In the heart of the Kingdom of Esheland, where ashen plains stretch under an eternally bleak sky, the capital rose upon a high plateau, surrounded by black rivers and barren mountains like the jagged teeth of hell. The capital was named Vaimariel, in the tongue of the ancients—"The City of the Last Covenant."
Vaimariel was not just a city… it was a living entity that pulsed with dread and ancient memory.
Its walls, built of crimson stone, bore magical sigils visible only under moonlight. Its stained glass windows reflected faces that no longer existed in the world of the living.
In the streets, the cries of merchants mingled with the chants of ragged beggars, and the scent of black roses danced with the stench of roasted meat—meat no one dared to question.
From alley shadows, twisted children with hollow eyes whispered forgotten tongues, watching passersby with something darker than curiosity.
But towering above all was the Great Crimson Church, a cathedral built from the blood of a thousand kings.
Its dome pulsed like a living heart, and its windows told martyr stories of long-lost saints and unnamed gods.
And from within, rose hymns—soft, low chants that pierced deeper than any blade.
Inside the sanctum, the Blood Bishops moved in wide circles around a blazing incense pyre, smoke rising in thick columns laced with goat's blood and obsidian dust.
They chanted in a dead tongue, eyes covered with strips of dried flesh, their bodies bound in light chains that clinked like whispers.
At the center stood Father Grayson, the High Priest.
Bare-chested, clothed only in a light crimson robe and linen trousers, he stood like a relic of forgotten power.
With dull, sunken eyes, he began to remove his iron crown… his amulets… his black ring… until nothing remained but flesh and madness.
Before him was a pool of blood—fresh, warm, and quiet as a grave.
He stepped forward slowly, submerging up to his knees, muttering incomprehensible phrases meant only for the netherworld.
When he emerged… he was no longer quite himself.
His body trembled; blood and sweat clung to him like a second skin.
But he did not pause. He walked with mechanical determination toward the sealed catacombs, unlocking the massive doors with keys that no other soul possessed.
He slipped inside, locking all four latches behind him.
Here, the darkness breathed. It spoke. It watched.
In the far corner, upon a throne of stone draped in spider webs, sat a waxen effigy… a doll carved with dreadful precision.
She looked just like Queen Vaila Dethric.
Her hair was spun silk woven with strands of real hair. Her face, too perfect to be innocent.
Grayson approached, kneeling. He took her wax hand, cold and still, and kissed it, whispering in a voice soaked in obsession:
"My Queen… I will do anything for you… Perhaps one day… you'll look upon me."
But then, like a dam shattering, his sorrow turned to fury.
He screamed. He sobbed. He tore the doll apart, snarling like a mad beast:
"No one will have you! No one but me! The Queen belongs to ME!"
His eyes gleamed with unholy light, and blood trickled from his lips as he laughed and wept all at once.
Suddenly—
A dry, cruel laughter echoed behind him like a knife into his spine.
He turned quickly.
From the shadows stepped a man, though that word barely applied.
It was Graham, the Monster Hunter—a being caught between beast and man.
His skin was cloaked in black fur, his eyes blood-red, glowing with hunger.
Every step he took made the stone tremble.
He approached, and without ceremony, stomped on the Queen's effigy, shattering it beneath his boot.
He spoke in a voice like gravel soaked in venom:
"No need for all this madness, Father."
Grayson looked up, face twisted in a deranged grin:
"Good… it's you, Graham. Soon… the plan begins. Rahig will come to kill me… and when he steps foot into the capital… then, you'll have every right to hunt him as you wish."
Graham chuckled, deep and guttural, like the growl of a beast before the kill:
"Now you're speaking my language, old man."