Rearing Demons

A full day of grueling work had passed, but Yur finally managed to corral more than two hundred imps into one area. The Imp Mother kept spawning new creatures, but they would often kill each other shortly after birth—meaning he had to remain vigilant, replacing those that died every hour or so.

[Imps Collected: 229/200]

[Count will adjust based on how many are alive!]

He glanced at the system notification and exhaled in relief. "All right, I've got my quota. Next up…" He turned to the swirling red script floating in his vision—a detailed guide Zul had provided on how to perform the ritual.

"I need to draw these symbols in a circle using…my own blood?" he muttered, grimacing at the elaborate instructions.

[Host must use his own blood to awaken bloodline!]

"That's a lot of blood," he complained, worrying about the potential risk.

[Post-Bahirath, Host's blood volume is extremely high!]

"Doesn't make it hurt any less," he snapped. Still, he knew time was of the essence. As the imps lingered together, more died by the minute—caught in tiny skirmishes or simply eaten alive by their siblings. Shaking off his trepidation, he scouted out a relatively open patch of ground next to the writhing pile of imps.

The ritual design was simple enough: four strange characters placed at equal intervals, connected by a circle along the outer edges and a cross through the middle. He approached the first spot, bracing himself to draw the first symbol with fresh blood.

"Argh, come on…" He tried biting his finger but quickly realized his tolerance for self-inflicted pain wasn't as strong as he'd hoped. He paced back and forth, searching for an alternative, until he spotted a jagged rock.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered, dropping to his knees. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and prepared to slam it down on the rock's pointed tip. Yet each time it neared the sharp edge, he instinctively flinched.

"Damn it!" he hissed, heart pounding. Each failed attempt only coated his hand in more dust. He looked over at the pile of imps, where at least two were in the process of cannibalizing a wounded sibling. They're not going to wait for me, he reminded himself.

"Fine! Whatever!" he snarled. "AH!" Screwing his eyes shut, he brought his palm down in a swift blow. A sharp bolt of pain flared as the rock impaled his hand. 

"Agh!" he gasped, but to his surprise, the agony was less overwhelming than he'd feared.

[Post-Bahirath, Host's pain tolerance has increased!]

"Could've told me sooner," he growled through clenched teeth, pressing his injured hand to the ground. His blood spilled out readily, and he hurried to sketch the first symbol before the wound healed. The moment he finished one, he noticed his wound already knitting itself back together.

"Seriously?" he groaned. "I have to keep re-injuring myself for each symbol?"

Nonetheless, he forced himself to do it again—hammering his hand onto the rock, coaxing more crimson fluid to trace the second character. Over the course of an hour, he repeated the process, each time cursing under his breath.

At last, he completed the circle and connected the symbols. Sweat glistened on his patched skin, and his trembling hands were slick with both dirt and clotted blood.

[Ritual Circle Complete!]

[Gather the 200 imps!]

He glanced at his palms, which were already mending yet again. I can't keep doing this forever, he thought grimly, but at least this stage was over. Turning to the chaotic horde of imps, he saw them stacked on top of one another in a wriggling heap. 

Many lay dead with bite wounds or half-eaten torsos, but the survivors waddled in frantic circles, gnashing their teeth at anything that moved.

Wasting no time, he grabbed a live imp and squeezed it, smearing its blood over his arms and chest. He could feel the warm, viscous fluid painting his skin, and a bizarre hunger stirred within him at the scent. I'm probably the only human who thinks this smells good, he mused wryly.

"Come on!" he barked, beckoning them closer as he continued drenching himself in gore. The cluster of newborn imps caught the pungent scent and eagerly rushed in, trying to bite him. Fortunately, their jaws were too weak to pierce his Bahirath-enhanced flesh, so they settled for licking and scraping him with tiny, jagged teeth.

"Haha, that tickles!" he said, taking a step back so he could properly corral them. Their little legs stumbled, but they kept on advancing in a mindless, blood-crazed march.

