Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel

Chapter 578: Deamon’s True Desire

Dylan swung his sword with a fluid motion, splattering the thick, dark blood from its steel to the ground.

The Bloodlust collapsed with a heavy thud, its severed head rolling slowly until it stopped at Dylan’s feet. Its eyes were wide with a mix of fury and disbelief, stared up at him even in death.

But as Dylan gazed at the decapitated head, its features began to blur, shifting from the face of Momoh, the woman of beeauty who had haunted his dreams, to the grotesque, twisted visage of the Bloodlust beast he was more familiar with. The realization filled him with disgust.

He stepped back, shaking his head as the world around him began to change. The once seductive scene melted away like a mirage, revealing the gruesome reality of his surroundings.

He now stood in a field littered with the remains of slain Bloodlusts, their bodies contorted in death, bones shattered, and blood soaking the earth. The stench of decay mixed with the metallic scent of blood, creating an overwhelming atmosphere of death.

Dylan looked down at himself, noting the state of his clothing. They were torn, stained with blood, and clung uncomfortably to his skin. But he paid no mind to the mess as he picked up his clothes and dressed quickly. The weight of the mission ahead pressed on him, making every movement feel deliberate and heavy.

Once dressed, he turned his gaze toward the horizon, where a grand, uneven castle loomed in the distance. Its structure was ominous, with jagged towers and walls that seemed to pulse with an eerie energy.

The golden runes etched into its surface glowed faintly, casting a dim light that contrasted sharply with the dark, foreboding sky above. This was the location of the third test—the final hurdle he had to overcome.

The room was just as he remembered it—well-kept, with soft candlelight casting a warm glow across the polished wooden floors. The scent of lavender filled the air, mingling with the faint traces of antiseptic that lingered from when the room was a place of healing. The bed in the corner was draped in fresh linens, a stark contrast to the grim reality he had left behind after the massacre.

As Deamon took in his surroundings, the door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. His breath caught as he recognized her immediately—it was the fox beast girl he had once proposed to, and stabbed to death.

Her beauty was undeniable, even now, as she stood before him, wearing little more than a sheer, gauzy robe that left almost nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to her curves, highlighting her slender waist and the soft swell of her hips. Her fur, a soft blend of russet and white, seemed to glow under the candlelight, and her eyes—large, amber, and full of a seductive promise—locked onto his.

She approached him with slow, deliberate steps, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. "My love," she whispered, her voice a soft, sultry purr that sent shivers down Deamon’s spine. Her fingers, delicate and warm, reached out to stroke his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles with a touch that was both tender and possessive. Her breath was warm against his skin as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing his ear.

But Deamon did not flinch. He looked down at her, his eyes hardening as he processed the situation. A side smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was no warmth in it, only the cold edge of realization. "So, you are the vile temptation they plan to use against me in this test of the mind?" His voice was steady, laced with a mix of disdain and amusement. "Then I have already passed."

He began to reach for the sword by his side, intending to cut through this illusion and end the charade. But before his fingers could close around the hilt, she whispered again, her voice dripping with a tantalizing tease, "I remembered that you talk about him a lot, so I invited him to join us."

Deamon’s hand froze, and a strange, familiar voice echoed from the doorway. His heart skipped a beat as he slowly raised his head, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. Standing in the doorway, bathed in the soft, flickering light, was a figure that sent a cold chill down Deamon’s spine.

"Dylan?" Deamon’s voice cracked with surprise as his gaze locked onto his friend, his comrade-in-arms, standing there in nothing but a simple loincloth. Dylan’s expression was unreadable, his eyes shadowed by the dim light.

And then he walked over to him, "Its not her you want, is it? In fact, you have never wanted a woman... just ME!!!"