Ch.72

Van Helsing struggled to get up but slumped back down. His sprained ankle was swollen. While clutching his ankle and groaning, he spotted Avashina.

“What’s this? One left, huh?”

Van Helsing whistled.

“Just a moment. Uncle’s a bit busy. Wait, little one.”

Fortunately, the child stood there blankly. She won’t run away. Van Helsing broke off a chair leg lying nearby, placed it against his ankle, and tied it with a strip torn from his outer garment.

Only then did he sit comfortably on the floor and slowly look at Avashina.

“Are you the youngest daughter? You look exactly like your mother. No, you’re prettier. You’ll be quite something when you grow up. Come here.”

Avashina walked toward him as if hypnotized.

Slap.

Avashina struck Helsing’s cheek.

“Ptui.”

Helsing’s eyes widened as he looked down at the bloody phlegm. The white thing rolling on the floor was clearly his tooth.

“This little brat has quite a sting, just like her mother…”

Thwack!

Avashina struck his other cheek. Helsing’s body flew across the wall as if hit by a flying log.

Helsing twisted his body at the last moment. Buried among the debris, he struggled to his feet. This was no child’s strength. His mind warned him, but his body didn’t listen.

How dare! Who!

“Show respect.”

Helsing’s legs bent involuntarily, and his knees slammed into the stone floor with enough force to crack the stone.

“AAAAARGH!”

The pain of his knees being torn apart struck Helsing. Only then did he properly look at the girl before him.

She was crying. Blood flowed from her two eyes. And on her back were white wings like a bird’s. But they were wings increasingly soaked in blood.

“Blood Lord…”

“Bring them back.”

Helsing’s body flew through the air. He crashed back into the shattered pile of wood. A broken stake pierced his right thigh.

“AAAAGH! You fucking—”

“Bring them back.”

Avashina no longer moved a finger. She merely blinked. That alone was enough to smash Helsing’s body. Onto protruding weapons. Against the cold stone walls. Into the still-rising flames.

“Bring them back. Bring them back. Bring them back.”

“AAGH! AAAAGH! Stop, stop!”

Helsing’s body was flung wherever Avashina’s eyes fell. His arms were crushed, his legs severed, and stakes and metal fragments pierced his entire body. Yet he didn’t shed a single drop of blood. The blood refused to leave his body.

“Please, please! Please! Please stop, please stop!”

“Bring them back.”

Helsing’s tongue was pulled out as if someone were yanking it. Sharp thorns pierced his tongue following Avashina’s gestures. Even as the pain nearly drove him mad, Helsing saw new flesh constantly growing on his tongue. With his wicked intelligence, he understood what was happening.

The Count’s youngest daughter was preventing him from dying. She intended to keep him alive while continuously inflicting pain.

Shrieking, Helsing clamped his mouth shut. His bitten tongue writhed in agony, but he didn’t care. Better to lose a tongue than become this demon’s plaything.

“Guh-guh-geh. Geh-eck.”

Avashina waved her hand in the air as if tearing away something filthy. Helsing’s body was impaled between thick stakes. Red blood and black oil flowed from his chest. His breath, which had been struggling like something broken, finally ceased.

“Professor!”

From the far end of the corridor, the mob howled and rushed forward. Avashina recognized those faces too. They were her father’s subjects, the ones who had plunged knives into the bodies of her father, mother, sisters, and brothers.

Avashina’s wings fluttered. The last Blood Lord, the castle’s rightful owner and legitimate heir, rose into the air above the traitors.

“Demon… a demon is rising!”

The angry crowd rushed forward as one.

“AAAAAAAAAAH!”

Avashina screamed. She stretched out her right hand, pointing at them. The crowd, covering their ears, stared in shock at the blood flowing between their hands and ears.

“Bring them back! Bring them back! I said bring them back! My family, bring them back! Bring them back!”

Avashina dove into the crowd, frantically flailing her limbs. Her white wings became stained with dark blood. It was the wild movement typical of a child, but each time her hand touched, a mob member’s limbs exploded.

Blood. Blood splattered. Instead of lowly humans, honest blood pleaded with Avashina. Avashina didn’t want to see it.

The memories of others entangled in that blood rose like unwanted memories that overwhelm you.

Ivan loved the girl next door but couldn’t speak to her.

Lyudmila wanted to make a proper matryoshka doll someday.

The Ilyich family had a habit of snoring loudly.

“No, no…”

The lives of the people she was hurting. Their trajectories. Their thoughts, happiness, joy, sadness, depression, and anger penetrated the girl without filter.

The unfiltered selves of others, not her own, rushed at her.

Why? Why must I endure this?

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to be hated. Bring them back. Bring them back. Dad, Mom. Uhuuuuu…”

Avashina fell to her knees. She couldn’t see anything.

But in her head, evil spirits, catchy songs that wouldn’t go away, thoughts crawling like earworms still floated around.

“Demon girl. Set her on fire! Let’s burn her!”

