Me and the Devil: I sold my soul

A gentle rain fell over the London sky, like whispered secrets trickling from the heavens. Inside the Milverton study, firelight danced against the stone walls, flickering between the quiet shadows.

Charles stood before the large window, staring out at the empty, rain-slicked street. In his hand, an unopened letter. On the desk, a teacup long gone cold.

"He should've returned yesterday," Charles murmured.

Vespera leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her eyes were sharp, alert.

"Did he say anything to you before he left?" Charles asked without turning.

"No," Vespera replied softly. "But he left a message with one of the servants. Just a single sentence: 'I'll be gone for a while. Don't worry about me.'"

Charles clenched the letter until it wrinkled. His face remained calm, but something changed in his eyes—worry masked beneath a veneer of cold fury.

"You know he wouldn't leave on a whim. Not after everything we've been through."

---

Hugo Ravensword's Residence – Moments Later

The door creaked open. No servants greeted him. Only silence—and the sound of rain tapping on the windows.

Charles stepped inside slowly, removing his gloves. His boots met a damp corner of the carpet—no one had cleaned since yesterday.

The sitting room was neat. Too neat. No tea cup on the table. No half-read book lying about like Hugo usually left.

"...Hugo?" he called.

No response.

He took the stairs two at a time. The sound of his steps echoed through the house that felt… empty.

When he opened Hugo's study, Charles froze.

The room was dim. On the desk, a pile of old documents—worn maps, reports from the royal security bureau, and a leather-bound notebook. Beside them, a still-wet pen—as if recently used.

Charles stepped toward the desk, his fingers brushing over the handwriting.

"The Falacy. Last seen in southeast London, likely hiding along the old trade route..."

"Wapping Marsh. Abandoned church. Not under the Queen's surveillance. Potential hideout..."

Charles narrowed his eyes.

"...You went alone?" he whispered.

He pressed both hands to the desk, jaw tightening. Wind blew through the open window, scattering the papers as if the wind itself shared his alarm.

Vespera arrived silently, standing at the doorway.

"No signs of struggle downstairs," she said. "He left willingly."

Charles gave a small nod, eyes fixed on a small, red-inked circle on the map.

"He went to Wapping Marsh. And he told no one."

He closed the notebook slowly and turned to Vespera.

"Prepare the horses. We leave tonight."

Vespera hesitated. "And if we find no one there?"

Charles twisted the Milverton signet ring on his finger.

"Then I'll begin burning down every place they've ever touched... until I find someone foolish enough to lie to me."

"Shall I trace his trail?"

Charles nodded.

"Meet our informant in Whitechapel. Have him comb every street from East London to the north. And..."

He met Vespera's gaze—cold, yet unmistakably shaken.

"...If you smell even a trace of The Falacy—don't come back without their heads."

Vespera smirked.

"So troubled, for someone who claims to have no heart."

Charles exhaled, turning back toward the window.

"He's not a citizen. Not a soldier. He's the only person I love."

The rain grew heavier. Charles's shadow stretched across the wall—not of a man anymore, but of a judge in a storm.

---

Limehouse

A thin mist clung to the cobbled streets as night descended on Limehouse. The port lamps flickered dimly under layers of soot, and the smell of salt and spoiled fish choked the air.

Boots splashed in puddles.

Vespera moved slowly through the narrow alleys between the docks and crumbling warehouses. Her face was hidden beneath a black hood, her violet eyes scanning each broken window, each shifting shadow.

She was searching for Hugo.

And what haunted her most—was the absence of traces. As if the man had been swallowed by the earth.

"No travel record. No witness. No blood. Only… silence."

She stopped before an old tavern. The signboard dangled by a single rusted chain. An oil lamp flickered above the door.

Inside, drunken sailors slumped at broken tables.

Vespera entered.

Her presence silenced the room. One by one, they turned—but none dared speak.

She approached the bar, facing an old man with an anchor tattooed on his throat.

"Someone came by yesterday afternoon," she said softly, but with palpable weight. "A young man. Sharp eyes. Well-dressed. More noble than sailor."

The bartender paused, then nodded slowly.

"Yeah… he asked for directions to Wapping Marsh. Said he'd be quick. But..."

"But?"

"...I never saw him again."

Vespera stared deep into the man's eyes.

"Was he followed?"

The bartender swallowed hard, then pointed to the far corner of the room.

"Not by any man, miss. That one came from there..." he gestured toward the river, where rotting ships drifted like floating corpses.

"...sometimes they come for those who know too much."

Vespera's eyes narrowed.

She turned and walked out without another word, descending the docks to the river's edge, lined with sunken ships and rusted chains.

The sea wind tugged at her cloak.

She raised one hand. Faint magic coiled around her fingers—soft violet light flickering like ghostfire.

She closed her eyes.

