Cosmic Requiem Circle: Cosmic Requiem Circle, #1

By Lucinda Wicked

Slice, butcher, kill
 

Misery has lived the last eon by their code. Hunting everything with and without breath for the right price. Unfeeling, without mercy. A greedy overlord makes Misery an offer they can't refuse. All they have to do is kill the silver ghost

Except this ghost is not really a ghost…
 

Collect, collect, collect
 

Death has learned the hard way that solitude is the only way to safeguard her heart. Cold, ruthless and without compassion, the universe has learnt to be terrified of death. Deserting at the mention of her name.
 

Until there was one who wasn't terrified. One who dared hold a knife to her throat.
 

Death is curious…
 

The universe has thrown Death and Misery together and an ancient force looms in the background…

Death is about to find out that there are more twisted things in the universe and that perhaps…Death doesn't have to walk alone.

 

Reader Advisory: 'The Cosmic Requiem Circle' contains content that may be sensitive or triggering for some individuals. Please be aware of the following potential triggers:

• Violence: Descriptions of brutal attacks and intense conflict.
• Dark Magic/Supernatural Horror: Involves unsettling and potentially horrifying supernatural elements.
• Abuse: Depiction of an abusive environment and cruel practices.
• Mental Health Themes: Exploration of mental health challenges and descent into madness.
• Expulsion/Shunning: Themes of isolation and expulsion from a social group.
• Sibling Conflict: Emotional turmoil and conflict between siblings.
• Romantic Conflict: Complex dynamics and conflicts in romantic relationships.
• Character Death: The narrative may involve mortality and character deaths.
• Institutional Cruelty: Mistreatment within an institution and abusive practices.
• Themes of Despair/Misery: Pervasive themes of despair and misery.
• Implied Sexual Content: Possible implied sexual content.
• Themes of Control: Exploration of power dynamics and control.

Reader discretion is advised, and we encourage those who may be sensitive to these themes to approach the story with caution or seek additional information before reading. Authors and publishers aim to create engaging narratives, but it's important to prioritize reader well-being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucinda Wicked
• Release date: Jan 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223308546

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Sixteenth century

My, my, you’ve certainly got my attention. She said, looking at the round man sitting in the middle of the room. He looked comfortable, too comfortable for someone that would die if she grew bored in that instant.

She was not much of a sight to see. With a slight figure, pin straight black hair and a battered face. Her greatest asset was to disarm her opponents with the illusion that she was weak.

Perhaps her reputation did not in fact precede her. It was either that or the overlord was foolish enough to think that a few chains and a voluntary battering would be enough to subdue her.

She looked down at the bald spot on his head with palpable disdain. The men behind her pushed her forward and the chains on her hands and feet jangled. The chains would’ve been heavy on anyone else but on her, the chains were light as a feather. Steel was a joke. Stone was the real deal but obsidian forgers were scarce. Diamond shackles cost an obscene amount of money and favors.

She shut the door of the tiny room with a booted foot, the men behind her, caught by surprise. A slight incline of her head was all it took to seal the door with magic.

She grinned at him. He visibly relaxed at the sight of her bloody teeth. Foolish man. He looked behind her, finally noticing that his men were not there. Perhaps he had finally understood just who he was dealing with.

Hunter. He said, his nose high in the air. She gave him too much credit, he was as stupid as the general population.

You’re a horrible host She sneered, shattering the chains in a single fluid movement. She cracked her neck, shimmering into another form. Her preferred form. Tall, lean and androgynous. With kohl lined eyes and black lips her clothes shifted with her frame.

She wore enchanted clothes. A cloak and a loose tunic suitable for battle. The clothes adjusted to fit whatever form she decided to take. She smelled fear and a faint undertone of urine. She recoiled from the sniveling rat in disdain.

Y…y…you! How? How did you do that?! He yelled, scrambling back and knocking into the table. She snatched one bottles of wine before it was brought to the ground.

This is good wine. Buffon. She snarled, pouring a glass.

Now. What do you want? She asked.

A ghost. A powerful undead soul in the west with a grudge against me.

That’s my problem, how? She asked, raising an eyebrow.

I want you to kill it.

Again… old man. How’s that my problem?

I’m offering you the eye of Orynth.

She dropped the bottle, eyeing the rat suspiciously.

The eye was one of the few irreplaceable enchanted artifacts in the Hellscape. It was one of a kind. It is the eye if the God Horusce killed in battle by her brother. A human who happened to be nearby harvested the still moving eye from the corpse and kept it for safekeeping.

Where did you get something so powerful? Why are you offering it to me? She asked.

My desire to kill the ghost is greater than my desire to keep the eye

She paused. Who could be powerful enough for anyone to give up the eye? He must want this person’s head enough to let go of something so priceless.

The eye of Orynth gave whoever possessed it oracular powers. They became dividers and could see the future or at least one of the many paths the future could be.

