At this point, I should be asking whether they desire power, but everything is so overwhelming right now that my head hurts.

This strange stiffness in the body—could it be rigor mortis?
If this is some sacrificial summoning, I really wish they could’ve just used a card and kept it simple.
Or at least prepared a functional body for me.

Clink.

I noticed something tugging at me. Chains were fastened around my wrists and ankles, leaving dark bruises underneath.

There were marks of resistance.

If this was a sacrifice, couldn’t they have offered themselves willingly? Or perhaps once they tore out the heart, the state of the body no longer mattered to them?

And being naked? How perverted.

No, wait. A murder has occurred, so "perverted" isn’t even the issue here—it’s a crime!
Of course, if they have a culture like the Aztecs, maybe it isn’t considered a crime at all.

Or maybe they’re so wealthy that they think they can get away with murder.

Regardless, this body feels extremely sturdy. Not because it was trained or because it’s a corpse—it’s sturdy in a different way.

It’s different from the lights I’ve touched before.

Now that I’m inside a person’s body instead of the ocean below, I wonder if they can hold all of me.

Swirl.

A dark purple mist begins to rise from my body. It’s hard to describe, but it feels as though I’m observing myself from behind, zooming in closer.

It’s entirely different from the sensation of reaching out to a light and pushing myself upward.

And the more I do it, the sharper the sensations become.

My vision improves drastically. I can feel the texture of the stone I’m sitting on, the blood soaking my chest, stomach, and lower body, and the wet, sticky sensation of the blood pooling around me. The metallic tang of blood fills the air, and I can even hear the breaths of those around me.

Pain, too. But it doesn’t feel like “pain” in the usual sense—it’s like watching an HP bar deplete on a monitor. It feels disconnected from me.

Does this mean I can’t die like this?

“Krssaksshibal-nim. I am your servant. It is an honor to meet you.”

A large man in front of me cautiously speaks. He’s heavily built, with a rugged face covered in brown stubble and half of it tattooed.

What stands out most is his cloudy, lifeless eyes.

The eyes of someone consumed by despair. I’ve often seen such eyes reflected in mirrors when I peek into the memories of lights I’ve tasted.

Leaving aside the ridiculous name they’ve given me, I can’t help but wonder what kind of entity they think I am.

Based on how they just introduced me, I can guess how they came to perceive me. But the lights I’ve looked up to before weren’t all from the same world.

Some worlds were primitive. Some resembled Western medieval settings, while others had Eastern medieval cultures or were entirely alien.

There were even people who seemed to come from worlds more advanced than modern times.

Back then, I didn’t care about these differences as long as I could obtain warmth.
But thinking about it now, all those worlds were distinctly separate.

In other words, the likelihood of anyone knowing about me was virtually zero.

Once I get out of here, I’ll have to look up this name, Krssaksshibal.

If I can leave, that is.

The dark purple mist continues to seep out of my body, but nothing seems to change. Is this some kind of special effect caused by my presence?

Ah. My hair—it’s purple.
Purple tastes good.

The world is fascinating, but for now, I need to speak.

Problem: I can’t.

Ah, right. To speak, I’d need to contract my diaphragm, force air through my lungs, and vibrate my vocal cords while shaping the sound with my tongue.

The diaphragm seems functional, but since my lungs have a hole in them, sound can’t come out.

Can’t I repair the hole in my chest?

At the very least, given that I’m a being of power, there must be a way.

Oops.

Blood gushed from the hole in my chest.

Someone into that sort of thing might rejoice, but thankfully, no one here seems to have that kind of fetish. I was slightly worried, given the nature of this cult, but apparently, necrophilia isn’t their interest.

The air around me trembles faintly. The man in front of me seems to be doubting me.
Of course he would. After all, I’m not the one they summoned.

The thread that connected the light to me might have originally been intended to summon someone else. I just hijacked it.

How frustrating. Whether I die now or later makes no difference.

Dying could be amusing in its own way, but as long as there’s a chance, I’ll experiment.

This body feels incredibly sturdy. I should try to put more of myself into it.