"Show me, wandering spirits… the traces of the wretched that came here."

Specks of light danced in the mist. A faint trail of aura emerged—footsteps invisible to the eye—leading toward an old warehouse by the pier.

And there... she smelled blood.

"They've angered someone who should never be angered."

---

Underground Warehouse – Limehouse

The night sky wept a slow drizzle, seeping through cracks in the crumbling rooftop. Beneath it, a dark, damp cellar reeked of mold and old blood. Iron and rot hung thick in the air.

Hugo hung in the center of the room, half-seated, chained hand and foot in thorned restraints. Nearly all his fingernails—ripped off. Black blood dripped slowly from each fingertip.

His mouth had been torn. From lips to near his ears.

His face swollen. Breathing ragged. But his eyes...

Still alive.

Before him stood a tall man cloaked in black, his face hidden behind a metal mask, with only his cold, merciless eyes visible.

"You know too much, young noble," the man rasped, his voice like a coffin's whisper.

"Even history wants the truth buried. But you dug... and now you pay."

He raised a small blade, touching it to Hugo's chest.

"Every wound is a lesson. Not everyone is allowed to know the name The Falacy."

Hugo looked at him. Gave a weak, bloody smile.

"Even if there are thousands of you... you'll never lay a finger on *him*."

"What do you—"

CLANG!

A sudden crash shook the ceiling. Dust rained down.

The masked man snapped his gaze upward.

BRRAAAAK!!

The roof shattered—

From the darkness above, a cloaked figure descended, scythe in hand.

Violet light blazed in her eyes. Silver hair whipped in the wind.

Vespera.

She struck downward with her massive scythe. The Falacy agent barely dodged—

But three fingers from his left hand went flying, blood spraying.

"AGHHH!!"

Vespera landed in a crouch, one knee touching the ground, scythe resting on her shoulder. Her face was blank. Her eyes—lethal.

"You touched what should never be touched..."

She rose slowly.

"...and now I'll make sure you never touch anything again."

The masked man growled, drawing a long sword. "Someone like you has no business interfering..."

The duel began.

Metal met metal. Sparks danced with each clash. The scythe carved wide arcs, the sword struck with narrow precision.

Vespera spun, cleaving through crates and stone. Her foe leapt atop a crate and lunged. She blocked with her scythe's haft and retreated.

"You're fast," Vespera muttered. "But unfortunately..."

She leaned forward, voice like a blade—

"I am the death that comes for you."

The Falacy agent attacked first—his curved blade slicing the air.

CLAAANG!!

Her scythe blocked, violet sparks flashing like fallen stars. The impact cracked the ground.

He twisted, slashing diagonally.

Vespera ducked—then vanished into shadow.

WHOOSH!

She reappeared behind him, scythe sweeping in a crescent arc.

The agent turned too late. He blocked with bare hands—just in time to lose more fingers.

"GRRRAGHHHH!!!"

"Freak—!"

She kicked him hard—he flew into a wooden pillar, which collapsed atop him.

Still, he rose, coughing blood, fury igniting his wounds.

"You think you can defeat a third-generation elite of The Falacy?!"

Vespera smiled. "Finally... something fun."

---

He launched upward, twin spectral swords slicing from above and below.

**VESPERA LEAPT—HER SCYTHE SPINNING LIKE A WHIRLING DEATH BLADE.**

Both phantom swords shattered in a single spin.

Blood sprayed.

Vespera grabbed his face—and hurled him into the floor. The ground cracked beneath the impact.

As he struggled to rise—

THE SCYTHE SLASHED DOWN.

He screamed, blocking with one arm—but the blade carved through his limb and shoulder.

"YOU... I'M NOT DONE—"

"That's enough," Vespera said coldly. "Even God wouldn't forgive you."

With one step—

VESPERA CLEAVED HIM FROM SHOULDER TO HIP.

Blood burst like a dark crimson fountain.

His body fell, severed.

Vespera stood in the silence. Her breath steady. Her scythe dripping.

---

Footsteps echoed across the warehouse floor. Smoke hadn't yet cleared when Charles emerged from the shadows.

Wearing a long coat marked with the Milverton crest, his hair damp with rain, he looked at the corpse split in half—expressionless.

"Are you done?"

Vespera turned and replied:

"Apologies, my Lord. I couldn't preserve the head…"

"...I got too excited. He was interesting."

Charles approached, kneeling beside the unconscious, bloodied Hugo.

He gently touched Hugo's hand.

"Forget the corpse. Heal Hugo."

"As you command, my Lord."

A veil of violet magic enveloped Hugo.

And they carried him from the blood-soaked, silent warehouse.

The night sky watched them go.

While Vespera's great scythe still dripped crimson.

And the wind whispered:

"Never steal the light from one loved by a demon..."