Amanda’s legs gave out beneath her, and she fell to her knees, trembling. Each time the count seemed about to lose consciousness from the unbearable pain, Beatrice struck his face with her fist, jolting him awake. She repeated this, systematically breaking his body until his limbs were no longer recognizable.
Finally, she yanked the cravat from his neck and shoved it deep into his throat, silencing him. Then she tossed his battered body onto the table as though discarding a broken toy.
Beatrice turned to Amanda, her golden eyes locking onto hers. Amanda instinctively clasped her hands together in a prayer-like gesture. It was only then that she realized tears were streaming down her face.
She had never met Beatrice in person but had heard about her from Lily. She had known Beatrice planned to do something to the count, but she had never expected ‘this’. Not like this.
“A-a-My… My lady… Please…”
Amanda’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words spilling out like a frantic prayer.
“Make sure he never sees the light of day again. Render him incapable of speaking his vile words. Drag everything out of him and reveal his filth for the world to see. Make him die in the most excruciating way, so he dares not even think of being reborn.”
Amanda’s plea was desperate, her tears flowing freely as though begging a god—or perhaps a devil.
Beatrice tilted her head slightly, regarding Amanda with a calm curiosity.
“Is that what you wish for?” she asked softly.
Amanda nodded fervently, her face flushed with desperation.
“But…”
Beatrice replied, her tone as steady as ever.
“I can’t give it all to you. Others share your wishes, don’t they? Friends who want the same thing.”
Beatrice assured Amanda that she would carry out her wishes, but the vengeance would be distributed equally among those who shared her hatred. Her eyes revealed neither hatred nor malice, only a detached resolve. Amanda realized something chilling: Beatrice wasn’t driven by her own grudge.
She was here solely to fulfill ‘their’ desires, their vengeance. Like a god—an unjust and violent god—or perhaps a devil.
Amanda’s mind drifted to her younger sister, long gone. She had been only thirteen years old, a mere child who didn’t even know what she wanted in life. Yet the count had turned her into his plaything, killing her in the process.
Lily had lost her brother to the count. Rose, her parents. Samantha, her fiancé. Even Amelie had lost the friend she loved more than family.
Amanda remembered the sickly frailness of her sister, unable to eat even a spoonful of food, vomiting up anything forced down her throat. She remembered the small, fragile girl whose short life had been extinguished by the count’s cruelty.
Every night, her hatred festered like a restless ghost, clawing at her insides. The image of ripping his limbs apart, peeling his flesh, and tossing him into boiling oil had haunted her thoughts for years.
When this was done, Amanda thought, she would follow him into death. She couldn’t live with herself even after avenging her sister. The guilt of failing to protect that child had suffocated her for years. Yet, somehow, the woman standing before her had loosened that suffocating grip, if only for a moment.
Not gently. Not kindly. Beatrice hadn’t eased the burden—she had driven a blade into Amanda’s neck, carving out a new way to breathe. It was violent, but Amanda was grateful.
“Dahlia,” Amanda whispered, her sister’s name slipping from her lips like a prayer. Just then, the door creaked open, and Lily entered. Soon, the others would follow.
They would all stand together, hand in hand, at the edge of this shared abyss. Together, they would leap into hell.
* * *
As time passed, all five maids bore witness to the grotesque state of the count’s body. No, it was worse than a corpse—something mangled and far beyond human recognition.
Each one stifled their cries with trembling hands, though the emotions spilling from them were unmistakable: grotesque, sticky joy. A sickeningly sweet ecstasy.
Beatrice stood apart from it all, her expression indifferent as she watched. On the table, the count, broken in every way imaginable, seemed to regain some awareness. His shattered limbs twitched feebly, struggling against their ruin.
“Thank you, my lady,” Lily said, her voice shaking violently. The other maids stared at Beatrice as though in a trance.
Lily felt an itch clawing at her chest, a desperate urge to rake her nails against her skin. The words she had heard echoed in her mind: ‘Respond to filth with the rules of filth.’ The sensation consumed her, a violent certainty that she had been chosen. Beatrice had picked her—singled her out—and laid the foundation for everything unfolding now.
Though she didn’t know why the young lady had chosen her, the weight of being “chosen” enveloped Lily. The specialness of it made her body tremble.
The count was evil, a blight that needed to be erased from this world. Lily had always believed he deserved punishment, had spent countless days begging a god who never answered for justice commensurate with his sins.
But what stood before her now? Beatrice was no savior. She was not righteous.
She was closer to a devil, a dark god—one who met evil with something even greater.
Lily dropped to her knees beside Amanda, bowing her head as she stared at the count’s writhing, insect-like movements.
“Break all of his bones,” Lily said, her voice dripping with venomous hatred. Her declaration was the spark; one by one, the other maids knelt, their foreheads pressed to the ground.
