Centuria Books · Crimson Vows of Tartarus: A LitRPG Romance
Crimson Vows of Tartarus: A LitRPG Romance — Read the First Chapter
An isekai’d succubus with a maxed-out body and a beginner’s soul rewrites the rules of a summoning contract—turning ‘bound weapon’ into an equal who will never be commanded.
The First Binding
[POV: Aella]
The darkness was absolute, thick enough to choke on. Not just an absence of light, but a crushing, tangible weight that pressed in on my new, unfamiliar form. Every inch of me screamed. Chains, cold and heavy, bit into wrists and ankles I barely recognized as my own. My skin, sleek and powerful, throbbed with a pain that was both physical and existential. Fear was a raw, metallic taste in my mouth, sharper than any terror I’d known waiting for exam results or fumbling through an awkward coffee date. This was real. This was Tartarus, a word I’d only ever seen in fantasy novels, now my gruesome reality.
But beneath the fear, a different sensation pulsed, a relentless, burning hunger. It wasn’t for pizza or a good book; it was deeper, ancient, a primal thrumming in my very core. My new body, this impossibly stunning, powerful vessel, craved… essence. Life. I, Aella, the perpetually overlooked Seattle college student who died a virgin, was now a monster, and my monster craved sustenance. The thought was horrifying, yet undeniably compelling. I wanted out. Desperately. I wanted to understand this power, to set it free, to feed. And then, a tremor. A pull. A thread of something else piercing the suffocating void. Escape. Or damnation. I didn’t care. Anything was better than this.
My eyes, or whatever replaced them in this form, adjusted to the utter blackness, picking out the faint, shimmering outlines of other tormented souls, chained like me. They were grotesque, pathetic, yet I felt a strange flicker of… pity? No, not pity. Something primal. An echo of my forgotten humanity. A small whimper broke the oppressive silence. A pinprick of light, a tiny, glowing spark, lay huddled near my feet. An imp. Its wing was mangled, a dark, viscous fluid seeping from the torn membrane. It was shivering, its small, clawed hand clutching its side.
My new body reacted before my mind could process it. A strange warmth bloomed in my palm, a soft, golden energy. I didn’t know what I was doing, but my hand moved, reaching out to the injured creature. The imp flinched, its tiny eyes wide with terror, but it didn’t pull away. My fingers, tipped with what felt like polished obsidian, brushed against its wound. The golden warmth pulsed, flowing from me, into the imp. It was a minor healing skill, I realized, a faint whisper in my new, expanded awareness. The imp whimpered again, but this time, it leaned into the touch, a tiny, ragged breath escaping its lips. The wound began to close, slowly, the torn wing knitting itself back together. It cost me something, a faint thrum of my own essence, but the imp’s survival felt more important than my own fleeting discomfort. A ghost of satisfaction, alien and unexpected, settled in my core.
Then, the world tore itself apart.
A blinding, searing light erupted, not from the imp, but from above. A vortex of raw magic ripped open the fabric of Tartarus. The chains shattered, flimsy restraints against the force that ripped through me. I screamed, a sound that wasn’t mine, a guttural shriek that echoed with power and terror. I was being pulled, violently, through the void, my body stretched and warped by the immense force of the summoning. Memories flashed through my mind – Seattle, my tiny apartment, the crushing disappointment of a failed exam, then nothing. Now, this. This agonizing, exhilarating transition.
I landed hard, sprawling on a floor that was blessedly solid, thankfully not the infernal ground of Tartarus. Dust motes danced in the air, catching the light from a nearby window. The scent of old parchment, dry wood, and something metallic, like ozone after a lightning strike, filled my nostrils. I pushed myself up, my new limbs protesting. They were longer, more slender than my human ones, yet packed with an undeniable strength. My tail, an elegant whip of muscle, flicked behind me, a strange, sensuous extension of my spine. I was in a library, vast and ancient, shelves towering, filled with leather-bound tomes.
And then I saw him.
