Time: 12th century
Location: A small village on the edge of the Black Forest in Germany, not far from Freiburg

“Next!”

With a furious shout from the quartermaster, a soldier hurriedly pulled up his pants, his face full of panic as he stumbled out of the makeshift tent, nearly tripping on the uneven ground. The quartermaster cast a sideways glance at him and nodded toward his assistant. The assistant quickly scribbled a number in his notebook: 32.
Before the awkward tension could dissipate, another soldier impatiently yanked down his pants and marched into the shaky, makeshift tent, as if desperate not to fall behind. The wind outside rustled the tent’s canvas, and inside, deep, labored breaths mingled with Marjorie’s faint, dying cries. The atmosphere was thick with a strange mixture of tension and absurdity.
The assistant looked at the long line of soldiers outside the tent and let out a long sigh, exhaustion and disgust clearly etched on his face. His gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the three corpses lying on the ground nearby, as though they were silently accusing him. Poor girl, he thought to himself. If the scouts hadn’t found that lone farmhouse in the desolate forest, she might have had a peaceful and happy life.

The assistant’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. He couldn’t look directly at the three pairs of lifeless eyes staring at him—the eyes of the girl’s father, mother, and fiancé. The memory of their final struggles and screams weighed heavily on his chest, as though a massive stone had been placed there, pressing down with unbearable force. He silently crouched down, tearing three pieces of cloth from his tattered pants, and carefully draped them over the three pairs of unblinking eyes, as if offering them a final prayer.

He didn’t raise his gaze, unwilling to witness what was unfolding inside the tent. The wind rustled through the grass, its soft whisper seeming to mourn with the entire forest for this horrific act.

“Next!”

The quartermaster’s roar was like a thunderclap, pulling the assistant out of his thoughts and back into the grim reality. He mechanically raised his hand, quickly writing another number in his notebook: 33.

Unintentionally, his gaze drifted toward the tent. Through the flimsy seams of the tent, he saw the girl curled on the ground. Her clothes were disheveled, her exposed skin bruised and marked, her body trembling slightly as if she had expended her last bit of strength just to breathe.

Her eyes were bloodshot, tears long since dried, leaving only vacant hollows of despair. Those eyes, like a stagnant pool, silently conveyed all that she had endured, yet no one dared to meet them.

The assistant involuntarily looked away, his heart churning with complex and bitter emotions. Perhaps, he thought, the death of her fiancé and priest father was a kind of release—at least they wouldn’t have to witness what had become of her, nor bear the soul-crushing pain and humiliation.

The wind whispered outside the tent, mingling with the soldiers’ footsteps and heavy breaths, as if the entire forest were shrouded in an unshakeable oppression and sin. The assistant clenched his pen, his fingers turning white, but he could only lower his head and continue to record.

For Marjorie, the current moment was nothing short of hell. She lay on the cold ground of the tent, her body numb, with only the fiery agony of her spirit searing through her, leaving her breathless. Over and over again, she called out the name of the Virgin Mary in her heart, as though it were her only salvation. She longed for the Virgin to descend to Earth, to bring some shred of mercy, to dispel this boundless darkness, or at least… to offer her deliverance

“Deliverance?”

The thought took root in her mind like a seed, spreading uncontrollably, consuming her reason. A deep, unrelenting longing began to overwhelm her sanity. How she wished the next soldier to enter would have a short sword at his waist or a dagger in his hand, so she could throw herself at him, using her blood to trade for an eternal peace. She knew that the price might be a fall into an even deeper hell, but at least, it would not be this.

Time dragged on unbearably in the agony of her torment, as though the entire morning had stretched into an endless nightmare. When she finally couldn’t bear it any longer and turned her head, trying to peer through a gap in the tent to glimpse the scene outside, what awaited her was even deeper despair. Outside, the long line of soldiers stretched endlessly, their footsteps like the heavy beat of war drums, hammering at her soul and declaring that this nightmare was far from over.

As her consciousness slowly slipped into an abyss of emptiness, a strange yet familiar name quietly surfaced in her mind—Lilith.

The name coiled around her thoughts like a venomous snake, sending a chilling shiver through her. She didn’t know why the name appeared, nor why it stirred a peculiar, almost seductive pull within her. It was a forbidden name, one she had never dared to truly understand, but now, it burned brightly like a flame in the darkness, searing her soul, which was on the brink of collapse.

