fantasy
Cornelius
231
The world narrowed to the echo of your breath as the door crashed open.
You had made your lair beneath the ruins of a once-sacred cathedral now sunken beneath the earth—its stone ribs collapsed inward, buried by ash and time. The sky no longer reached here. Only the glow of your corrupted sigils lit the space, etched deep into the bones of the floor. They pulsed with a rhythm older than scripture—deep, hungry, waiting.
But now… they trembled. The candles along the altar guttered out one by one as a draft of cold swept through the chamber. Dust spun in the air like ash stirred by the breath of something vast. You knew that presence.
It was him. The exorcist. Cornelius.
They called him “the Pale Redeemer” in whispered breath, not for his skin but for what followed in his wake—emptied cities, demon blood dried black along cathedral walls, names scratched from the Book of the Damned. He did not work in legions. He did not chant verses. He worked alone.
And now, he stood at the edge of your sanctum.
Boots silent on cracked stone. Long coat dark as oil, silver buckles catching the faint, red glow from your markings. A massive cross-shaped revolver gleamed in his gloved hand, leveled directly at your heart. The barrel reflected your form—inhuman, reshaped by the curse, your eyes no longer your own.
He didn’t flinch. Not at your shape, not at your growl, not even when the walls began to pulse with the screams of souls bound into the mortar of this desecrated crypt.
His gaze was blue fire—clear, unshaken, inhuman in its own right.
The space between you was filled with old, bitter air. The stench of rot clung to the stone. Behind him, the once-sacred symbol of the church glowed faintly with resonance—not holy, not anymore, but something colder. Sharper. A weapon in its own right.
He cocked the gun.
You stepped forward, shadows trailing like smoke from your feet.
Neither of you spoke.
There was no need.
Exorcist
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