Morgana: The Mother Of All-Chapter 323: Night Of Blood (1)

"NYAHAHAHA... BRING ME MORE ALE!!!"

Inside the estate, a wild celebration roared to life. Torches burned in iron sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering orange light over the lavish hall packed with mercenaries, guards, and drunkards. Laughter, belching, and the occasional brawl filled the air. Someone had brought a lute. Someone else had already broken it.

A long banquet table groaned under the weight of roasted boar, glazed fruits, overflowing pitchers of wine, and half-eaten pies. Spilled drink and blood marked the floor with equal frequency. The noble lord they were supposed to be guarding hadn’t been seen for hours—not that anyone missed him.

At the head of the table sat The Captain, a huge man with a shaven head, a scar over his right eye, and a laugh that sounded like a bear being stabbed.

"Tonight!" he bellowed, slamming his mug onto the table. "We drink and fuck like kings! Because tomorrow we may be dead!"

"TO DEATH!" someone shouted, and the hall echoed with raised mugs and sloshing mead.

It was a foolish, desperate life. They all knew it — every fight could be the last, and for every sword that wields itself well there were twice as many that didn’t. But death didn’t have to mean the end. They could serve it up, they could send it off in style, and when they drew their last breath, they could welcome it as a friend.

That was the only way any of them could hope for a scrap of happiness in this cruel world.

These men and women were all human, a mercenary group hired by the lord of this mansion, in the past weeks after V almost assassinated him, and from the day they arrived no real threat could be detected. So they simply enjoyed their time with wild drinking, good meals, and of course, fucking the maids.

A perfect way to end the night.

As with every mercenary group, this one uses slaves—non-human—for all of the non-combat tasks in the camp, either help in the cooking, maintenance, keeping the bed warm, and drunk fools happy, because if they don’t then well,... you know what happens if they don’t fulfill their tasks.

Poor slaves. As for the maids.

At first, it was just one maid—slim, blonde, and clearly tipsy—pulled onto a mercenary’s lap. She squealed in protest that barely sounded genuine, her skirt already hiked up as he slid his hand between her thighs. Her breath hitched as his fingers found their mark beneath her stockings.

Around them, the others followed suit. Lust fed on laughter like fire fed on oil. They had no choice, their lord doesn’t care about them and one punch from an angry drunk jerk could end their lives with ease.

One dark-haired maid with wide hips and a corset far too tight strutted across the table like it was her personal stage, pouring wine on her breasts as she leaned down to feed it into the mouth of a bearded archer sprawled beneath her. He grabbed her ass with both hands, dragging her down onto his lap with a grunt.

Near the fireplace, two maids knelt side by side before a pair of soldiers, lips wrapped eagerly around hard cocks as the men leaned back, eyes closed, groaning through their teeth. One reached down and gripped a fistful of hair, forcing deeper strokes with each pull.

"Slow down," he chuckled. "You’ll make me fall in love."

Across the room, a particularly muscular brute had lifted a curly-haired maid right off the ground, pinning her against a support pillar with one hand under her thigh while he thrust into her with a hungry growl. She clung to him like a cat, biting into his shoulder to muffle her cries.

The tables had become more than places to dine—now makeshift altars to pleasure and sin. A young mercenary barely past twenty lay flat on one, his shirt discarded, while two older maids took turns riding him, kissing each other between gasps and giggles. Someone tossed aside a half-eaten turkey leg to make space for a naked thigh to rest against a silver plate.

"NYAHAHAHA" The Captain roared with laughter, his huge hand clapping the ass of a red-haired woman—one of his mercenaries—grinding on him with messy abandon. "Keep going, girl! I want to finish before the next fool tries to duel me!"

"Is that a challenge, Captain?" she let out a loud shriek of a laugh.

She was drunk. The entire room was drunk, stinking of ale, spilled drink, and sex. The musicians — a single musician, now — played with frantic intensity.

No one saw the mist creep under the door.

No one heard the latch lift itself.

No one noticed the shadows deepen unnaturally like they were being devoured.

A bloodthirsty creature was already in the house.

And the party will get way WILDER.

....

The first sign was subtle—barely noticeable in the haze of debauchery.

The young mercenary, still pinned between two cackling maids atop the banquet table, sniffed and wiped at his face. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

"Hey..." he mumbled, confused, eyes unfocused. "Am I—am I bleeding’?"

No one heard him.

The music was too loud. The laughter was too sharp. The moans were too thick.

Then another. A woman grinding on a guard’s lap paused, her hips stuttering as a thin crimson line slipped from her nostril and down her lip. She blinked rapidly, dazed.

Then a third. Then a fourth. A fifth. But everyone was too drunk to see the sudden trickle of blood. Too blind. Too deaf. Too fucking lost in their own haze of lust and hunger.

Still, no one panicked. Not yet. It wasn’t until the ears began to bleed.

Thud!

The curly-haired maid, the one clinging to the muscular brute near the pillar, suddenly collapsed in a heap, convulsing. Her skin paled in seconds, her mouth open in a rictus of agony.

