Chapter 513: The Scarlet Orchestra
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It started slowly at first.
A single drop of what looked like a red tear slid down from the crimson moon, cutting through the night air with unnatural slowness.
Like a soft, gentle rain in a summer storm, but this was anything but gentle.
Then another.
And another.
Within seconds, the moon was weeping.
Scarlet droplets began falling across the elven capital like a twisted blessing from the heavens.
Plip.
One landed on the white marble of the palace courtyard.
Another struck the polished armor of a frozen city guard.
A third splashed across the glowing runes of a mage's warding circle.
And then—
The screaming started.
"Ahhh!"
"It's burning!"
"What is this?!"
"Help!"
The droplets weren't water. They were blood. Thick, warm, and saturated with mana.
Morgana's blood.
And the burning was simply their mana circuits reacting to it.
This was the same spell Morgana used on the demons during the ascension trials when she and her children attacked that city, the one that caused the entire city to drown in blood.
However, this version of the spell was weaker and simpler.
Morgana didn't want to slaughter every person in the city; that would put a sour taste in her mouth. Moreover, it would be a waste of precious cocks and wombs.
'Gonna keep them for breeding.'
She just wanted to cause a panic and make them feel a small fraction of the pain, and at the same time drain their mana to knock them out.
This was her mercy for those who were dragged into this mess.
However, that was for the 'pure' elves.
As for those who had demon corruption in them?
For them, it was literal agony.
Their blood, already corrupted by demonic essence, began to boil. Their skin blistered and split open, revealing the squirming black tendrils of corruption underneath.
They were being purged.
Forcibly.
It was a messy, glorious sight.
And the screams? Oh, how they were music to Morgana's ears, almost as good as a moan from the inner walls of a hungry womb.
The pure elves cried out in shock and pain, clutching their burning skin as the crimson droplets sizzled against their bodies.
But the corrupted ones?
They howled. They writhed. They clawed at their own flesh as if trying to tear the corruption out themselves.
"Help—HELP ME!"
"Make it stop!"
One of the palace guards collapsed onto the stone pavement, clawing at his chest as black veins spread across his neck like writhing worms. The red droplets struck his armor again and again, each impact sending violent tremors through his body.
CRACK.
His gauntlet split open as his fingers twisted unnaturally. Dark smoke leaked from the gaps in his skin.
"N-no… it's coming out—!"
His voice dissolved into a choking gargle.
Then something moved beneath his flesh.
A writhing black tendril burst through his shoulder with a wet, tearing sound.
The surrounding elves recoiled in horror.
"What in the goddess's name—?!"
"He's corrupted!"
"Demon!"
"Kill him!"
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The crimson rain fell heavier now, a relentless curtain of scarlet tears washing over the elven capital.
"Our performance..." Morgana raised both hands as if conducting an orchestra. "... begin."
Her fingers moved slowly through the air.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Every twitch of her hand seemed to guide the chaos below like a maestro guiding musicians through a grand performance.
A guard collapsed. A mage screamed as the red rain burned through his wards. Another corrupted elf convulsed violently as black tendrils burst from beneath his skin.
"The opening movement is always so... cluttered. Too much noise, not enough soul." She sighed dramatically, swaying her hips as the red rain intensified around her. "Let's start again."
"One," she whispered, tapping a single finger in the air. "The anticipation. The sharp intake of breath before the curtain rises."
Below, the city trembled.
Soldiers staggered through the crimson rain, their boots slipping on marble slick with blood and mana-burn residue. Mages clutched their chests as their circuits sputtered and dimmed like dying candles.
All eyes were drawn upward.
Toward her.
The conductor.
"Ahh, the stage is set," Morgana purred, her voice a melodic caress that sliced through the cacophony of screams, resonating with an obsessive delight. "Can you feel it, my dear audience? The tension, the dread, the inevitability of my next note. Let us elevate this performance to transcendent heights."
Morgana slowly lifted a second finger. The crimson rain intensified.
"Two," she sang softly. "The melody. The delicate harmony of pain and pleasure."
