Chapter 6 - The Hunt (IV)
A naked and filthy girl, her hair, which should have been soft and shiny, was dry and dirtier than that of a wild animal. Innocence no longer shone in her eyes—only the purest fear and terror.
Alastor noticed that the screams he was hearing weren't coming from the girl in the cage but from elsewhere in the warehouse.
"Tereza, go and save the girl," Alastor ordered, his expression cold as he walked toward the source of the cries for help. His eyes were so icy they sent shivers down Tereza's spine.
"Yes, my lord," Tereza replied calmly, but as she passed the fallen Werewolf, she couldn't maintain her composure and deliberately stomped on its head with force.
"Trash," she whispered to the Werewolf as she walked toward the cage where the poor girl was cruelly imprisoned.
Karl didn't care about his face being stomped on. He turned his head toward Alastor, his eyes filled with fury and resentment. He reached out his hand toward Alastor's back, but no matter how much he roared in his mind for his body to move, his claws could not reach the boy.
"Do you accept my gift, dear son of the moon?" Karl heard a feminine voice whispering in his ear.
"Will you save my daughter?" Karl asked, on the verge of losing consciousness at any moment. His vision had already begun to darken. Death seemed to be standing beside him, waiting for the right moment to take him to hell.
"Yes, I will save her," the voice answered again, its tone as gentle as a mother whispering goodnight to her child at the end of the day.
"I…" Before falling unconscious, Karl gathered all his strength, and with his lips close to the ground, he slightly opened them before closing them again.
"I accept."
"Rise, Son of the Moon, and bring death to your enemies."
"Yes, Mother Goddess."
—
Standing in front of the door, Alastor used his gift and tore through everything in his way. He stepped forward, now that nothing was blocking his path.
Inside the room, he saw it was a typical girl's room, with a predominant pink color, many stuffed animals, and dolls.
"ARRHHHHHHHHFGGG!!!"
"IT HURTS, DADDY!!!"
"I'M HUNGRY!!!"
"HELP ME, DADDY!!!"
Alastor's gaze was fixed on the girl chained to the bed, thick and heavy metal chains tightly wrapping around her small body. She didn't seem to be more than seven years old, with black hair and blue eyes.
As he approached her bed, Alastor looked down with his extremely cold eyes. The girl emanated a nauseating, grotesque stench in waves.
He wasn't familiar with the smell of the Son of Chaos' power, but in the library, there were the diaries of his predecessors, which described the smell in great detail.
Alastor had to admit, what they wrote didn't do justice to the experience of smelling it firsthand.
It was as if all the filth of humanity had gathered in one place.
Imagine a scent strong enough to make you faint just from inhaling it, multiply that by a hundred times, and you still wouldn't come close to how horrific the smell was that Alastor was enduring at this moment.
For the first time in his life, Alastor wished he didn't have his extraordinary senses. He presumed that hell itself couldn't smell as foul as the stench of a Son of Chaos.
"It seems I understand what's going on… He gave all the hearts to you, his daughter," Alastor remarked, looking at the girl, who hadn't stopped screaming for even a second. The influence of the Crimson Moon had already deeply penetrated the girl's mind. At this moment, Karl Lambert's daughter was no longer herself; she was merely a vessel that the Crimson Moon could use to enter the Human World.
"Although you are not the killer, in the end, you are still an accomplice. And like the one who ordered it, you too must die by my hand." Grabbing the werewolf girl's neck firmly, Alastor spoke slowly, his gaze showing no hint of compassion for a seven-year-old girl.
Just before Alastor could snap the girl's neck, a red blur appeared in the room. A claw covered with red nails tore through the air, heading straight for his throat.
Alastor sharpened his eyes. His senses had already alerted him to the attack, and he barely dodged in time, watching as the red claws passed just inches from his face.
Using his hand, Alastor touched the werewolf's chest and spoke coldly, "Tear."
Slashhh!
A gaping wound ripped through the werewolf's chest in the next second, with a large amount of blood spilling from the wound onto the wooden floor.
Alastor stepped back, observing what had attacked him. His eyes narrowed as he noticed it was a werewolf, its fur as red as blood. Its size was much larger than before, reaching nearly four meters in length. The same horrendous stench as the girl now emanated from him as well.
"Mental note: kill the target first and don't let your emotions control your mind," Alastor muttered to himself as he watched Karl Lambert completely transformed.
The young lord of House Agrece observed as Karl's wound healed almost instantly.
Alastor showed no surprise at the sight. At that moment, Karl Lambert, like his daughter, no longer existed. Everything he once was had been turned into a puppet—a monster incapable of rational thought.
But in exchange for everything, including a life of eternal servitude, the power gained was not to be underestimated. Karl had now reached Threat Level 2. A being of this level could easily massacre a small town without much effort.
Alastor no longer held back. He raised two fingers and, pointing at Karl, made a vertical motion, speaking coldly.
"Tear."
Invisible cuts of varying sizes passed through Alastor, disregarding space and instantly striking Karl's body, ripping and slicing through him.
The entire room around them did not remain intact after Alastor's attack. The wood was slashed and then sliced again, torn apart by the invisible cuts.
Blood splattered in all directions, staining the surroundings.
The walls and pillars could no longer support the ceiling, and it collapsed onto Alastor, Karl, and the girl still chained. A cloud of dust spread through the area!
A small figure emerged from the smoke—it was Alastor. He seemed perfectly fine, not even a speck of dust on his clothes.
Alastor couldn't help but frown. He listened closely and detected the sound of chewing within the dust cloud that still hung in the air.
As the dust settled, Alastor saw the source of the sounds and couldn't help but narrow his eyes.
Karl was beside the bed, shielding his daughter with his own body. It might have been a touching scene if it weren't for the girl, who was devouring her father with an innocent smile, her mouth smeared with blood.
She looked like she was enjoying a delicacy, licking her lips innocently.
Alastor noticed that Karl's body was in complete ruin. There were cuts everywhere, blood flowed in torrents from the wounds, and white bones could be seen through the gashes, along with his internal organs.
Clearly, even with the regeneration granted by accepting eternal servitude to the Crimson Moon, Karl could no longer heal his body.
Suddenly, blood began to gather around Karl. He pulled his daughter into the safety of his arms and didn't mind being eaten alive by her.
A massive blade of blood, formed from his own blood, materialized in front of him.
"Round Three," Alastor murmured, watching the enormous sword.
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