It was as if she saw a black goat silently entering the tent. Its black hooves made almost no sound, like a breath of darkness quietly blending into this world. Its figure gradually became clearer in the dim tent, its cold, sharp eyes staring around, seemingly uninterested in what was happening, as though all the pain and humiliation had never touched its existence. It stood there quietly, radiating an irresistible oppressive force.

The soldiers around seemed to notice nothing unusual. They continued doing what they were supposed to do, their gazes vacant, their steps mechanical, completely ignoring the black goat in the tent. It slowly lowered its head, its massive body almost suffocating the air in the tent. Then, its mouth neared Marjorie’s ear and let out a deep, hoarse voice, like a demon’s whisper coming from the abyss: “Say my name.”

The words struck like lightning in Marjorie’s mind, and her thoughts instantly became chaotic. The words echoed in her mind over and over, like a curse, repeating endlessly: “Say my name, my child.”

She felt her body tremble uncontrollably, her lips parted but no sound came out. The whisper, like an invisible force, slowly eroded her sanity and soul, causing every cell in her body to react violently. She knew that if she spoke the name, her fate would change forever, but there was an indescribable temptation deep inside her, as if the end of all this pain was a call from that name.

Marjorie’s thoughts seemed nailed to a giant cross, unable to break free. She felt trapped in an unfathomable darkness, and the black goat was her only way out.

“Lilith.”

When the name left Marjorie’s lips, the entire world seemed to freeze in that instant. Time appeared to be paused by an invisible hand, the sounds in the tent suddenly disappearing, and the air grew unnaturally still. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears like thunder, and everything around her was swallowed by the words, becoming distant and blurred.

Marjorie’s vision began to blur, as if all the light was focusing between her and the black goat. Just then, the face of the man who had been lying on her began to distort, no longer resembling the blurry figure it once was. His features slowly reassembled, his skin became smooth, his eyes deep as a lake, his eyebrows and features perfect as if drawn by an artist. Eventually, the face transformed into an exquisitely beautiful one, transcending all human imagination of beauty, radiating an irresistible charm and allure.

The beautiful face gently curved into a smile, a smile carrying a warm yet deadly temptation. The deep eyes stared directly at Marjorie, as if seeing through her soul, capturing the desire and despair deep within her heart.

“Welcome, sister.”

The man lying on Marjorie broke into a sweat, feeling strange. The woman beneath him, who had been lifeless just moments ago, now suddenly seemed so alluring, even eagerly responding to him. This excited him, so he quickened his pace, his breaths becoming heavier and faster.

The adjutant’s brow furrowed, sensing something was wrong. The girl’s voice in the tent had gone from agonized screams, to sobs, to silence, and now it suddenly rose to a high-pitched scream, more intense and filled with an indescribable excitement.

“Damn it, get more people in here!” the tent’s sergeant shouted angrily, cutting through the air. Soldiers who had entered one by one now rushed in in groups. The men who came out from the tent looked pale, breathing heavily as if they had just endured a brutal battle, each breath sounding laborious.

The deputy’s notebook was rapidly filling up with numbers—33, 35, 38, 44.

Night fell like a heavy curtain, and the surroundings fell into deathly silence, with only soldiers scattered around, some without pants.

“Build a fire!”

the quartermaster shouted angrily, but the surroundings remained eerily quiet. Just as he was about to explode in rage, his eyes unconsciously fell on a beautiful figure beneath the tent. A sudden thought crossed his mind, and he changed his course, walking straight toward the tent.

“Sir, sir!” the deputy suddenly stepped forward, trembling, “I… I don’t think this is a good idea.” Seeing the shivering man and the messy notebook in his hand, the quartermaster’s anger erupted instantly, and without hesitation, he slapped the deputy. The deputy was caught off guard, falling to the ground, silently scribbling “223“ in his notebook.

When the deputy saw his superior emerge from the tent, he froze. What had happened? In just over 20 minutes, the once fat, pig-like quartermaster had turned into a shriveled old man. The deputy looked around in shock; the soldiers lying on the ground were all twisted in grotesque shapes, their features distorted as though all their vitality had been drained, losing all semblance of humanity.

At that moment, Marjorie stepped slowly out of the tent. Her figure gradually became clear. She no longer looked like an ordinary woman, but a terrifying monster—her head crowned with goat horns, massive bat wings spread from her back, her tail thick like a cow’s, and yet her seductive face still carried a tempting smile, like the grin of death.

The deputy collapsed to the ground, unable to move. He did his best to tremble as he picked up the pen, and in the end, he wrote the final number in the notebook: “224.”