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... ir anguished howls, slowly constructed into an altar; during this process, it was imperative to ensure that the cultists did not die—they were, after all, offerings only acceptable to the Mother Goddess while alive.

For An Su, this was still considered a technical task.

Seeing how painfully the cultists were screaming, he thought to offer a gentler touch, to serve with a smile, hoping to alleviate their fear; yet, when he himself smiled, their expressions turned even more horrify ...

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[Excerpt]

“Now… where should I put you both?” he asked casually, not expecting a reply. “It’s regretful that I only have one chandelier.”

“Underneath my bed? No, no, too dirty. My dust bunnies don’t deserve this,” Atticus mused to himself. “The mantlepiece? How about the vanity table? I suppose if I lop off one of your heads I could mount it over… Wife, which head do you want to stare at while you do your hair?”

“Atticus!” Daphne screamed. “I don’t want any heads! Let them go.”

“Fair enough.” Atticus shrugged, and flicked his fingers.

There were two identical cracks as both necks snapped at once.

Daphne gasped, horrified. This man, her husband, had just killed two men with a flick of his finger, as though he was snuffing out candles.

“I told you to let them go!” Daphne cried out.

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