He stood before me, unmoving, framed by an arched doorway. The air around him shimmered with residual magic, a faint, almost imperceptible haze. He was tall, overwhelmingly so, his broad shoulders filling the space. Dark hair, thick and slightly disheveled, fell across his forehead. But it was his hands that drew my attention first. Strong hands, currently holding a whimpering imp – my imp, I realized, the one I’d healed. He held it with an almost absurd gentleness, his thumb stroking its tiny, bruised head. A low, soothing murmur escaped his lips, a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and directly into my chest. He was tending to the imp’s residual shock, his care for the tiny creature starkly at odds with the powerful, almost dangerous aura that clung to him.
My gaze traveled upwards, drinking him in. He wasn’t just handsome; he was sculpted. His jawline was a sharp, uncompromising line, the kind that promised stubbornness and unwavering resolve. A strong column of a neck rose from a shirt that strained across impressive shoulders and arms, hinting at powerful muscles beneath the dark fabric. His chest, I imagined, would be broad and unyielding, a solid expanse of warmth and power. His thighs, visible beneath his tunic, were thick with muscle, suggesting incredible strength and endurance. Every line of him spoke of controlled power, a latent energy just beneath the surface. He was devastating. My body reacted to him, to his potent presence, like iron to a magnet. A low thrum began in my belly, a familiar, possessive magic stirring. My inner succubus, already hungry, recognized this man as a feast. He was raw, untamed potential, a storm waiting to break, and I wanted to be caught in its eye.
His head lifted, his gaze finally finding me. And the gentleness vanished.
His eyes were a startling, deep obsidian, sharp and calculating as they swept over me, taking in every curve of my new form, every demonic detail. The imp, still clutched in his hand, seemed to shrink further. A muscle feathered in his jaw. The soothing rumble in his chest died, replaced by a sudden, chilling silence. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a greeting. His lips, full and firm, pressed into a thin line.
“So,” his voice was deep, resonating, each syllable weighted with authority. “You are here.” He didn’t ask. He stated it, as if my arrival was a foregone conclusion, a piece on a chessboard he’d already moved. “A succubus. Max level, by the looks of you.”
My new internal interface, a flickering overlay of information I hadn’t noticed before, flashed: `[Succubus Transformation]` – complete. Along with `[Soul Sight]` and `[Flight]` and a host of other abilities I was only just beginning to grasp.
He took a step towards me, slow and deliberate, a predator assessing its prey. Or perhaps, a master approaching a valuable, dangerous asset. “I am Roric Valerius, second son of Duke Valerius. You were summoned.”
His eyes narrowed. “You are bound to me by the sacred rites. You will obey my commands. You will serve my purpose.”
My tail twitched, an instinctive defiance. Obey? Serve? This towering warlock, who had just been so tender with a bruised imp, was now laying claim to me? The hunger in my gut, previously a dull ache, sharpened into a fierce, demanding throb. My skin tingled, a faint flush rising across my cheeks. His raw dominance, his absolute certainty, stoked a fire in me, a counter-surge of power and something dark. I was a succubus now. I bent to no one. But he was handsome, devastatingly so, and his arrogance was almost… arousing.
“Bound?” My voice, to my surprise, was a low purr, rich and sensual, not the hesitant squeak of my former human self. It was a voice designed for temptation, for command. “By whose rites? And for what purpose?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t flinch, didn’t seem surprised by my tone, but a flicker of something, perhaps annoyance, maybe a hint of grudging respect, crossed his face. “By my rites. My purpose is survival. My family was attacked. My elder brother, the heir, murdered.” His voice dropped, a hard edge like stone. “You are a weapon, demon. A tool. Nothing more.”
The words were meant to sting, to diminish. And they did. But they also ignited a spark of cold fury. I was no one’s tool. Yet, the deep thrumming in my core, the possessive magic, pulsed harder. He called me a weapon. A tool. But he was also the source of an irresistible pull. My senses, newly sharpened, picked up the subtle scent of arcane power clinging to him, like old wine, intoxicating and dangerous. He was a power source, a conduit of essence, an anchor in this new world.
“A tool,” I echoed, my voice soft, but laced with a nascent threat. My claws, long and perfectly manicured, extended slightly, catching the light. “Tools can break. Or they can turn against their wielder.”
Roric’s gaze dropped to my hands, then swept up to meet mine again. This time, his dark eyes held a challenge, a silent acknowledgment of my barely veiled threat. He knew I was dangerous. And a part of me thrilled at that knowledge. He didn’t look away. He didn’t back down.
