Vielli stood over Leonold's corpse, her breathing ragged, her violet eyes still glowing too brightly in the dim torchlight. Blood dripped from her fingers, her lips, her chin.
The Count was unrecognizable. What was left of him was little more than shredded meat sprawled across the stone floor. His bloated stomach had been torn open, his insides spilled out in steaming coils. His long, grotesque tongue twitched one last time before going still.
"So the master plan worked?" Julius didn't know if he was meant to smile or vomit. "Ready to go back to normal Vielli?"
Julius pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering. His shoulder throbbed, his vision swam, but Vielli was the bigger problem now.
She was staring at him just as she had been staring at all the other people who were now dead on the floor.
"Vielli?"
Her fangs were still bared, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Her hands trembled.
Julius' blood ran cold.
She was still hungry.
Vielli's fingers twitched at her sides, curling, then uncurling. Her mouth opened slightly—then snapped shut, her jaw tightening as she forced herself to look away.
She was fighting it.
But she was losing.
Julius shifted slightly, and she flinched as if he had just struck her.
"I—" Her voice cracked. She grabbed her head, her body shaking violently. "Must resist... I have to—leave."
Then, before Julius could react, she turned and bolted.
A blur of violet and red, a streak of motion too fast for the eye to follow—Vielli was gone leaving a trail of blood in her wake.
"Well I think that's for the best..."
Julius exhaled shakily, pressing his hand against his still-bleeding shoulder. He had survived. Barely.
But the danger wasn't over yet.
Shouts echoed from above. Heavy boots pounded against stone as guards rushed toward the dungeons. They had heard the commotion.
Julius didn't wait. He stumbled toward the cell door—now nothing but twisted scraps of metal—and stepped over the bloodied remains of the guards.
He needed to get out.
His body protested with every step, but he forced himself forward. Up the stairs. Down a dark corridor. Past empty rooms lined with grotesque paintings of Leonold stuffing his face with food.
Then—a window.
Julius didn't hesitate. He climbed onto the ledge, sucked in a breath, and jumped.
The night air rushed past him. Then—impact.
Julius hit the dirt and rolled, his shoulder screaming in protest. But he couldn't stop.
More voices. More boots. The guards were searching for the count's killers, but they had both already escaped.
Julius pushed himself up from the ground outside the window and ran.
Julius clenched his shoulder as he staggered through the dimly lit streets. Blood still seeped from the wound. His head was light, his legs shaky.
"I need to stop the bleeding." He muttered.
The village was too quiet. But he had no choice. If he didn't get treatment soon, he'd pass out—and he refused to die here.
Julius had noticed something strange about the village before he ever stepped into the doctor's clinic.
As he hurried through the streets, clutching his wounded shoulder, he spotted villagers gathered at long wooden tables beneath the glow of flickering lanterns.
They ate in eerie silence. No chatter. No laughter. Just the quiet clinking of knives and forks against plates.
Julius slowed his pace, drawn in by curiosity—and hunger. He hadn't eaten in what felt like days. Stress had carved his stomach dry.
The food smelled rich. Savory. The thick aroma of roasted meat and broth filled the air.
A woman with stringy brown hair lifted a spoonful of steaming stew to her lips, chewing slowly, almost thoughtfully.
Julius hesitated before stepping closer. "Excuse me… What are you all eating?"
A bald man at the table turned to him, blinking as if the question had confused him.
Then, he shrugged. "The food we're given."
"Specify please." Julius squinted his eyes. It could be anything.
"The delicious kind. What's with all these questions?"
Julius frowned. "Right, but... what kind of meat is it?"
The bald man blinked again, lifting another bite to his mouth. "Dunno. It's just what we eat. If the food is good then why should we care?"
The others nodded absently, slurping their meals without pause.
Julius felt a chill crawl up his spine.
They don't know what they're eating?"
A young girl, maybe ten years old, giggled. "It doesn't matter what it is! It's tasty!"
Her mother ruffled her hair, smiling. "That's right, dear."
Julius stared at the dark, glistening meat on their plates.