Like Amanda, they spilled their wishes in whispers, low and desperate: ‘Break all his bones. Tear his flesh to shreds so not even his funeral can be held with dignity. Rip apart that filthy organ and toss it to the dogs. Let him suffer so greatly that he wishes for death but cannot have it.’
‘Kill him. End that beast’s miserable existence.’
The silent chorus of hatred filled the room, thick and suffocating. If anyone else had walked in, they would have been paralyzed by the weight of it, unable even to speak. But Beatrice’s expression remained calm.
Listening to their vile prayers, Beatrice felt a faint, simmering sensation rise within her. She looked down at the count, now fully conscious, his blood pooling beneath him like a small lake. Left alone, he would surely die from the blood loss.
But Beatrice had no intention of letting him pass quietly. Not when Lily had asked otherwise.
Lily was always the one who survived. Each time she came to Beatrice, the others were already gone. Yet those others, Beatrice knew, were no different from Lily in their desires.
Reaching out her hand, Beatrice watched as the count’s broken body spasmed, as if trying to escape. It was futile. Her grip was unrelenting.
Muffled screams seeped from his crushed throat. The more Beatrice moved her hand, the louder the agonized, insect-like cries grew.
The sound of flesh tearing filled the room—a wet, gruesome noise, like stubborn fabric being ripped apart. ‘Rip, tear, shred.’ His body convulsed, shaking violently before going completely limp.
Was it blood loss? Or had his mind given out under the strain of pain? The faint breaths ceased, and his heart stopped.
“He’s dead,” Beatrice muttered softly, halting her movements. Her hand fell still.
The maids turned their wide, tear-filled eyes toward her.
She was crying. For the first time, her stoic face twisted in raw emotion as thick tears streamed down her cheeks.
Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Yet Lily understood. Beatrice was screaming silently, a voiceless wail of agony.
Her tear-soaked golden eyes gazed at the count’s corpse, swirling with an indescribable mixture of emotions: envy, jealousy, yearning. And beneath it all, an unbearable sorrow.
“So lucky,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.
‘So lucky.’ The words echoed in her mind, a sharp blade of envy cutting through her. She felt like she might die from the sheer weight of it.
Raising her bloodstained hand, she wiped away her tears, smearing her pale face with streaks of red. Her appearance, now smeared with blood and emotion, resembled that of a lost, crying child.
She wept in silence, her eyes wandering from the window to the ceiling to the floor, unable to find a place to rest. Her trembling shoulders betrayed the depth of her grief. But then, as if fueled by a sudden fury, she turned back to the count’s corpse.
She grabbed his lifeless body and pulled it back up, her tears still flowing.
Beatrice wanted to die. She wanted to die so badly it consumed her.
* * *
Florianne Buildrander was abruptly shaken awake by someone’s hand. She had been deep in dreamless sleep, and the rough awakening caused her to furrow her brow in irritation.
Pushing the hand away, she sat up. It was the head maid who had woken her.
Florianne was about to snap at her in frustration, asking what the matter was, when the maid’s face came into view. Pale light from the window illuminated her features, but her expression was even paler—ashen with dread.
“What… What’s going on?” Florianne asked groggily, her voice laced with annoyance.
“Ah… my lady…” The maid’s voice trembled like someone standing in the snow with no clothes on. Hearing that tone, a wave of unease began to creep into Florianne’s chest.
“Why? What is it? Is it serious?”
She tried to steady her voice, but the maid suddenly crumpled to her knees at the foot of the bed, bowing her head low.
“The count… The count… passed away last night.”
The maid’s words were barely audible, as if speaking them was forbidden. For a moment, Florianne stared blankly at the back of the maid’s head, unable to process the words. Was this some tasteless joke? But it felt too grim, too heavy to be a joke.
‘Father? Dead?’
“What are you saying?” Florianne’s voice shook.
“My lady, now isn’t the time to—please get up and—”
“What do you mean, my father is dead?!”
Florianne’s voice rose to a scream, cutting off the maid. The head maid clamped her lips shut, tears streaming down her face as if she couldn’t bear to speak further.
Staggering, Florianne climbed out of bed.
“My lady!” The maid grabbed her arm in a panic, but Florianne shook her off and bolted for the door. Emily, stationed outside her room, moved to block her path, but Florianne shoved her aside with surprising strength and raced toward the fifth floor.
Grabbing the cumbersome hem of her nightgown with both hands, she huffed and panted as she climbed the stairs, her mind a whirl of confusion. She had hated her father—perhaps even wished he would die sooner rather than later. But now…
Reaching the fifth floor, Florianne was hit by a sharp, nauseating scent. The acrid tang of dried blood.
Her trembling legs carried her forward. Servants and guards crowded the hallway outside the count’s office.
‘He’s there,’ she thought, moving instinctively.
‘Father is there.’