The crimson rain thickened into sheets, a vermilion veil draping the spires of the elven capital. Pure elves buckled now, their mana circuits flaring in protest—blue veins glowing hot beneath porcelain skin before flickering out. They crumpled in heaps, unconscious puppets with strings severed, bodies limp and ready for the after-party.
But the corrupted? Oh, their symphony was a glorious dissonance. Black, oily corruption sizzled through their flesh, their bodies contorting in agonizing finales, every shriek a perfect crescendo in her masterpiece.
SPLATTER.
"AHHH!"
A noblewoman in silks shrieked as her arm erupted. Black tendrils uncoiled like lovers from a too-tight embrace, slick and pulsing, tearing free with wet rips. Her gown shredded, revealing writhing corruption snaking toward her core.
"No—no—Goddess, make it stop!"
Morgana tilted her head, lips curling in applause.
"Such vivid colors. Your agony paints the stage so beautifully." Her crimson smile widened. "Keep singing. Keep dancing."
"The performance never ends!"
Drip. Drip. DRIP.
Guards clashed swords in futile rhythm, armor cracking as demonic filth boiled forth. One captain—half-elf, half-nightmare—roared, his jaw unhinging as a horn of shadow punched through his cheek. He swung wildly, cleaving a comrade before tendrils dragged him down, face-first into the scarlet flood.
"Symmetry," she murmured approvingly. "How rare it is to find it so willingly offered."
Her third finger rose slowly.
"Three." Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. "The crescendo builds. Hearts race. The audience holds its breath."
The rain hammered now, drumming a symphony on marble and flesh. Wards shattered like cheap glass. Mages clawed at eyes, weeping red, their spells fizzling into sparks. Corrupted elves burst open in clusters—chests splitting like overripe fruit, spilling inky viscera that steamed in the downpour.
CRUNCH. SPLITCH. GURGLE.
A cluster of palace sentries convulsed in unison. One's helm flew off as his skull warped, horns spiraling out in grotesque bloom. Another's legs fused into a tail of shadow, thrashing uselessly.
"Purge... it purges us!" they wailed, voices harmonizing in despair.
Morgana swayed, hips tracing invisible arcs, her laughter a soft ha-ha-ha like distant fireworks.
"Clumsy. Sloppy. But the blood—such exquisite red. It stains the canvas just right."
CRUNCH. SPLITCH. GURGLE.
"Ahhh~... Every masterpiece requires a little... agony," she sighed, a shudder of genuine ecstasy running through her frame. "The pain is the brush. The blood is the ink. And you..."
Morgana pointed a slender, blood-stained finger at the writhing masses.
"You are my unwilling gallery."
She raised her fourth finger.
Slowly.
Reverently.
Eyes from every tower, every alley, locked upward. To her. The conductor of the glorious symphony of blood.
"..."
The silence was deafening.
"Four." Her voice was a lover's whisper, a mother's lullaby, a god's final word. "The Grand Finale."
The crimson stopped, every drop freezing mid-air like tiny suspended rubies.
"I will make you beautiful," she promised the screaming city, her voice rising in a melodic, chilling peak. "Through my ART! Your souls shall transcend this mortal coil."
For a single, impossible second, the chaos held its breath.
Then.
The frozen droplets of blood exploded.
Not outward.
Inward.
Every drop sank directly into the flesh it touched.
Every elf. Every human slave. Every centaur. Every beastkin.
Every single living soul within the city's walls.
And then, they fell, sleeping like a gentle, pure princess in a fairy tale, waiting for the kiss of her prince.
The corrupted? Their finale was final.
Their forms froze, crystallizing, the darkness inside them petrifying into glasslike obsidian. They became statues. Twisted, agonized monuments to Morgana's art.
The city was silent. Still.
Like the moment before the curtain call.
Morgana shifted her posture, one arm behind her back, the other held high like a conductor's final pose. Her chest rose and fell slowly, savoring the afterglow of her performance.
A single, pure tear of joy traced a path through the crimson stains on her cheek.
"Thank you, everyone," she whispered to the sleeping, dead, and crystallized city. She slowly bowed to the silent audience. "Our performance is complete. I hope you enjoyed the show."
Then she turned her gaze to the only place she intentionally left untouched.
The core of the palace where the demon god was shitting himself in fear.
"Hehe~... Now... for the encore."
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