“Then you will serve me, Aella,” he stated, using my name, the sound of it on his tongue a strange, intimate invasion. “Or you will break. And I assure you, it will be by my hand.” He gestured towards the nearest bookshelf, a large, heavy tome shifting slightly as if moved by an unseen force. “Come. There is much to discuss regarding your… new accommodations. And your duties.”
He turned, the gentle imp still nestled in the crook of his arm, and strode towards a massive, carved door at the far end of the library. My gaze lingered on his powerful back, the way his shoulders flexed with each step. He was walking away from me, confident in his command. My new body pulsed with a strange mix of resentment and a growing, desperate need. My `[Succubus Hunger]` debuff, still a dull ache, intensified, its red text flashing briefly in my internal vision. I was a weapon, yes. But I was also a creature of insatiable desire, and Roric Valerius, with his cold commands and his hidden kindness, was slowly, tantalizingly, becoming the object of both. I would follow him. For now. To learn. To survive. And perhaps, to feed.
The Pact of the Leashed Hunger
[POV: Aella]
The hunger was a live thing inside me, a twisting, coiling serpent in my gut that dwarfed any physical emptiness. It wasn’t just my stomach rumbling; it was my very soul screaming for essence, for the vital energy that pulsed so vibrantly in… Roric. My summoner. The man who looked like he’d rather fight a dragon than make eye contact. He stood there, all broad shoulders and simmering power, radiating an aura that both terrified and… appealed to the predator in me.
Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at me. Fear of this world, of the ruthless ambition I’d already glimpsed in his family, of the unknown dangers lurking beyond this room. But a deeper fear was of myself. This new body, these potent desires. I was a succubus now, and my very nature demanded a price. Could I control it? Could I control him?
Then there was the desire. Not just for his essence, though that was a throbbing ache, but a desperate, primal need for survival. I’m not going back to Tartarus. This quiet warlock, this powerful, awkward man, was my only anchor. My only chance. A pact, then. A bargain. I needed to feed, and he needed a weapon. The thought of what that bargain might entail, what I’d have to give, what I’d have to take… it sent a shiver down my spine that was half terror, half wicked anticipation.
He led me out of the library, the injured imp still tucked carefully into the crook of his elbow. The creature, no longer whimpering, watched me with wide, unblinking eyes. Guilt, faint and unfamiliar, stirred in my chest. I hadn’t meant to scare it. I hadn’t meant to scare anyone. But then, I was a succubus. Scaring things might just be my new normal.
The massive door at the end of the library swung open, revealing a short, torchlit corridor. The air grew colder here, filled with the scent of damp stone and something vaguely metallic. The castle was old, built for defense, not comfort. Even the light from the torches seemed to struggle against the heavy shadows.
Roric walked a few paces ahead, his back a solid, intimidating wall of muscle. He moved with an economical grace that spoke of underlying strength, a quiet power that hummed just beneath the surface. My new senses, sharper than anything I’d possessed as a human, picked up the subtle shifts in the air around him, the minute crackle of arcane energy clinging to his person. He was a walking storm, contained and coiled.
“This is the West Wing,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, a dry recitation of facts. “Mostly unused now. My chambers are here. Yours will be adjacent.”
My brows, dark and perfectly arched, rose. Adjacent? Forced proximity. My succubus instincts pulsed, a warm thrumming in my lower belly. This was either a stroke of luck or a grave danger. Or both.
He stopped outside a heavy oak door, intricately carved with what looked like snarling beasts. The imp, still in his arm, nervously patted his bicep. Roric glanced down, then at me. His obsidian eyes, still cool and assessing, held mine.
“The contract is simple,” he began, his voice taking on an even colder, more formal tone. “You are bound to me until my purpose is complete. Until my brother, Valerius, is exposed and justice is served for my family. Or until I release you. You will not harm any inhabitants of this castle, nor any of my allies.”
Harm? The thought of feeding on the imp I’d just healed made my stomach churn, but the hunger still twisted. I needed to know the rules. “And if I do?” My voice, still that rich, tempting purr, barely disguised the challenge.
His lips thinned. “Then the binding itself will punish you. It will drain your essence, slowly, painfully, until you cease to exist. Do you understand?”