The eye of Orynth was as valuable as the moon. She would be able to avoid nasty missions if she acquired it. It was an asset she had to have.

Why it was so peculiar was because it could not be stolen. The eye had to be willingly given.

He knew how she operated. He knew that she was expensive and she only traded in rare currency. The more desperate the client, the higher the bargain. She had never failed to bring a head back from hunting.

His sources had been accurate. His men had found her at an old tavern, drinking away the emptiness she felt. She had goaded the men. Making fun of their manhood and stripping the entire group of their underwear. Then she had let herself be beaten because she needed a beating before curiosity led her to allow the men drag her to the old man’s Inn.

I suppose the sources that told you how to find me also told you that I shall disembowel you if I do not get my due she threatened. He gulped.

Y…y…yes he stuttered.

Shall we shake on it? She said, drawing out a small dagger and slicing her palm.

She handed the dagger to the man. He trembled and winced as he made a small nick. She looked at him in disgust, grabbing his hand to shake it.

A head for an eye. She muttered, nodding to the man. Now. Tell me about this ghost. She finished, resting her hands on the table to stare at him.

It’s vaguely female. It likes to wander, moving about to collect souls. I owe it a blood debt and it’s been hunting me, reaping souls for more power.

Sounds like a you problem if you ask me.

It wields a scythe and is always cloaked in shadows.

Where was it last seen?

The eastern Hellscape, hunting souls.

Well then. I shall see you when I have its head. I have a soul to catch.

* * *

She left the toad’s house for her den in the heart of the city. She changed from her loose tunic into riding leathers, tightening the straps until her lean form was covered. She threw on a hood and wrapped a dark dhurka around her face. The silk mask kept out dust and still gave her room to breathe. The dhurka hid her face from view too.

She took a horse, preferring to travel through the sands than teleport to the Eastern Hellscape. Traveling was therapeutic for her. The smell of the sands and the cool breeze, calming her.

There was neither night nor day in the Hellscape. The Hellscape was a passage between life and death. It was home to all sorts of creatures aside from the humans. It was ruled by one whose identity no one knows. The ruler of the realm was as secretive as they came. She kept secrets even better than Misery who was a bounty hunter.

It had two moons, sitting side by side in the orange sky, gold tipped foliage, a rocky plain with deserts of red sands that stretched for miles.

The perpetual evening breeze blew softly in the direction of the city on the east. She got to the city in a few long leaps and waltzed into the marketplace.

Using her transient form with alarming accuracy.

With each step, she transformed, subtly altering her form to look like a red-haired seductress and then morphing into the image of a wispy scholar in the next minute. She did it with precision. Weaving and swapping images. It was a necessary skill, one she had mastered with time. It made her, the Hellscape’s deadliest bounty hunter. She was unrecognizable.

As she entered the city. She saw an old demon with skin like old leather and horns that spiraled upward. He looked suspicious, his eyes darting from side to side. Shimmering into a curvy frame, her straight black hair shimmering into a red hue. Bouncy curls distorted the perfect straightness of her hair. The form She took had cat-like green eyes. her fighting leathers devolved into a green silk gown.

Have you seen a ghost haunting these parts? they inquired, their voice taking on a sultry tone to suit the new skin they had on.

The demon grunted, eyes narrowing, focusing on the ample bosom the redhead had on display. A ghost, you say? I’ve seen nothing but shadows and echoes but I could show you something bigger than ghosts. He said, rubbing suggestively at his crotch.

Undeterred, She morphed into a young scholar, lithe and lanky with gangly limbs and reading spectacles. The red hair shortening to a shaggy brown cut, carelessly maintained with the little care scholars gave to anything that was not books.

She approached a group of undead men huddled together. Any whispers of a lost soul haunting the east? A powerful figure made of shadows, wielding a wicked looking scythe. She questioned, her tone now a refined baritone like that of a wizened scholar.

A skeletal figure chuckled, the sound echoing eerily. Lost souls are the least of our worries, scribe. But the marketplace might hold more answers.

Following the lead, she moved swiftly through the diverse crowd, heading for the eastern city’s famous markets. A vibrant display of various colors assaulted her senses. There were thousands of stalls, filled with creatures tugging at the members of the throng. She seized garments and cursed at those who would not buy her wares.

The crowd cursed back. There were all manner of things for sale. From small bouquets of flowers to enchanted trinkets.

The marketplace buzzed with activity—the noise of haggling, fake laughter, and the occasional howl of a distant creature. A demon with leathery wings bargained for a vial of what looked like stardust, it was most likely stolen. Stardust was hard to come by. Nearly all the items on sale in the eastern markets were stolen. She shifted her purse to the side so that it would brush her arm as she walked. A skeletal merchant displayed an array of enchanted amulets.

A mischievous imp swindled a fat demon out of a shiny amulet, disappearing into the shadows with a toothy grin. She grinned back at it.

