"I am 6th Herald of Abyss, a demon, Orphalos."
The grotesque demon's voice slithered into Ran's ears like poison. He stood tall, his twisted limbs twitching with excitement, his face a shifting nightmare of joy and hunger.
Ran, barely conscious, tried to lift his head. The pain from tearing off his own arms still echoed through his nerves, and now they were nothing but phantom weight. He stared at Orphalos, unable to muster fear anymore. Only confusion remained.
"You said… you'll use my soul? What the hell does that mean?"
Orphalos chuckled, a deep, manic sound like bones cracking underwater.
"It means, boy, that your soul—after your death—will be consumed. A single flame to ignite my slumbering self. My awakening requires rare fuel, and your soul now carries… flavor. Grit. Rage. You are exquisite."
Ran gritted his teeth. His chest rose and fell with exhaustion.
"Why not take it now?"
The demon leaned in close, his eyes flaring with malevolent glee.
"Because I can't. Demonic law binds even us. I cannot take a soul unless it is given. That is the purpose of the contract."
"So… I'm screwed either way."
"Correct."
Ran's lips curled slightly.
"Is there a heaven, or some place after death? Paradise? A reward?"
Orphalos slowly nodded, mock solemnity on his twisted face.
"Yes. The angels do come, sometimes. They take the dead to where they deserve to go. Whether a palace or a pit, depends on their soul's weight. But if I consume yours…"
Ran finished the sentence himself.
"Then nothing's left. I just stop existing."
"Exactly. No rebirth, no paradise, no punishment. Just oblivion."
Ran lowered his gaze. The thought struck something inside him—deeper than fear, deeper than rage. Emptiness.
He wanted revenge. He wanted strength. And now the price was eternal silence.
Still… he nodded.
"I already accepted, didn't I?"
"You did."
Ran closed his eyes.
"Then do it."
The air chilled. Orphalos' grin widened into something that barely resembled a face anymore.
"It will hurt."
"Just get it over with."
A clawed hand reached out. Without warning, it stabbed straight into Ran's chest. He screamed as flesh ripped, bones cracked. His ribs snapped apart like twigs, peeled open like wings of agony. Blood fountained from his chest as Orphalos reached in and pulled out his heart.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—!"
Orphalos crushed it in his hand like fruit, letting the blood run through his fingers.
Ran's vision turned red. He screamed, convulsing on the ground. Pain like fire, ice, glass and thunder all at once.
Then the demon reached behind his own back and pulled out a pulsing, shadowy sack—pulsing, slick, veined with writhing tendrils.
"This shall serve as your new heart. It will hold your soul when your time comes."
With one swift motion, he shoved it into Ran's chest. The grotesque organ slithered in, melding with tissue, veins latching on like parasites.
Ran screamed again, his eyes rolling back.
"This new heart will give you limited dark energy. Far more potent than your drained mana. But it is not infinite. Use it well."
He collapsed.
The last thing Ran heard was Orphalos's voice, gentle and cruel.
"Sleep well, little wasterel. When you die, I feast."
Ran gasped awake, flailing on the ground.
His chest burned. He clawed at it, but the skin was whole again. He pulled his shirt aside. No scar. No wound. But he felt it inside—a steady, slow pulse.
It was not his heart.
He looked down. His arms—intact. Not even a scratch.
He was whole again.
Ran coughed violently, bile rising in his throat. He turned to the side and threw up, shivering.
The forest around him was painted with blood. Bits of flesh, bones, broken weapons. He gagged as he saw a severed tongue lying next to a boot. A hand still gripping a sword. A skull cracked in half.
He staggered up, stumbling toward the corpses.
Half-eaten.
Gnawed clean in some places. Others, barely touched.
Geld's body was split open, intestines gone. Kelt's head rolled near a tree stump, mouth frozen in a scream.
Ran trembled.
"What the fuck… was that thing?"
Then he noticed it.
A sword, lodged into the ground nearby. It was unfamiliar—yet somehow, his.
Crimson blade, sleek, glowing with deep red light. Black runes danced along the edge. A handle wrapped in scales. It hummed when he touched it.
It felt alive.
He gripped the hilt.
A sudden surge coursed through his veins. His body shivered as dark energy flooded his senses. His eyes widened.
He felt strong.
He felt awake.
Ran looked at the blade. Its red glow reflected in his now-sharpened eyes.
"This is insane…"
Bloodied, reeking, and disoriented, Ran staggered out of the forest, heading toward the camp where they'd first gathered. He walked with effort, dragging himself over corpses, broken branches, puddles of blood.
But when he arrived—there was nothing.
No trace of the client. No sign of the man in the robe. Just an abandoned camp.
A few mercenaries of other camps were sitting near a fire, enjoying themselves.
The moment they saw him, they backed away.
Ran was soaked in blood. He smelled like death.
One woman threw up. Another just turned her head and said nothing.
Ran said nothing either. He looked at his arms—perfect. His chest—whole. His heart—a monster. His examined his body as he moved through all the stares.
'They wouldn't understand.'
He gripped the crimson sword tighter.
He turned his back to the mercenary camp and started walking.
"Time to leave this cursed place."
"Time to carve my own path."