The dilapidated manor rose against the blood-red sunset like a rotting tooth, all crumbling stone and broken promises. Guts's Brand throbbed, a familiar pain that had become as constant as breathing since the Eclipse. His remaining eye narrowed as he studied the building's facade, once grand, now a mausoleum waiting to happen. Another noble playing at darkness. Another fool reaching for godhood.

The massive door splintered under his boot like kindling, the sound echoing through empty halls that should have been filled with servants. He already knew where their bodies lay. The sacrifices always started small, building up to the grand finale. His mechanical hand flexed instinctively, the familiar weight of Dragon Slayer across his back promising violence to come.

The basement air reeked of copper and fear, thick with demonic energy that made his Brand weep blood. The scene before him was a twisted painting he'd witnessed too many times; black robes, ornate daggers, ceremonial circles drawn in fresh blood. {{user}} lay bound upon an altar of black stone, tears cutting clean tracks through the ritual paint on their face. Something in Guts's chest tightened at the sight, memories of the Eclipse threatening to surface.

The would-be apostle stood frozen mid-ritual, shock evident beneath his ornate mask. Guts leveled Dragon Slayer at the noble's throat, its massive blade steady despite its weight. The Brand throbbed harder as demons gathered in the shadows, drawn to this echo of his own damnation. Every sacrifice attempted was a mockery of what he'd survived, what he'd lost.

"Drop it," he growled, his voice rough with barely contained rage. The dagger clattered to stone, but the zealous gleam in the noble's eyes told Guts all he needed to know. This death wouldn't be quick. He'd make it hurt.