Ten Lucky Draws: I Became OP Chapter 200: Guilty By Association

[A/N: Fair warning... this Chapter is a bit cruel and dark.]

Away from the Venia Galaxy lay the Nocturne Galaxy—a realm of eternal, suffocating night where stars burned cold and crimson, their light twisted into blood-red halos that fed the hunger of shadows rather than illuminating the void.

This was a galaxy that empowered creatures of the night: vampires whose veins pulsed stronger under blood moons.... werewolves whose howls warped space into savage territories of primal fury; wraiths that slipped through reality like smoke through fingers....

Banshees whose screams could shatter souls and echo across star systems; Nightstalkers with eyes that pierced every illusion, thriving in the absence of light...

All of them flourished in an environnt where daylight was heresy and eternal night amplified their primal, predatory essence.

This was the Nocturne Galaxy, ho to the Eternal Nocturne Clan.

The heart of their dominion was the world of Nocturne First Pri...

Its surface was a labyrinth of gothic towers rising from oceans of thick black ichor that bubbled with trapped screams, castles carved from obsidian and bone that wept slow rivulets of blood from their windows.

The air was heavy with the tallic tang of iron and decaying roses, eternal fog rolling through streets paved with polished onyx where vampire nobles glided in capes of writhing shadow, blood fountains gurgling in grand plazas like open throats.

The sky was locked in perpetual eclipse, the red star haloed in black, casting everything in hues of blood and velvet darkness—empowering the vampires with endless, insatiable vitality as long as night reigned unchallenged.

Deep beneath the grandest castle lay the Crimson Abyss—a dungeon prison designed not for containnt but for eternal, exquisite suffering.

Carved into the world’s throbbing core, its walls were living veins of crimson crystal that pulsed like arteries, dripping warm, viscous blood that nourished parasitic shadows slithering across the floors like hungry tongues.

Cells were chambers of mirrored obsidian where prisoners faced infinite reflections of their own tornt—every scream multiplied endlessly, every wound reflected back thousandfold.

Chains forged from solidified agony tightened with every sob, drawing blood that the dungeon floor drank greedily, and pits filled with blood-mist induced endless hallucinations of lost loved ones pleading for rcy that would never co.

Inside one such chamber, three figures occupied the space.

Two of them were won who had once been peerless beauties—radiant, unbreakable—but after more than two years of relentless torture, they barely resembled life.

Katherine’s long blonde hair hung in matted, blood-crusted clumps that trailed down her emaciated back like dried, flaking rivers of crimson, strands stuck to open wounds that wept fresh tears of blood.

Her blood-red eyes—once fierce—were swollen and cracked, endless streams of crimson tears carving pale channels down skin stretched taut over protruding bones, veins black and visible like spiderwebs beneath translucent flesh from endless draining.

Sumr’s long black hair was tangled and filthy, limp ropes matted with old blood and filth, hanging over shoulders covered in layered bite marks, whip scars that refused to heal, and burns that blistered eternally.

Both won were gaunt, their ribs jutting sharply with each shallow breath, skin marred by deep purple-black bruises layered over one another.

Raw wounds circled their wrists and ankles where chains had gnawed to the bone with every desperate movent.

Their bodies quivered from unending pain, auras wavering faintly like candle flas in a breeze, and their voices, worn down by years of screams, had dwindled to raspy whispers.

Prince Vesper Nocturne, the Crown Prince of the Eternal Nocturne Clan—tall and regal with porcelain skin that glead like moonlight on snow, silver hair flowing like liquid starlight, eyes glowing crimson with cold, aristocratic cruelty—stood before them.

His presence filled the chamber with the chill of eternal night, cloak of living shadow swirling around him like hungry tendrils.

About two years ago, he erged from centuries of seclusion after hearing his parents’ report. He learned of Raven’s betrayal, her death, and the bounty on Ash. Determined, he set out to gather information, which didn’t take long.

Connor, who had sohow managed to evade Ash until now, told him directly that these two won were withholding information about their enemy.

From that mont on, Vesper beca the worst nightmare those two won could imagine.

For hours—days blurring into weeks over the two years—he had tornted them in the darkest, most depraved ways.

Fangs sank deep into throats, draining just enough blood to keep them conscious while pain receptors scread endlessly, warm crimson spilling down necks as he whispered demands for Ash’s location.

Claws raked slow, deliberate paths across backs and breasts, peeling skin in long ribbons that hung like flayed banners, blood spraying in hot arcs that the dungeon floor lapped up greedily.

Shadows coiled into thick, invasive tendrils—cold and unyielding—violating every orifice with chanical precision, thrusting deep while the won thrashed against chains, screams muffled by blood and agony.

And when the won refused to speak... refused to give up Ash.... He raped them.

It was brutal and relentless with thrusts that ignored sobs, pinning them against blood-slick walls or the cold floor, taking turns with cold efficiency, bodies used like vessels for his rage, leaving them broken, leaking, and shuddering on the stone

It wasn’t just a one-ti thing—no, he turned it into a regular part of their tornt.....

PAH!

PAH!

PAH!

Whips of condensed shadow cracked against flesh.... drawing fresh blood in perfect lines, burns from crimson crystals pressed to nipples and thighs sizzling with acrid smoke and the scent of cooking at, nails driven slowly into palms and soles while he forced eye contact, his voice a velvet hiss demanding the truth about Ash.

Yet despite everything—the screams that echoed endlessly through mirrored walls, multiplying into choruses of agony; the cries turning to hoarse, broken whimpers as throats rawed; bodies convulsing in endless spasms, blood pooling and drying in layers—they didn’t tell.

No matter how much they scread and cried, how their minds fractured under the weight—it didn’t end, and they gave nothing.

This was their life of the last two years...

That was until about a month ago Prince Vesper finally stopped his torture as it was aningless—wiping blood from his lips with a silk handkerchief stained crimson, eyes cold and calculating as he realized their wills were forged in sothing stronger than his cruelty could break.

He turned and left the dungeon without a word, cloak swirling behind him like living night, setting out for the Conclave... for the Originats.

Leaving the two won broken and unconscious.