Two decades past, in the radiant lands of the Solara Kingdom, a sinister cult began to slither into existence—a maddening sect known only as the Bleeding Smile.
This unholy congregation was no re gathering of fanatics, but a deranged syndicate of agony-worshipping zealots, drunk on tornt, madness, and a twisted vision of beauty. Their devotion lay with an enigmatic being whispered only as the Crimson Muse. To them, true art was born only from suffering, and thus they birthed their so-called "Living Masterpieces"—human beings reshaped through myst-infused surgery, grotesque torture, and demonic modifications that twisted flesh and soul alike.
At the helm stood the depraved Marrow Jyn, once a respected noble surgeon, now a walking nightmare. After severing his own pain receptors and permanently fusing a smile-shaped mask to his own face, he erged as the cult’s sadistic high conductor. The Bleeding Smile moved under veils of deception, operating from shifting caravans disguised as theater troupes or subterranean art galleries built from the remains of their victims.
Their mbers were as theatrical as they were terrifying. The Painters—masked cultists who captured despair in motion. The Conductors—battlefield choreographers who choreographed murder like ballet. The Vivisages—twisted myst-surgeons of cruel talent. And the Mourned Choir—high priests who sang songs of silence with tongues cut and spirits shattered.
Wielding horrific instrunts like Smile Gas, myst-threaded living puppets, and explosive "art bombs" sewn into human bodies, they transford villages into macabre exhibitions. Even as demons ravaged Amthar, the Bleeding Smile beca the waking fear in human minds—dealers in myst-enhanced limbs, orchestrators of black-market flesh auctions, and enemies of demons for their lack of "emotional resonance."
The Solara Kingdom had hunted them for nearly a year. Yet, each ti the crown believed it had cornered them, the Bleeding Smile vanished into the night, slipping away like a nightmare upon waking.
But this night... was different.
A newly ford task force, commanded by none other than Serah Magna—the first daughter of the Magna line—had finally acquired the location of the cult’s true den. And tonight, Serah and her eight elite knights marched with intent: to crush the Bleeding Smile at its festering heart and bring Marrow Jyn to justice.
In Caelmoor—the capital of Zone 17—beneath the city’s marbled façade, a tunnel yawned beneath the earth. Utter darkness consud it.
Within this suffocating passage, nine warriors advanced with steady haste, boots quiet against the stone. Their pace was swift, their movents sharp, their presence heavy.
At their lead strode a woman whose very form seed to silence the tunnel’s breath. Dressed in a dark shirt, black pants, and a heavy crimson coat that reflected no light, she moved like vengeance wrapped in velvet. Her long, red wavy hair spilled behind her, and her crimson eyes burned faintly in the gloom like twin embers. She was Serah Magna, the crimson lioness of Solara.
Trailing behind her marched her companions—two won and six n. The won walked with grace: one a golden-haired beauty with eyes like a sumr sky, the other a green-eyed brunette with a gaze sharp as glass. The rest were battle-hardened n, each carrying the marks of countless fights and trust earned by fire.
They used myst to amplify their vision, though even that did not pierce the dark entirely. It rely helped them find footing on the moist, rot-slling path they tread.
"Gods above, this place is a damn cesspit," muttered one of the n—a grizzled fellow with an axe slung across his back, gray eyes flickering with disdain as he pinched his nose.
"No shit," replied another, this one with a buzz cut, green eyes, and twin swords at his hip. His gaze road warily across the path. "It’s sticky as hell."
"That’s probably just you, man. You stepped in sothing nasty when we first got here," snorted a younger man with a short blonde ponytail, smirking under his breath.
"Agreed. Aiden’s feet are like magnets for the worst kinds of sludge," chid in another, an auburn-haired knight with ocean-blue eyes.
A few of them chuckled at the remark.
"Haha... hilarious. You guys should be court jesters," Aiden, the buzz-cut swordsman, grumbled, rolling his eyes.
Their small laughter echoed briefly, until it was silenced by a voice colder than steel.
"You two. This is not the place for gas." The words ca from a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimd beard and deep, focused eyes. His tone was quiet but sharp, slicing through the chatter like a blade.
"Jack started it," said the auburn-haired man—Banen—pointing at the blond with the ponytail.
"Tsk, always throwing folks under the wagon," Jack replied with mock disappointnt, shaking his head. "You’ve really gotta fix your snitching habit, Banen."
"I an, you did start it," Banen said with a casual shrug and a mock-innocent smirk dancing across his lips.
Jack opened his mouth, ready to fire back with sothing witty, but the sharp voice of the bearded man cut through once more.
"Enough, you two. Keep talking that loud and this so-called surprise raid won’t be a surprise for long," Blan snapped, his tone tight with irritation.
