The Rite of Succession
The inheritance ritual. It was the ceremony to receive the power left behind by the previous cult leader. By offering the bone dust of my grandfather—and the first Voodoo Cult leader, Do Jun-gil—I would inherit his strength.
Just one question. No regrets about your choice?
Baron Samedi asked. He sat cross-legged, looking down at me with an arrogant tilt, as if appraising me.
"None."
Truly?
I nodded silently. I was certain I would never regret this choice. Or more precisely, if I didn't undergo the inheritance ritual, there was a high chance I wouldn't even have a future to regret today's decision.
Baron Samedi leaned back in his chair, gazing at me obliquely with a sly grin.
But... there's a little problem.
"A problem?"
As you know, your father Do Myeong-jun never underwent the inheritance ritual. That's a very serious issue. Do you understand what I mean?
Baron Samedi shot up from his seat and strode toward me. With a flick of his hand, a glass filled with rum materialized in midair. He downed it in one gulp.
Crash!
The rum glass shattered against a pillar in the temple. Shards scattered across the floor, glinting under the temple's purple light.
Baron Samedi stepped over them casually, closing in until his red eyes were right in front of me. Those fathomless eyes of death chilled me to the bone.
In just two generations, the 'tradition of succession' was broken. Because of your father's laziness.
"...Is that my fault?"
Of course not your fault. Nor mine. No one's fault, really. Not your father's, not your mother's. However.
Baron Samedi pulled a cigar from his pocket. He snapped his fingers, and it lit up. He took a deep drag, savoring it, then exhaled thick, heavy purple smoke. The sticky haze clung to my face.
The problem is the broken trust. Between the Voodoo Cult leader and me, the Loa of death.
"What's the conclusion?"
No reason for me to perform the inheritance ritual for you. Who knows—you might end up like Do Myeong-jun, dying without leaving even a handful of bone dust.
Baron Samedi stubbed out the cigar on a temple pillar, leaving a black scorch mark on the purple wall. He tossed the half-smoked cigar away entirely. Throughout, his narrowed eyes watched me intently, as if expecting something.
What he wanted from me was obvious.
"Fine. Include me in the 'cycle.' That should restore the broken trust, right?"
Baron Samedi laughed at my response. It was a bizarre cackle—boisterous laughter or mocking sneer, impossible to tell.
That's the answer I wanted.
Shwoooosh—!
As his words ended, a dark, murky purple glow enveloped me. The grand temple vanished behind it. Through the haze, Baron Samedi's red eyes gleamed vividly.
In exchange for the bone dust of the previous leader Do Jun-gil, I hereby appoint Do Seon-woo, present here, as successor.
In return, Do Seon-woo must pass his bone dust to his descendants. The descendants must offer Do Seon-woo's bone dust to me, the Loa of death, through the inheritance ritual. This is the contract with death.
A wind blew from nowhere, rippling the purple mist and light. Amid the storm, Baron Samedi continued.
Thus, the third cult leader Do Seon-woo is now included in the cycle of death.
I nodded. The mist cleared, the temple faded, and cold reality returned.
The taxidermy dolls surrounded me, with the pervert leisurely watching from beyond. The forgotten pain rushed back—immense agony that left me unable to twitch a finger.
"That should do it. Good thing we weren't too late. If that one showed up..."
Squelch, squelch.
A headless taxidermy doll with three arms and three legs lumbered over and roughly hoisted me up. It dumped me onto the back of the spider taxidermy.
The spider doll carried me, its eight legs skittering like a real spider's toward the pervert.
Thud!
The spider shook me off roughly onto the floor. The impact intensified my already searing pain.
"Still alive, huh? Hey?"
The pervert chuckled creepily, squatting before my slumped form and tapping my head with his finger. His fingers were long and bony, more like tongs than hands. He rolled my head around, lifted my limp arm like a toy, playing with my body.
"Well, you're alive. Then—"
Hiss...
The pervert's words halted as he grabbed my hair to drag me off. Mist was seeping out—from the spell circle I'd just drawn. Thicker and denser than usual.
The pervert glanced at the mist-emitting circle and scoffed.
