Interrogation Log

Interrogation Log

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MatureKumpleto Sun, Jan 20, 20199m

gore murder psychotic

Excerpt from the story: "Gupil walks down the hall looking at the bloodbath he now finds himself in. He has never been one for emotions, even now though his operation was a success he does not find himself feeling accomplished or unhappy about it. All he feels is coldness. An emptiness that cannot be filled no matter what happens, any emotion to enter is swallowed up by the dark hollow pit of his mind. They echo but leave no sensations behind. Looking around at the blood and bodies the disgust he feels is not for the violence that took place but for the mess it left behind. To him, it matters not whether you are alive or dead. Life means nothing to him, it is simply something that is and nothing more. If someone dies then they do, how or why or the fact they are dead doesn't matter it is just a fact. They are dead, they are alive, they are innocent, they are evil. Those things are concepts that he acknowledges exist but other than that are nothing more than concepts. If he gets mad at someone then he kills them, he doesn't think of death as a tragedy, in fact, he hardly thinks of death at all."

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The Crimson Requiem: Liturgy of the Damned

The world does not know pain. Not yet. The stars hang too peacefully in the sky, the air is too clean, and the people-they breathe too easily. They laugh, they love, they dream. They do not know what true suffering is. Max Morbarius will teach them. He was once a man. Once fragile, once weak, once breakable. But pain reshaped him. They tore him apart. They drowned him in agony. They thought death would claim him. They were wrong. Something ancient whispered to him from the abyss. Something hungry. Something that found his agony... beautiful. It did not offer salvation. It did not grant peace. It tore his soul from his corpse and stitched it into something monstrous. Now, he does not kill for justice. He does not kill for revenge. He kills because it makes the world scream. He moves like a shadow through the night, his presence an infection, a creeping plague of fear. He does not just slaughter his enemies-he peels them apart, nerve by nerve, bone by bone. He drinks their suffering, paints the walls with their entrails, carves their sins into their skulls. Their agony is his masterpiece. Their blood is his baptism. But he is not the worst thing that crawls from the dark. There are others. Things lurking beyond human understanding. Eldritch horrors with endless mouths, gods that demand rivers of suffering, nightmares that fester and grow in the rot of his carnage. And they whisper to him. They watch him carve, rip, and mutilate. They want more. They are waiting for him to unleash his true form, to let go of what little remains of his soul, to become the thing they always knew he could be. The Red King of Ruin. The Harbinger of the Fleshstorm. The Father of Agony. And when he finally lets the madness consume him... The world will not be reduced to ashes. It will drown in an ocean of screaming, writhing, bleeding flesh. Because death is not the end. It is only the beginning.

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