"Yeah, tell ’em, Blan," Aiden added with exaggerated disapproval, crossing his arms and giving both Jack and Banen a fake disgusted glance. "Kids these days, always flapping their mouths."
"You’re included too, Aiden," Blan said flatly as he reached out and thwacked the side of Aiden’s neck with a swift, practiced flick.
Aiden recoiled dramatically, eyes wide like he’d been mortally wounded. "Betrayed... by my own captain..." he whispered, clutching his neck.
Before he could escalate the performance, Serah’s voice rang out like a blade slicing the air.
"Enough."
She didn’t yell—she didn’t need to. The command in her tone was absolute. As she glanced over her shoulder, her crimson eyes glimred with subtle intensity, the light in them sharper than any glare.
"We’re almost there," she said quietly, "listen."
The squad fell silent imdiately. They activated their myst-enhanced hearing, letting the world settle around them as they strained their ears forward.
It didn’t take long.
From beyond the darkness ahead, they picked up rhythmic thuds—like heavy, slow footsteps slamming against blood-soaked floors. Intertwined with it was a low, haunting lody, voices singing in dissonant harmony. It didn’t sound like music. It was sounded like sothing broken trying to mimic it—like screams bent into hymns, pain stitched into sound. Like a choir with no joy or purpose. Just pure agony.
They had found the Bleeding Smile.
Serah’s voice ca again, almost a whisper. "Let’s move."
Without hesitation, she darted ahead, gliding like a shadow through the tunnel, swift and utterly silent. The others followed instantly, feet silent against stone, movents honed through brutal training and a dozen missions before this.
As they pressed forward, a dim light began to pulse faintly at the end of the tunnel. Serah’s eyes narrowed, then her steps slowed. The others mirrored her, transitioning into a crouched stance as they neared the source of the glow.
Seconds passed like heartbeats. One by one, the knights reached the end of the tunnel and huddled behind a massive broken wall that jutted outward, providing perfect cover. The wall split to both sides, forming the entrance to a long hallway.
Serah moved first. She slowly raised her head above the cracked stone, just high enough to survey what lay beyond. The mont her eyes landed on the chamber below, her breath caught slightly—not in fear, but in controlled tension.
They had entered an upper hallway that overlooked a vast underground chamber.
It sprawled below like an unholy theater carved from bone and stitched flesh. The walls were painted with blood—literal strokes of red layered over each other in a grotesque mural of screaming faces and open wounds. From the high ceiling hung massive, skin-stitched tapestries, swaying gently with a wind that didn’t exist. Bioluminescent veins pulsed through the walls like arteries, casting a dim, sickly light over the entire place.
At the center of the chamber stood a monstrous stage, shaped like a giant circular operating table. Around it danced cloaked figures in masks—so bore the white faces of tragedy, others the twisted grins of cody. Cultists. Dozens of them. And at the edge of the stage, a man stood tall in blood-red robes, his face masked with a cruelly carved smile etched in gold.
Marrow Jyn.
And behind him... cages. Lined along the far wall. Each one packed with barely conscious victims—so twisted, others begging silently, their mouths sewn shut.
Serah ducked back down behind the wall.
Her expression was unreadable.
"They’re here," she murmured, her voice calm but edged. "And there are more of them than I expected."
Jack’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his weapon, jaw clenched. "Don’t tell you’re thinking retreat."
"Hardly," Serah replied. "Taking all of them down alone would be difficult, but we can engage and hold them off until reinforcents arrive. Priority is the Painters. Then the Choir."
"And what about Jyn?" Aiden asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Jyn is mine," Serah said, tone flat and final. She turned her gaze toward the blonde woman. "Elene. Call for backup."
"On it," Elene said quickly, activating the comm-rune on her wrist with a flick of her fingers, the myst line beginning to pulse.
"Jack, Banen—you take the south flank," Serah continued, shifting into commander’s rhythm. "Hana, Pete, Aiden—circle around and strike from the north. Blan and I will—"
Her words halted mid-sentence.
A wet, gurgling sound pierced the air.
They turned in unison.
Serah’s breath caught as her eyes locked on Blan. He stood over Elene, his hand slowly withdrawing a blood-slicked blade from her throat. Her body twitched once, then slumped lifelessly to the stone, a dark pool spreading fast beneath her.
"What... what are you doing?" Serah asked, her voice no longer calm—just cold with disbelief.
Blan looked up, eting her gaze. His eyes no longer held the focus of a soldier. Instead, they shimred with sothing darker—almost delighted. He tilted his head, a mocking smile curling on his lips.
"Sorry, Princess," he said softly, wiping the blade on Elene’s coat. "But I had to."
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