"Won't work. Half my body's not even human anymore."
"I know."
I stood, speaking calmly. The spell I'd cast was Intoxication—not on the dolls or the pervert, but on myself.
Having deeply inhaled the spell's mist, my body no longer felt pain. Only dizzying pleasure coursed through me.
Pain vanished from my immobilized body. It worked. The spell worked on me.
"Now that's better. Hoo... ahh..."
Nothing to hinder me now. Wounds handled by restoration spells, pain by intoxication. Not truly banished, just temporarily forgotten—but that didn't matter. What mattered was no pain right now.
My body trembled. Not from pain, but pure ecstasy and thrill. Maybe the mix of Preservation's power and intoxication spell caused this insane euphoria boiling through me.
Don't get lost in it.
"I'm fine."
Legba's warning echoed in my mind. I nodded with a smile.
I hadn't done this without thought. I could feel my Voodoo magic output had risen a level after the inheritance ritual. Spells were sharper, their intensity easily overwhelming my own resistance.
In other words, I could now cast spells on myself.
So intoxication to suppress pain was possible. The risk was addiction or losing motor control from over-immersion.
"It's fine. Better than I thought..."
Solved by lowering the spell's output. Just enough pleasure to forget pain—thrilling and sticky, but not enough for addiction or total immersion.
"...How the hell are you standing?"
The pervert backed away, flustered. No wonder—the guy who'd been trembling on death's door suddenly stood grinning.
He gestured frantically, directing the dolls. Ones behind me advanced with squelching steps.
I drew a spell circle.
Kiririk!
Voodoo magic poured from it with a vicious hiss, forming a blade. The Decapitation Sword. Razor-sharp, with dangling ornaments on the hilt. Far more precise than the one I'd recreated to kill Ko Jun-min when he became a demon species.
Post-ritual, my recreation spells had improved dramatically above all else.
Slash.
The spider doll lunging with a raised foreleg lost its leg. A faint scream emanated from the sword—the wails of ancient criminals beheaded by it long ago.
Mastered recreation didn't just mimic form—it captured the sounds too.
"Ah, ah! My dolls! Those are his masterpieces!"
The pervert cried out. Even through his flayed face-skin, terror was evident.
His frantic gestures spurred the dolls faster. Cleverly, they targeted my left side—unguarded, no sword in my right.
Squelch!
I crushed a doll's head in my grip. Cotton and sawdust mixed with blood rained down. Headless, it collapsed limply.
The pervert gestured more desperately. Dolls zigzagged erratically toward me.
Crack, crunch, slash...
Left-side dolls: crushed skulls or twisted necks. Right-side: cleaved by the sword.
Dozens dwindled to a dozen, then four, rapidly falling.
Each doll's defeat sent precarious waves of pleasure surging from my solar plexus.
"Ah, ah, my masterpieces...! Damn timing!"
The pervert muttered nonsense, stomping the floor in rage.
One doll left. But armless, legless—crawling toward me on stumps.
Stab.
The sword pierced its heart. It thrashed briefly, then slumped lifelessly.
"Ah..."
A sigh escaped the pervert. I strode toward him, each step squelching. No longer the hunted.
Thud.
Dazed, he stared, then knelt as I approached. The dry expression under his face-skin mask looked up at me.
"Spare me. He made me do it. All of it—he ordered it. I'm a good person. Forced by orders. I'll become a Voodooist if you spare me. Really, just one chance..."
He clung to my leg, sticky tears pouring through the skin-mask.
I'd planned to behead him outright, but hesitated at the sight. My sword-hand trembled.
He groped my leg, sobbing, then suddenly looked up.
"Thank you. For the chance."
Snap!
Something tore. My body lurched. He'd sliced my Achilles tendon with a hidden scalpel from his wrist.
Stinging pain shot from ankle to waist. He cackled at my grimace, then bolted.
"He'll be here soon. One gesture from him, and you'll be a doll—neither living nor dead—"
Thud.
His taunting threat cut short as he collapsed mid-escape. The Decapitation Sword protruded from his chest—thrown by me.
I approached steadily. My Achilles was already restored, pain buried under pleasure.