The enraged mob rushed forward.

BOOM!

The corridor exploded. Even the mob had to stop as dust billowed up.

A dark-skinned man emerged from the dust. He was tall and well-built. But the villagers sensed something off about him. It wasn’t his skin color or physique.

He wore the clothes of a clergyman, but blue flames sparked from his eyes.

The hunters somehow thought those eyes looked like eyeshine. Nonsense. Eyeshine is only visible in wolves in dark places. This corridor was lit with torches.

“Then Abraham approached God and asked, ‘What if there are fifty righteous people in the city?'”

Wooo-oo.

Outside. In the distant haze. The howl of wolves was heard. It was as clear as if shouted right in their ears.

“The Lord said, ‘If I find fifty righteous people in Sodom, I will spare the whole city.'”

Wooooooooo.

Screams came from below. Screams of terror that dried the hearts of those who heard them. The forest keepers knew those screams. When one encounters a bear defenseless. The screams of someone being eaten alive.

“What if there are forty-five? I will not destroy it. What if forty? I will not destroy it.

Lord, do not be angry if I speak once more.

What if only ten can be found? The Lord answered,

‘For the sake of ten, I will not destroy it.'”

Timber wolves emerged from the dust. Hungry. Starving. Angry wolves. The mob didn’t know how many there were. They kept coming, kept crawling through the gaps.

The dark-skinned man glared at the mob. His muscles swelled, and long claws sprouted from his fingertips. Even as his muzzle elongated like a wolf’s, the man continued speaking clearly.

“But it seems there aren’t even ten here. Despite people gathering from five villages.”

“Cut the crap! That girl is the devil’s seed!”

A young, hot-blooded farmer rushed forward.

Arf-!

Two timber wolves darted forward. One bit the farmer’s leg, and the other jumped onto his stomach.

It tore out the farmer’s throat with its muzzle, then savagely ripped his body with its front paws. The young farmer eventually fell silent.

“Whether someone is a demon or not is determined by the clergy. Whether someone is guilty or not is determined by judges. Whether someone is sick or not is determined by doctors.

The people can judge too, but only if they are rational, reasonable, and wise. And they must love their neighbors as themselves.

Is what you’re doing like that? Where is the respect in what you’ve done? Besides destruction and death, what have you done?

You called this girl a demon, so I question your qualification.

I know both God and demons, but you know neither.

Speak. On what grounds did you call this child a demon?”

Belated terror came upon the mob. Now the priest’s body looked completely monstrous. Standing on two legs. Human legs with a beast’s upper body. A wolf’s muzzle, arms, and claws. The word “werewolf” came to everyone’s mind.

“For the sin of arbitrarily calling God’s creation a demon, I pronounce excommunication upon you. As crimes committed in God’s name, I punish you in His stead and in His name.”

The timber wolves trembled and rose on two legs. They too transformed like the priest.

“Purification.”

Wooooo!

The mob fled, pushing ahead of one another. They couldn’t move properly as they shoved and blamed each other.

The werewolves broke through walls, trampled the mob, and tore their bodies apart.

Like farmers plowing dry fields, like sharks tearing at a bleeding whale, they received their punishment exactly as they had done to the weak.

Belated repentance, regret, cries of being incited, pleas of being deceived—all were mercilessly torn, severed, and chopped under the wolves’ teeth and arms.

Even those escaping the castle were met with the wolves’ judgment, flowing like time. Claims of being deceived. Not knowing. Being sorry. Having made mistakes. None of it worked.

Only by results. Only by the results of their actions. The consequences of biting the hand that raised them, clawing the back that carried them, and defiling the milk that fed them came upon them fully.

To humans who acted like beasts, beasts acting like humans took the lead in delivering punishment. Even the moon merely watched their actions and consequences clearly, permitting it with silence.

Not a single subject living in the Count’s five villages saw the next day’s sunrise.

For a long time afterward, legends about the ruined castle circulated among people. That a demon, unable to bear the sins committed by humans, sent wolves to destroy them. That the wolves destroyed the great castle as a warning.

Just as written in the Bible, not even a single foundation stone remained intact.

Braggarts claim they clearly saw wolves running along the ridge at night. They say that among the silver wave of wolves, a huge black wolf carried an angel soaked in blood and sobbing with sorrow.

Adults dismiss such talk as nonsense, but somehow, boys and girls who fall asleep hearing these stories see a brilliantly shining castle, grazing livestock, and a midsummer festival where everyone dances, sings, claps, and enjoys themselves.

Though each dances with different partners, they all say they saw a girl clutching the skirt of a lady, with eyes shining with curiosity.

They say she was pretty and round like the moon, but somehow looked sad.

Children would excitedly tell their parents the next morning.

But now, except for one, no one remembers that story.

As stones are worn away by wind and the earth embraces tragedy to forget it, one story has fallen asleep.

In the heart of a girl who had to become an adult too early, carried away on a wolf’s back through a nightmarish night.