In a world where being born an Omega is seen as a mark of weakness, what happens when someone is born even weaker than that? How does society treat you? How do your family and friends look at you when you're deemed less than the lowest rank?
Kim Tae...
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The room was covered in darkness, its only illumination coming from a circle of flickering candles. Their dim light cast eerie, shifting shadows across the walls, highlighting the sinister scene in the center. A meticulously drawn sigil ( a symbol that use in dark magic.) lay on the floor, surrounded by the candles. At its heart was the lifeless body of a young girl, her pale, fragile form unnervingly still. Scattered around her were various dark magic artifacts-bones, vials, and ancient tomes, each reeking of malevolent power.
Kneeling before the girl was a figure cloaked in a long black robe. The hood obscured his face entirely, leaving only the chilling sound of his slow, deliberate breathing. His presence was oppressive, filling the room with a palpable sense of dread.
Suddenly, the door burst open with a deafening crash. A man stumbled in, his face wild with desperation. In one hand, he clutched a knife, its blade slick with fresh blood. In the other, a small bottle filled with blood. His chest heaved as if he had run miles, and his eyes gleamed with both fear and hope.
"I got it..." he gasped, collapsing to his knees before the hooded figure, his voice trembling.
The man held out the bottle with shaking hands. "You asked for the blood of an unborn child. Here it is. Now... bring my daughter back." His voice cracked, the weight of his grief evident in every syllable.
The hooded figure remained silent for a moment, then finally spoke in a deep, chilling voice. "Very good. Your daughter will be restored. Sit by her head and hold it with both hands."
Without hesitation, the father obeyed, crawling to his daughter's side. His hands trembled as they cradled her cold, lifeless head, tears streaming down his face.
The hooded figure began the ritual. He chanted in a guttural, ancient tongue, moving with precision as he arranged the dark materials. The air grew thick with a foul energy, the flickering candles flaring higher as if feeding on the darkness.
As the figure reached for the bottle of blood, his movements became deliberate. Without the grieving father noticing, he swapped the bottle with another, identical in appearance but containing something far different. He poured the false blood onto the sigil, completing the ritual.
"Now," the hooded figure said, his voice cutting through the thick silence, "stay with your daughter until sunrise. Do not release her head, no matter what happens."
The father's eyes were wide with both hope and fear. "She'll be alive by morning... right?" His voice was barely a whisper, trembling with desperation.
The hooded figure paused for a moment, then responded coldly, "Yes." Without turning, he walked out of the room, the heavy door creaking shut behind him.
In the hallway, he pulled back his hood, revealing his true identity-Riho. A twisted smile spread across his face as he held up the genuine bottle of unborn blood.