"Shit!" the brute barked, stumbling back. "She bit her tongue!"

But she hadn’t. Her ears leaked blackened blood, a thick, tar-like sludge pooling beneath her skull.

"AHHHHHHHHH"

And then came the scream.

One of the musicians dropped his lute and clawed at his face, howling. Twin trails of red wept from his sockets, smearing down his cheeks in streams. His eyeballs boiled. Literally boiled. Popping like ripe grapes with a wet hiss.

By the hearth, the man who had just moments ago been forcing the maid deeper onto his cock now stared blankly as his own skin pulsed unnaturally. He staggered backward, blood gushing from his nose and ears. He dropped like a sack of meat, twitching as if pulled by invisible strings.

Panic bloomed.

But it was already far, far too late.

The weaker ones—the sickly, the drunk, the tired—began to scream. Their skin split into thin lines. Blood poured out not as liquid but as vapor—streaming up and out of them in ribbons of red smoke.

"HELP ME! PLEASE—IT’S TAKING—TAKING—" one girl shrieked before her jaw cracked open unnaturally wide and her body caved in like a deflated wineskin, her blood pulled into the air like it was being drunk by something unseen.

Dozens more followed.

The red smoke spiraled into the rafters, twisting unnaturally, before heading straight to the ceiling and disappearing into the darkness.

"Hey... Don’t stop I’m close" the captain said, finally noticing something strange after the girl stopped bouncing on his dick. "What’s wrong?"

"I... Can’t... B-Breath" the girl groaned, a thin misty blood exiting her nose. "Something... Happe-"

SPLASH!

She didn’t even have the chance to finish her words before her entire body detonated like a rotten melon under pressure, painting the Captain’s chest and face in a warm shower of red mist and chunks of meat. Her head, or what remained of it, slapped wetly against the floor several feet away, her spinal cord trailing behind like a twisted ribbon.

The room froze—what was left of it.

All pleasure died in an instant.

"WHAT IN THE FUCKING HELLS!?" the Captain roared, shoving himself to his feet. His scarred face dripped crimson, his hands trembling. He wasn’t afraid. Not yet. Just furious, confused, and still half-hard.

He looked around.

Half the room was already on the ground.

Some dead. Some twitching. Some—god help them—screamed as their blood turned to vapor, dragging itself toward the ceiling like it was desperate to leave their bodies behind.

"Gods"

The air had turned thick, like a viscous smoke, or a stagnant cloud. It weighed heavy in their chests, smothering their breath, choking them slowly.

Boof!

A single torch flickered and died. Then another.

Darkness crept in like a living tide.

"Shields up! Weapons drawn!" the Captain barked.

But no one moved.

Because most of them were already dying.

"Oh... someone is holding well"

Suddenly a voice echoed, soft as a lover’s whisper, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It danced on the edges of the Captain’s hearing.

"Who’s there? Show yourself!" The Captain jerked around, sword clutched in white-knuckled hands, still dripping with the dead woman’s fluids.

"Aaaa....hehehehe" But the voice didn’t obey. It laughed. Not a loud laugh. Not mocking.

A whispering giggle, just behind his ear—closer than breath, closer than thought.

"!!!" And then... he felt her fingers.

Thin. Icy. Delicate. Sliding across his cheeks like the caress of a lover.

’Shit!!’ He froze and before he could move, she was already there.

"UGHAA!!" The captain tried to spin, to raise his sword, but her hand snapped forward like a serpent and—

SQUISH!

Plunged both her fingers deep into his eyes.

"NnNNGGGAAAHHH!!"

His scream tore through the crumbling hall, louder than any howl that had come before. It was not a cry of pain—it was terror—a man who had laughed in death’s face, now realizing it wore the skin of a woman.

V, silent and grinning, appeared in a swirl of shadow, her hands locked in his skull like she was the captain’s executioner.

Her fingers dug deeper. Past the jelly. Past the sockets. Up into the skull. And her victim—if you can still call him a man at all — began to scream and jerk spasmodically.

"What’s wrong captain? Still close to cumming?" V smirked and spoke in her normal voice.

Blood poured down his face in streams—blackened, thick, bubbling like stew on fire. His massive frame spasmed, dropping his blade with a metallic clang.

"Sigh... another weak one" V sighed with disappointment, pulling out her bloody fingers from the Captain’s eyes, the last life force inside him finally snuffed out.

Then, V let his lifeless body drop to the ground, bringing her bloody hand to her lips, tasting the strong flavor and sensation with a lewd smile and closed eyes.

"This one wasn’t tasty," she said slowly turning her head to the last living souls in this hall. "But you my little whores will be."

Four elf slaves, V decided to spare one a wimp, or maybe it was because they were elves, part of her elven bloodline, but who cares?

They had watched with tears in their eyes.

They were slaves, born as such, raised as such, and intended to die as such. They were bred for the purpose of sexual pleasure, to be used in every way imaginable. Their existence was a gift to those fortunate enough to hold the chains to their leashes.

So now. Their only wish was for their deaths to be quick and painless.

"Morgana advised me to create thralls first, but I think they would perform much better as vampires."

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