Something about it felt wrong.
His stomach turned. His hunger vanished. Something about that food hurts my stomach.
He forced a nod and backed away, excusing himself. His shoulder ached. He needed medical attention—fast.
So he made his way to Doctor Eddin's clinic.
Then, he spotted it: a wooden sign swaying gently in the night breeze.
"Healer Eddin's Clinic."
Julius exhaled in relief and limped toward the door.
It creaked open before he could knock. A hunched old man peered out, his wrinkled face stretching into a slow, lazy grin.
"Ah, a traveler," the doctor murmured. His pupils were slightly too wide. "Come in, come in. You're hurt, aren't you?"
Julius hesitated. Something felt off. This man had a similar feeling to the count.
But he had no time to be paranoid. He stepped inside. His body was screaming in agony still.
The clinic smelled of herbs, alcohol, and something sour. Dried plants hung from the ceiling, glass vials lined the shelves, and a small fireplace crackled in the corner.
"I hurt my shoulder, it's bad." Julius cursed, even moving his arm hurt.
"Sit," Eddin gestured toward a wooden stool. "Let me see the wound. I'm a professional."
Julius sat, wincing as he removed his torn shirt.
The doctor hummed softly, dabbing at the bite mark with a cloth soaked in something cold.
"You're lucky," Eddin said. "If that had been a proper wound, you'd be crippled. Whatever hurt you was close to the bones."
Julius shuddered. "Good to know." She really did take more than a bite.
The old man chuckled, working quickly. He wrapped the wound in clean bandages, his fingers light but precise.
"There. That should do. Now—drink this."
Julius took the small bottle Eddin handed him. It smelled faintly of honey. There was a skull and cross symbol on the front.
"For the pain," the doctor said. "It'll help you relax."
Julius stared at it. Something in his gut told him not to drink it.
"Uhh. Is there meant to be a skull symbol on the cup?"
The old man was watching him too closely. Expectantly.
"It's just a symbol."
Julius pretended to take a sip. He let the liquid brush his lips but didn't swallow. It felt warm, sickly and too sweet to be good for him.
Eddin smiled wider.
"That's it. Just relax."
Julius faked a slow nod.
Eddin stood and turned, his back to him.
Julius seized the moment. He spat the liquid onto the floor.
The wood beneath his feet sizzled. If I drank that... I don't think I'd even be alive.
His stomach twisted.
"Poison?"
Eddin was already muttering to himself. "Finally, some good meat… The wife and children will be so pleased. A fresh young man, just for us."
Julius' blood ran cold.
"Of course he's a cannabilist... This whole village..."
He recalled what Kaelan had said about the other side.
"This place drives people insane, it's made for that."
These people, despite not living on the other side, lived in such vicinity that they had been probably been driven to insanity.
A creak came from the other room. Julius glanced sideways—
A woman and three children peered in from the hallway, their eyes shining too brightly in the dim firelight. Their lips curled into identical, hungry grins.
The youngest—a little girl no older than seven—licked her lips.
They were waiting.
They were all waiting.
Eddin turned back to him, still smiling. "Oh? You're still awake?"
Julius acted fast.
"Die."
He grabbed a glass vial from the shelf and hurled it at the fire. It was instinctive almost.
The explosion rocked the clinic.
Smoke billowed out as shelves collapsed. Eddin screamed, his family shrieking behind him.
Julius ran.
He sprinted out the door, down the alley, into the empty streets.
He could hear them behind him.
"Catch him! We mustn't waste the meat!"
Julius didn't stop.
"He's wasting food Papa, catch him."
He bolted toward the village gates, his freshly bandaged shoulder throbbing.
He ran past the insane villagers, past the eerie houses, past the signpost that pointed toward Gildale.
As Julius sprinted for his life through the streets— Eddin's laughter echoing behind him, the family chasing him down like a pack of wolves—**the truth finally clicked.
The food they were given.
The meat they didn't question.
The doctor's words: "Finally, some good meat… The wife and children will be so pleased."
The villagers were eating people.
He never looked back.
And he never stopped running.