Outside the Room
Mike, pacing nervously outside, expecting a horrifying mess to emerge any second, paused. His brow furrowed in confusion. The sounds... The unending chainsaw racket... mixed with deep, shuddering moans of... was that pleasure?
"Too brutal," Mike muttered, wiping sweat. "Rest in pieces, bro. Hope your next run's Specter-free." He felt a flicker of gratitude. Better him than me. He started looking for extra-large containers. Holmes would be coming out in pieces…
Inside the Room
The chainsaw choked, sputtered, and died – the chain snapped, blade ruined after only five brutal minutes. "Flimsy junk," Holmes spat, tossing it aside.
The Specter beneath him writhed, face dark crimson with insatiable need.
Panic flared. Holmes scrambled, grabbing anything nearby – flogger, needles, clamps – wielding them with desperate intensity.
His hand closed on a heavy hammer hidden under stained rags. Information instantly bloomed in his vision:
DING!
Item Acquired: Satan's Executioner's Mallet (Rare-Grade Cursed Artifact)
Acquired via Talent Trigger: [Omniscient Perception]
Lore: Used by 'Satan,' a vanished serial killer, to execute ten victims. Steeped in malice.
Hidden Trait: Land 10 critical head strikes to awaken artifact. Grants Curse: [Soul Pyre].
Cursed Artifacts: Player weapons/items ranging from mundane Common to legendary Epic. Often surpass Talents in power.
Holmes blinked. This F-grade talent finds hidden artifact info too?!
The mallet felt unnaturally cold, heavy with malice.
Ten lives ended with this... the weight of that malice... Crucially, Cursed Artifacts could inflict true damage on Specters. A sliver of doubt: Could this kill her? But necessity overruled caution. As her eyes started to clear, he swung the blackened steel mallet with all his might.
*KRA-THOOM*
Half her skull caved in. Dense, boiling white steam erupted from the gaping wound. A scream tore from the Specter's throat – deep, guttural, agonizing.
Mistake! Holmes braced for fury.
But the scream shifted. Deep agony dissolved into a resonant cry of… ecstatic release.
"..." Holmes stared, realization dawning. Of course. I underestimated her depths. Fear vanished. If the artifact felt good to her… he had the perfect tool. Ten headshots to awaken it? She was the ideal target.
The next fifteen minutes were a relentless, gore-splattered symphony: *KRA-THOOM… KRA-THOOM… KRA-THOOM…* Walls dripped crimson. Brain matter and blood coated Holmes. After the tenth shattering blow:
*THOOM-WHUMPH*
Black fire exploded from the ruined head – [Soul Pyre] ignited! Spectral agony should have meant oblivion. Instead, it triggered her ultimate, shuddering climax. She lay spent.
Breathing heavily, Holmes slumped against the sticky wall. The mallet in his hand pulsed with dark red energy – fully awakened. A surge of relief. I'm not defenseless anymore.
The Lust Specter rose smoothly, seemingly unharmed, ignoring the carnage. She peeled off tattered silk, donned a fresh gown, her face now perfectly smooth and utterly cold – a different entity entirely. She lit a long cigarette, blowing smoke, then tossed Holmes a small sack.
"What's this?"
"Your tip. Impressive… service." She exhaled slowly. "Been a while since I felt that… satisfied.
Holmes felt a bizarre flicker of indignation. Did I just… get paid for this? He ignored it, peering into the sack: bread, hardtack, mystery jerky. Basic rations, but here? Gold. Enough for a week.
"What did you really come for? Blood Pipa?" She asked.
Holmes nodded. "For my 'father' in 404. Leg pain."
The Specter snorted. "That lying drunk! He just wants my brew. Sent you as payment."
"Payment?"
She smirked. "Our deal: He sends me a 'child,' I give him half a bottle of Blood Pipa. Steady supply. Cheap sustenance for me. No rule-breaking."
Holmes's face darkened. That bastard in 404 set me up as food.
She tossed him a full bottle – viscous, dark-red liquid sloshing inside. "He gets the full bottle. Today was… exceptional." Her gaze was appraising. "Go ahead.
Taste it. But blame yourself for the… consequences." She smiled cryptically. "You'd never guess the ingredients..."
Holmes shuddered, pocketing the bottle fast. Just get the job done. Maybe this bottle finishes off that drunkard traitor. "Can I leave?" He desperately wanted out before she decided to keep him as a permanent toy.
The Specter sighed, forced by unseen rules. "Go." Her eyes lingered on him. "But tell me… how did you discover my… unique tastes?"
Holmes straightened, meeting her gaze. "Sometimes," he said carefully, "it's just obvious." He turned to leave.
Her voice chased him, rich with promise: "We'll meet again, little tempter."
Holmes ignored her, pushing out into the hallway. Never again. Ever.
As the door closed, the Lust Specter stubbed out her cigarette. She ran a finger along her flawless cheek.
"You can't run," she murmured, a dark smile touching her lips. "That 'father' owns you. And I... own him."
Her eyes drifted closed, vividly recalling the feel of the mallet shattering her skull.
The door opened. Mike, wheeling the large cart he'd brought for parts, practically skipped forward. He froze mid-step. Standing there, looking incredibly alive but utterly drenched in blood, was Holmes.
"Holy sh*t! Are you human or demon?!" Mike stammered, eyes wide.
Holmes raised an eyebrow, slicking back blood-matted hair. "Do I look like a demon to you?"
Mike just stared, mouth agape, brain struggling to process. "Did… did you actually kill her?!" He shook his head, dismissing the absurdity. "No way. Impossible. You found a loophole, didn't you?"
Holmes shrugged, adjusting the bottle of Blood Pipa in his grip. "Told you before I went in. Just had to satisfy the customer." His voice was weary.
As if on cue, the Lust Specter's voice drifted from the darkness behind him, thick with post-coital exhaustion: "Mike. Clean this mess. I'm sleeping now."
"R-Right away, Mistress!" Mike practically shouted his obedience. He turned back to Holmes, his expression morphing from shock to pure, baffled awe.
The Mistress always crashed hard after feeding that intensely. He had days of peace ahead. "You… you actually did it."
"Task's done," Holmes stated, moving to leave. "I'm out."
Mike lunged, grabbing Holmes's sleeve, his eyes pleading. "Bro! Wait! Please! Just… how? What's the secret sauce?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I'll give you… three days' rations! Five! Just tell me how to handle her!"
Holmes understood. Mike lived under constant fear in this room. A permanent solution would be worth anything. But revealing the secret? No. The Specter had just discovered a new high.
If Mike clumsily exploited it, the novelty would fade fast. Next time, Holmes might need that ace in the hole…
He pulled his arm free, meeting Mike's desperate gaze levelly. "No secret. Pure skill." He paused, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes as he gestured vaguely towards the room. "Remember: Weapon specs don't matter without serious firepower behind them. Doesn't matter if your barrel's five inches long if you've got the trigger pull of a toddler."
He turned and walked briskly down the grimy hallway, leaving Mike standing by the cart, slack-jawed, wearing a deeply perplexed, slightly ridiculous expression. Did he believe him? Did he think he was crazy? It was impossible to tell.
Holmes didn't look back. He stepped out of Room 101, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. One nightmare down. The Blood Pipa felt unnervingly heavy in his hand. Now, back to the drunken demon in 404. Time to settle that family debt.