He gurgled blood, eyes wide with fear—no, perhaps transcendence now.
"I gave you a chance."
"...How are you even walking? I felt the tendon snap in my hand."
"Who knows."
Restoration fixed the tendon; intoxication masked the pain. No need to explain.
"What're you gonna do, figure it out yourself?"
Crack!
I kicked his skull. Neck vertebrae snapped; his body went limp. From the shattered cranium oozed half blood-mixed brains, half sawdust and cotton.
Half his head stuffed like a doll.
"As expected."
That's why spells half-worked—he wasn't fully human. Half doll, half effective.
No point dwelling now. The room reeked of pungent blood, chemicals, rot—like month-old garbage.
I fled the room, passing corridors lined with grotesque frozen dolls, until underground level 4.
The dim parking lot light felt blindingly bright. My clothes were soaked in blood—mine from head and mouth. Unwashable.
Rumble...
Then, an explosion echoed from behind. Muffled through soundproofing, but growing closer.
Swallowing rising anxiety, I headed for the elevator. Buttons did nothing—it stayed stuck on floor 1.
Don't just stand there. Take the stairs!
Boom, rumble—!
Explosions and collapsing sounds neared, now right upon us. Parking pillars shook from blasts.
Anxiety turned to certainty: the building was collapsing.
I abandoned the elevator, sprinting up stairs two or three at a time. Dust rained from the ceiling.
My once-steady legs now trembled. Intoxication wearing off. Forgotten pain crept back.
Without more, I'd collapse soon.
Shwooo—!
I ejected Voodoo magic—far denser, purer than before. Vivid purple, almost radiant.
The spell circle it formed: intoxication, of course.
No. You won't die, but body and mind will crumble.
But I stopped drawing at Legba's warning.
"If not now, I die. Guaranteed."
Long-term, better not to. One more floor to ground level. Endure.
The circle was over half-done. One stroke to complete.
I paused mid-step, pondering. Legba was right long-term—overuse risked addiction.
But not using now meant death. Pain spread from dantian to every corner.
Without intoxication, collapse imminent. Certainty, not guess.
Hiss...
Ultimately, I added the final stroke, activating it. Inhaling mist washed pain away.
Back-to-back casts flooded me with near-fainting ecstasy.
You madman! Stubborn fool! You never listen!
"Heh, hoo... Ah, sorry. Really."
Legba berated me. I swallowed leaking laughter, barely apologizing.
Even in crisis, it bubbled up inexplicably.
I hurried out. Underground staleness gave way to fresh surface air.
Fire trucks lined the front; paladins gathered, staring at the building. Peaceful save for the trucks.
Kaboom—!!
The blast shattered peace. Paladins grabbed gear for entry; startled civilians screamed.
I turned to the building.
"...Ah."
It tilted. Underground explosions had undermined the foundation. Windows shattered, signs plummeted.
Fire birthed smoke—black plumes billowing skyward.
Screams echoed everywhere. Paladins just gawked.
Only one assessed and moved to enter. The rest were frozen.
I'd shut my eyes exiting. Screams lingered in my ears—from my explosion.
Yet only one paladin entering to save. Impossible for him alone to rescue everyone in that massive structure.
Don't say you'll go in. You'll suffocate on smoke for sure.
"..."
No proper gear, and your body's wrecked. Entering means death.
Legba was right. I clung to consciousness via restoration, intoxication, and Preservation.
Charging bare into flames was suicide. Best case, no blackout from smoke.
Bare, unequipped.
"Hey! Gear up in turnout gear quick! Captain's already inside!"
"You idiots get training or what? Hurry up!"
"S-sorry!"
Before the blazing building, amid fire trucks, paladins donned gear frantically. Fire equipment piled nearby.
I stared silently. Legba's flustered voice came.
...On second thought, gear or not, you'd die anyway. My bad.
"Legba wouldn't misspeak. You're not Legba, are you?"
You're intoxicated, judgment impaired. Snap out—where are you going, you lunatic! Do Seon-woo! Stop! Seon-woo!
Legba wailed. My steps led to the fire truck, the piled gear.
(To be continued next chapter)