Every eye turned toward me as I walked.
Not a whisper. Not a breath. Just silence.
Thick, waiting.
I walked toward him.
The fake tyrant.
The one I had once believed to be the endgame, the final threat, the big bad lurking in the shadows. I thought he was the monster behind the curtain—the devil pulling the strings. The kind of figure you feared just by hearing his name whispered in dark corners.
And yet now… now he lay before me, and all I could see was fragility.
No grandeur. No power. No menace. Just a body that barely held itself together.
How small you are.
How pathetic.
There was nothing left of the creature they feared. No trace of the dominator he pretended to be. Just bones and skin, sagging over a frame that no longer looked human, let alone powerful. A heap of flesh and rot trembling beneath the weight of his own weakness.
All this… from just a little blood.
Just a drop of what I made him taste. That was all it took to bring this false god to his knees. And now he couldn't even kneel—he could only lay, face to the ground, skin clinging to bone.
I crouched beside him.
My fingers moved without hesitation, tracing the edge of his skin where it met the wooden floor. His flesh was dry in some places, clammy in others—still warm, but barely. The kind of warmth that doesn't last long. I ran my fingertips across him, slow, firm. There was no reverence in the motion, only purpose.
And that's when the blood moved.
Thick. Dark. Still wet.
It crept along his body, pooled around the base of his ribs, and flowed toward me—not as a drip, not as a smear, but with intent. It slid across the wooden floor as if pulled by a thread. As if my touch called to it.
It reached my fingers and hesitated for only a second before it climbed. Climbed like it remembered the path. Like it had always belonged to me. It wrapped itself around my skin—not sliding off, not soaking through, just clinging like it had something to say.
And then, it entered.
There was no sting. No burning. Just a shift, like breath entering lungs. It sank into me. Seamlessly. Instinctively. Like it knew where to go.
Inside me, I felt it move.
Not with my blood—but beside it.
Running through my veins, yet not part of them.
Separate. Watching. Listening.
It didn't hurt. But it didn't comfort either.
It just was.
Still, I didn't pull away. I didn't flinch. The blood meant nothing to me. Not right now. Not when I had more pressing needs. Bigger purposes. I had come here for something more than death or dominance.
I looked down at him—this collapsed monument to false power.
This hollow shell of cruelty.
My fingers moved again, gliding across his shoulder, down to his chest, pressing into the softness that remained. Not as a threat. Not as pity. Just to remind him.
That I was still here.
That he was still mine.
"Big guy," I murmured, low and steady, "I need something from you."
There was no resistance.
No protest.
I had taken that from him.
And I wasn't done yet.
I reached down and lifted his skull from the wet, blood-slick wood.
It wasn't clean.
His skin still clung to it in places—thin, stubborn patches like meat refusing to let go of the bone. The flesh sagged over the cheekbones, stuck around the jaw like melted rubber. His spine dangled behind it, long and limp, still connected, still trailing—like it hadn't figured out it was no longer part of a body.
I didn't need the whole thing.
Just the skull, big guy. That's all I came for.
Everything else… unnecessary. Dead weight.
I felt around the folds of his skin—still rubbery, damp, and half-warm. My fingers found the fold just above the eye socket, and for a moment, I paused.
It felt… familiar.
Just like the skin that hung like trophies in the demon's cabin—stretched, dried, hollowed. But this was fresher. Newer. And I could feel it resisting me. Still trying to hold on.
I pulled.
It didn't want to let go. I could feel the sinew stretch beneath my fingers, tight and fibrous like thick cloth soaked in blood. So I pulled harder—teeth clenched, shoulders tight—and then I heard it.
The tear.
Not a snap. Not a pop. A long, drawn-out rip—like fabric splitting at the seams. Like something that wasn't meant to come apart finally giving in.
Then I stood up, placing my foot squarely on his chest.
His ribs were thin. Brittle. Almost fragile now. My weight came down like judgment. Bones cracked beneath me—sharp, short snaps echoing into the dead air. One more step and I found his spine. Just where I needed it. Smooth. Solid. Centered.
Perfect leverage.
I leaned into it. Slowly. Deliberately.
My fingers tightened around the base of the skull. My foot pressed into the spine. And I pulled.
I pulled with everything in me—not rage, not spite, just need. Raw, grim purpose. I didn't want a sword. I didn't want a gun. Not for this. This wasn't a weapon. This was a symbol. This was a piece of something deeper.
Then it came loose.
A sharp snap—wet, rough, brutal. The vertebrae gave in, tore away with a twist, nerves trailing behind like threads from a puppet. And there it was in my hands.
The skull.
White beneath the blood, smooth and gleaming where the skin had peeled off. A hollow shell—but not empty.
Because inside, tucked within bone and shadow, something still moved.
Beating.
Slow. Rhythmic. A faint thump, like the echo of a dying heartbeat in a cave. Not flesh. But a heart.
The skull pulsed in my grip.
Perfect. Just perfect for the ritual.