old are you, anyway?"
Lysander tilted his head.
"I'm quite young," he said casually. "Around one hundred and fifty years old."
He paused.
"And you?"
"I'm nineteen."
Silence.
Then Lysander stepped closer.
Placed a hand on his shoulder.
Cold.
Burning.
Empty.
"Of course you are," he said softly almost as if he was being sarcastic.
Then he looked up at him.
"…Then why do you look so much older than me?"
Alucard froze.
For just a second.
Then forced a laugh.
"Probably because I was human for most of my life."
Lysander smiled.
But didn't respond.
And that silence felt far worse than anything he could have said.
So Alucard changed the subject.
Quickly.
"…How does this lineage work anyway?"
Lysander's expression brightened slightly.
"Ah! That's simple."
He turned and began walking again.
"Your blood produces a mist. Most people cannot see through it—but you can."
He spoke calmly.
Casually.
"As they inhale it, their bodies grow weaker. Their minds dull. Their focus fades."
He glanced back.
"They grow tired."
A pause.
"Very tired."
Another step.
"Eventually, they die."
Alucard swallowed.
"And… how long does that take?"
Lysander hummed.
"For me it takes a few seconds but for someone of your current strength? Perhaps years. Decades."
A faint smile.
"But that's against the kind of creatures I usually fight... For creatures of your level maybe a few minutes to an hour."
Alucard nodded slowly.
"…Good to know."
They walked in silence after that.
Until—
They reached the river again.
The black, endless river.
Except this time…
Lysander didn't stop.
He stepped onto the water.
And stood.
As if it were solid ground.
Alucard's eyes widened slightly.
"…What the hell?"
Lysander chuckled.
Then turned.
And extended his hand.
"Come," he said softly.
"Join me, Alucard."
His voice was gentle.
Inviting.
Warm.
"Enter the Underworld with me."
A pause.
"I will make you strong."
Another step closer.
"You don't need them anymore."
His smile softened.
"All you need… is me."
Alucard felt it then.
A pull.
Not physical.
Something deeper.
Something clawing at his mind, whispering, urging, dragging him forward.
His foot moved.
Step.
The water rippled beneath it—
And held.
His thoughts blurred.
His body felt light.
Distant.
Like he was drifting somewhere far away.
This is fine.
This is safe.
This is right.
Another step—
Then—
Something snapped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, quiet crack in the fog clouding his mind.
Wait.
His thoughts sharpened—just for a second.
Just long enough.
This is wrong.
Everything about this was wrong.
The mist.
The choices he made.
Lysander.
The way his body wouldn't respond.
The way his mind kept slipping.
The way none of this made sense.
And that was enough.
Just enough.
Alucard stopped.
His foot hovered over the water.
His body trembled slightly.
Then he lifted his head.
Looked Lysander straight in the eyes.
And spoke giving his answer.
"I refuse."