Without hesitation, she pushed her way through the gathered crowd.
“My lady! The young lady is here!”
“Stop her! Don’t let her in!”
The desperate voices of the servants rose in panic. Hands grabbed at her waist, shoulders, and arms, trying to hold her back.
From the other end of the hall, Gallet turned to look at her, his face a mask of despair. His pallor was ghostly, his expression hollow.
“What’s happening? What is it?” Florianne demanded, her voice cracking. The chaos around her only fueled her panic.
“Get Florianne back to her room! Now!” Gallet bellowed. She had never heard him speak like this before—his voice raw with anguish.
Through the gaps between the shoulders of the servants holding her back, Florianne glimpsed something.
“Oh…”
Her lips parted in a breathless gasp. Beneath the table was a pool of viscous liquid, congealed into an ominous shape that resembled the gaping maw of hell. The table itself, which should have been brown, gleamed red in the dim morning light.
Then she saw it.
On the table sat her father’s head.
No longer part of a body, it was grotesque and lifeless, like a slab of meat in a slaughterhouse. And yet, despite its mutilated state, she recognized it immediately. That ‘thing’ was her father’s head.
Florianne’s legs gave out beneath her, her body crumpling to the floor. Her vision blurred into white as though trying to reject the horrific sight.
“My lady! Florianne!”
She barely registered the frantic hands that caught her falling body. The overwhelming horror pulled her under, and she lost consciousness.
* * *
The Buildrander estate was caught in the throes of chaos.
The mansion’s entrance buzzed with activity as numerous carriages arrived, disgorging grim-faced nobles and officials. In the empire, few crimes were graver than the murder of a noble.
When the reports of Count Heliette Buildrander’s murder reached the knights, they assumed he had been poisoned or stabbed. These were the typical methods of assassinating nobility, usually for political reasons—silent, calculated, and discreet. Often, a bribed servant would slip poison into tea, or an assassin would strike in the dead of night.
Commander Gildbet of the Third Order sat in his carriage, reading through a dossier on the late count. While political motivations were the most common cause for noble murders, Heliette Buildrander’s case seemed to defy this pattern.
The count had been aligned with the Ember Ducal House—the Emperor’s faction—and had shown no signs of betrayal or actions that could antagonize the aristocratic faction. Instead, Gildbet’s attention was drawn to a small, almost dismissive note at the bottom of the report:
“The current head, Heliette Buildrander, has long been rumored among the commoners to engage in sexual exploitation, leading to widespread disdain among the lower classes.”
“Who conducted this investigation?” Gildbet asked sharply.
“Jack, I believe,” replied his adjutant, Hadel. Gildbet frowned, annoyed that what could be a critical clue had been treated so lightly. He made a mental note to reprimand the investigator later.
As the carriage came to a halt outside the mansion, Gildbet set aside the report and stepped out. The atmosphere around the estate was suffocating, as if the house itself were teetering on a thin sheet of ice. Every servant he passed looked pale and apprehensive, their movements cautious, as if afraid to breathe too loudly.
Ascending to the fifth floor, where the crime scene was located, felt like descending into a tomb. The closer they got, the heavier the air seemed to grow. As soon as Gildbet set foot on the fifth floor, a retching sound echoed down the corridor.
“Ughhh…”
The sound of someone vomiting violently made Gildbet scowl.
“No one except for Gallet Buildrander, the count’s son, was supposed to access the scene. If that’s not him throwing up, it must be one of our knights. Who is it?” he demanded.
“Judging by the voice, it sounds like John Will,” Hadel replied hesitantly.
Gildbet’s scowl deepened. Crime scenes were always horrific, but maintaining composure was paramount for effective investigation and leadership. For a seasoned knight like John, who had been in the order for five years, vomiting at the sight of a body was inexcusable.
As they neared the crime scene, Gildbet spotted John leaning against the wall, his head pressed to it as he expelled the contents of his stomach. The acrid stench of blood hung thick in the air, even in the corridor. Bracing himself, Gildbet stepped into the room.
And froze.
“Ugh…”
Gildbet barely suppressed a dry heave, while Hadel clamped his hands over his mouth, failing to do the same.
The room, presumably the count’s office, resembled a vision of hell.
“…Get me a list of commoners who were victimized by Count Buildrander. Immediately,” Gildbet barked. He had seen enough to conclude: this murder reeked of revenge.
The scene was a nightmare of pure hatred. Even the air seemed weighted with malevolence, as though unseen hands were clutching at Gildbet’s ankles, trying to drag him into the abyss.
A massive pool of blood had congealed on the floor, its shape resembling an open maw. The table, drenched in crimson, glistened in the pale light, as if it had always been red.
On the table lay the count’s severed head, grotesque and mangled. Its features were barely distinguishable, reduced to a pulpy mass that defied recognition. Gildbet swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that rose in his throat.
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