It was not uncommon to find thieves in a market that was home to stolen goods from every corner of the Hellscape. As creatures of the netherworld traded, swindlers lurked in the shadows, preying on unsuspecting customers with promises of rare treasures.

An enchanted sign floated above her - a blacksmith promising indestructible enchanted weapons. Misery snorted at the sight..

She slowed to a walk, choosing to observe the market as she searched for the scythe wielding ghost.

The marketplace continued its vibrant dance. The marketplace was something out of lore. It was a bazaar woven into the fabric of the Hellscape itself. No one knew who created it. It always came back no matter how many times it was destroyed. It was as essential to the netherworld as the Hellscape was.

Stalls, draped in rich fabrics of midnight blue and blood-red, beckoned with an assortment of curiosities. Ethereal lights blinked, casting an otherworldly glow on the eclectic wares. Distorting images to deceive unsuspecting buyers.

It was a chaotic spectacle of colors and creatures. Stalls lined with magical and non-magical items sprawled across the area. A potion vendor boiling concoctions in what had to be a hundred pots at once attracted curious onlookers, while a blacksmith displayed enchanted weapons that gleamed ominously. Undead, demons, and human-like creatures haggled over trinkets and treasures.

She spied a circus performing at the center of the market and ducked inside. She immediately headed for a troupe of phantom dancers. Approaching the spectral gathering, she spun gracefully into a small female waif, her movements synchronized with her ghostly choreography.

As she swirled into their midst, the leader—a phantom cloaked in a shroud of memories—paused the dance, intrigued by the newcomer.

Have you glimpsed a lingering spirit haunting these realms? Carrying a large scythe made from shadow fabric? She asked, her voice a melodic echo.

The phantom nodded, its form flickering. It wanders the ruins in Avarenti. We hear customers whisper about a shadow being, fearsome and deadly, just walking across the ruins.

For how long?

A fortnight. You ask too many questions. Said the phantom, her lips tightening.

She headed for the ruins, moving faster than light could ever dream to move. She landed above the ruins.

Couched on the rooftop, watching the shadowy figure move through the crowd. The shadowy figure carried a scythe. The scythe swung around with what seemed to be reckless abandon.

Misery saw a pattern. The figure seemed bored. To the untrained eye, a shadowy being was swinging a large scythe mindlessly. Misery watched how the figure swung, careful not to hit the weathered stones. She was looking at something intensely.

The ghost’s face was cloaked in a hood. Just like Misery’s was. She had found the ghost.

CHAPTER TWO

Death was bored. She was about to leave the castle after three suffocating months of stillness. The bigger the Hellscape grew, the more grim reapers she had recruited to gather souls. They numbered in the millions.

I won’t be long, Death said to Imperio, the chief servant at her castle in the Northern Hellscape, as he helped her into a coat. She said a quick spell and shadow descends on her, cloaking her face and figure in deep darkness. She grabbed her scythe, swapping soft furry slippers for knee high boots.

She stalked to the stables, preferring to take a mount than teleport. She preferred riding to walking because she got sand everywhere whenever she decided to travel the Hellscape on foot.

She hopped on a hellhound, tearing through the red sands with ease.

Even after years of abandoning the task to grim reapers, there was no satisfaction in collecting the souls. Most of the souls surrender with little to no resistance. Pleasures lose her charm after eons of repetition.

The grim reapers were as fearsome as their leader. They were skeletal beings created from shadow and night, carrying around plain silver scythes to harvest the souls and store them for transport.

The runaway souls had probably heard that they could be damaged, rend in half and deemed unfit for reincarnation if they struggled during the collection process.

The few that fought folded after a flick of her scythe. She particularly enjoyed tormenting the few evil ones.

She wandered from the western to the southern Hellscape. She had relieved a third of the grim reapers of her duties, going in search of and deliberately hunting the ghosts of her own accord.

The crystal ball that directed her to souls to be harvested pinged with black malevolent energy a fortnight ago. The crystal had shown an obese bald man with beady eyes, moving through the shadows, always a step ahead of the grim reapers. His brown skin seemed to absorb the darkness around him, allowing him to blend into the shadows. He looked harmless, vaguely humanoid.

His name was Raji Lael and he had passed on centuries ago. He was an Arabian sorcerer alive in the fourteenth century. At a time of conquest and sorcery. He was as evil alive as he was dead.

Raji’s occult rituals were as grotesque as his desires. He had a desire for the forbidden, orchestrating ceremonies that celebrated insanity. The Avaranti ruins, with her ancient energies, would have called to him. Hidden among the crumbling stones, Raji conducted rituals that defied the natural order.

Death found remnants of his rituals in body parts strewn about and the reek of foul portals opened to forbidden places. Death had reached into the crystal to learn more about Raji.

One of his favored rites involved summoning demonic entities. The air would