[Imps Collected: 44/200]

[Imps Collected: 79/200]

[Imps Collected: 98/200]

…

[Imps Collected: 200/200]

As the final count flashed across his vision, he carefully maneuvered himself and the writhing mass of imps toward the ritual circle. They clung to his shoulders, arms, and legs, some even perched on his head, but none could puncture his skin deeply enough to cause significant harm.

Stepping into the center, Yur felt an odd hum beneath his feet, like an electric current running through the ground.

[Imps Collected!]

[Ritual Circle Complete!]

[Beginning Ritual: Sacrifice of a Hundred Demons (2x)!]

A sudden pulse of energy made him gasp. The large, blood-drawn circle glowed with an intense red luminescence, each of the four symbols erupting into crimson flames.

This looks… kinda cool, he thought—right before terror spiked in his gut. The flames surged along the lines of the ritual, converging toward the center.

"Wait, wait—!" he yelled, but it was too late. The bloodfire slammed into him like a tidal wave, igniting both him and the swarm of imps.

Kr Krrrr Krrr Krrr! The imps screeched in unison, their shrill cries echoing around him as they caught fire. One by one, they burst into concentrated sparks of energy instead of simple ash, fueling the inferno that raged around Yur. He tried to pry his eyes open, but the sheer brightness forced him to squeeze them shut, and the heat consumed him from all angles. His new clothes disintegrated in an instant, vanishing into embers.

[100 Demons Sacrificed (2x)!]

[Awakening Bloodline!]

[Awakening Orb!]

[…]

Soon, it wasn't just his outer flesh that felt aflame—his veins, organs, and very bones began to sear from within. He howled, throat raw, as agony rippled through every nerve.

"Stop—!" he croaked, but there was no stopping the ritual's power.

[Bloodline Awakened!]

[Awakened: Ashkavaal!]

[Orb Awakened!]

[Awakened: Cinerath; Wrathful Ashe!]

[Host is evolving to embody Ashkavaal and Cinerath!]

The firestorm exploded in a final crescendo, forcing Yur to curl inward. He felt muscle and sinew warping painfully, skin cracking and remolding as if sculpted by molten hands. 

His hair caught ablaze, turning into an inky black flame. A pair of massive wings sprouted from his back, each pinned with a shrieking face imprinted in the membranes. A long, barbed tail extended behind him, its tip razor-sharp.

[Evolution Complete!]

[Host has created Demon/Human Hybrid Species!]

The flames died as quickly as they had flared, leaving a scorched crater where the ritual circle once glowed. 

In the center stood a new figure: tall, grey-skinned, and unnervingly sleek. Although his body bore grotesque demon-like mutations, Yur's facial features appeared strikingly human—and strangely handsome. His eyes were gray with black pupils, and he could feel a pulsing orb of heat residing deep within his chest.

Slowly, he raised his hands, each digit ending in a sharp, dark claw. "So… this is my new form?" he whispered, flexing his wings experimentally. A flicker of leftover flame danced around him, then snuffed out in the residual ash.

[Quest Complete!]

[Quest Complete!]

[Reward: 100 Demon Points!]

[Reward: 100 Human Points!]

A translucent status window materialized:

|—————————————|

Name: Yur Ashkavaal

Age: 10

Title: Mal's Successor

Demon Cultivation: Vashra

Human Cultivation: Nascent Orb

Bloodline: Ashkavaal

Orb: Cinerath; Wrathful Ashe

Demons: 0

Demon Points: 102

Human Points: 100

Sanity: 21/100 (>50 = Insanity!)

Map

Shop (New!)

Memories (New!)

Demons

Quests

|—————————————|

He stared at the text, scarcely believing the transformation etched across his body. His tail twitched against the ground, and the shrieking faces on his wings gradually fell silent, blending seamlessly with the inky membranes.

Mal's Successor…? The words throbbed in his mind. Who exactly was Mal? He had questions aplenty, but the pain still lingering in his bones dampened any immediate curiosity. Instead, he tried to steady his breathing, the flickering embers drifting from his smoldering hair like lazy fireflies.

All around him, the land of Zulmasharr seemed to darken further, as if acknowledging the birth of something new—something both terrifying and powerful. And in the distance, that Imp Mother tree continued to rain down more potential subjects for a newly crowned demon-human hybrid.