Meanwhile, in a pitch-black underground chamber:

The room is dimly lit by candelabras spaced at regular intervals in a circular formation. The walls are covered with intricate drawings and tiny inscriptions, describing the purpose of the structure.

A temple, built to offer sacrifices, summon a god, and curse the object of one’s hatred.

Every surface is adorned with depictions of vengeance and destruction, expressed through various forms. Around the chamber, countless people wearing masks stand in a circle.

The structure consists of three large concentric rings, with the height decreasing as one moves inward. The closer to the center, the more elaborate the robes and patterns on their attire become.

All eyes are fixed on the center.

At the center stands a step-pyramid altar.

On the topmost step sits a stone throne, and on it lies a young girl bound in chains, naked.

But despite her nakedness, the scene is anything but alluring—it is grotesque.
A large, gaping hole where her heart should be tells the story. Blood flows from the wound, coating her body and streaming down the pyramid’s steps. It’s impossible for her to be alive.

This is a ritual.

In some worlds, they would call this a shamanic offering—an attempt to summon their god by sacrificing a vessel.

This particular cult had amassed wealth and power through fraud, extortion, coercion, and exploitation, using it to construct this massive temple. Their ultimate goal? Revenge.

And so, their god descended into the vessel.

But the girl stirred.

Though her heart was missing, and her hair—once blonde—was now a deep, eerie purple, the fact that she moved was enough to signal that something, or someone, had taken residence.

But this called for verification.

The body was still just a corpse that had been made to move.

In a world where magic exists, reanimating a corpse isn’t unheard of. Naturally, suspicion began to rise among those gathered around the altar.

And the person most calmly trying to verify the truth of the situation was the leader of the ritual.

His name was Yasle.

Once, Yasle had been a spiritual leader in a theocratic nation. But that nation was invaded by a neighboring country, and he lost everything—his family, his friends, his homeland.

Resentful of a god that did nothing, Yasle turned his back on his faith. It was then that he encountered this growing cult, which, despite its expanding influence, had no strong leadership. He took the reins.

Unlike the silent god he had abandoned, this one supposedly answered.

As a religious leader, Yasle was well aware that this god of vengeance truly provided results. A god who granted the power to exact revenge on behalf of the downtrodden.

It was a god worth utilizing.

Though Yasle’s belief in this god was more practical than devout, it was effective nonetheless.

And so, he dedicated himself to discovering a way to summon this wicked god from beyond the veil. He combined every method he could find—from the cult’s own faith-based rituals to forbidden arcane techniques—to perfect the process.

The result was what lay before him now.

Something had awakened. It gazed around in confusion, examining its surroundings and its own body.

At first, Yasle thought the ritual had failed. The way it stared at him, wide-eyed, it resembled a person who had been dragged here without understanding why.

But that thought quickly changed.

The gaping wound on its chest began to emit an ominous, cold, dark purple aura.

The edges of the wound seemed to shimmer and distort, as though countless afterimages overlapped. Slowly, the wound began to close.

No, it wasn’t healing—it was something entirely incomprehensible.
The end result looked like healing, but the process was bizarre and unnatural.

The hole in its chest sealed, and a loud thump reverberated from where its heart should be.

But that was the only heartbeat.
Instead of the rhythmic pulse of a living heart, there was a faint mechanical whirring sound.

A heart should beat, but this one seemed to rotate instead. Yasle was about to analyze the strange phenomenon occurring within the girl’s body when he stopped abruptly.

Because the thing in front of him had lifted its gaze and was staring directly at him.

And at that moment, Yasle knew his ritual had succeeded.

The girl’s expression was out of place on her delicate face—her eyes were filled with ravenous greed and an insatiable hunger for warmth. From deep within her pupils, a sinister violet light flickered, eerie and chilling.

The eyes were wrong.

Human eyes are meant to absorb light, but these emitted it instead. It wasn’t a metaphorical glow, like one might use to describe a person’s emotions; these eyes physically shone with light.

Just looking at them sent a shiver down Yasle’s spine. They were a grotesque, alien mark of something deeply unnatural.

Unconsciously, Yasle lowered his head in submission.