A shiver, not of fear but of pure, cold defiance, went through me. My skin tingled, a faint flush rising across my cheeks. “I understand the threat,” I retorted, letting my voice drop to a low, husky whisper. “But what of sustenance? My kind… we require a different kind of nourishment than your human meals.”
His jaw tightened. He turned from the door, facing me fully now. He still held the imp, but his stance was rigid, his gaze intense. “I am aware of your demonic nature, Aella. I know what succubi crave.” His voice was tight, almost strained. A faint blush rose on his neck, a surprising splash of color against his pale skin. He looked… uncomfortable. This powerful warlock, commanding demons and facing assassins, was flustered by the topic of succubus feeding. It was almost endearing. Almost.
My internal interface flashed, `[Seduction: Lesser Charm]` now highlighted, throbbing with a soft, inviting glow. It was an instinct, a whisper in my mind. Use it.
I took a slow step towards him, my hips swaying just a fraction, my tail twitching languidly behind me. “Then you understand,” I murmured, my voice weaving around him, a silken thread of sound. My skin warmed, a subtle shimmer across my limbs. “Such power demands a price. A… regular payment. A tax, if you will. To keep my energies focused. To ensure my loyalty.” My eyes, I knew, would be glowing faintly, the pupils dilated, drawing him in. “Without it, I might grow… restless. Unpredictable. And you need me at my best, don’t you, Roric?” The sound of his name, a soft caress, seemed to make his shoulders tense.
He swallowed, his throat bobbing. He refused to look directly into my eyes, his gaze flicking to my lips, then to my shoulders, anywhere but my face. The faint blush on his neck spread, creeping up his cheekbones. “A payment,” he repeated, his voice gruff, his mind clearly scrambling for a logical, non-sexual interpretation. “You require arcane energy to maintain your form and abilities, correct? A constant supply?”
I forced my expression into one of innocent agreement, though my inner succubus was laughing, a low, dark sound. “Precisely,” I breathed, letting a small, knowing smile play on my lips. “A steady source of… vital essence. It allows me to maintain optimal performance. For your purposes, of course.” I let a delicate claw trace a slow line down my arm, drawing his gaze, then met his eyes for a split second, pouring every ounce of nascent seductive power into that glance.
He seemed to short-circuit. His eyes, dark as midnight, widened almost imperceptibly. His breath hitched. Then, with a visible effort, he reined himself in. He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Very well. I… I understand the need for proper fueling of your abilities. I will arrange for a supply of mana-infused crystals. They are potent. You may draw upon them as needed. And in return, your full cooperation.”
Mana-infused crystals. I blinked. He thought I meant mana crystals? My inner succubus was no longer laughing; it was howling. He was so awkward, so earnest in his misunderstanding, that it was almost… cute. And it gave me an advantage. He had no idea what he’d truly agreed to.
“My full cooperation,” I purred, dipping my head in a mock bow, the gesture designed to show off the curve of my neck and the subtle sway of my hips. “You have it, summoner.”
He visibly relaxed, a stiff easing of his shoulders. He finally set the imp down, and the tiny creature scurried away with a grateful chirrup, vanishing into a crack in the wall. Roric rubbed the back of his neck, still avoiding my direct gaze. “Good. Now, come. I will show you the basic layout of the castle. You need to know its defenses, its vulnerabilities.”
He turned and led me down the corridor, his pace brisk. I followed, a growing sense of power blooming within me. I had just secured my first ‘tax’ from a powerful warlock, and he didn’t even know it. This new world, brutal and dangerous, was also strangely exhilarating.
The castle was a warren of stone and shadow. Roric pointed out guard posts, arrow slits, and strategic choke points. He spoke of ancient runes carved into the walls, of wards that hummed with dormant magic. His knowledge was encyclopedic, his mind a labyrinth of tactical information. He wasn’t just a powerful warlock; he was a brilliant strategist.
“My brother, Valerius, may have allies within the castle already,” Roric explained, his voice low, a warning in every syllable. “He is cunning. And dangerously charismatic. Trust no one unless I tell you.”
I watched him as he spoke, my mind filing away every detail. The castle was his domain, his inheritance, now shattered. And he was clearly in pain, though he hid it well beneath that controlled, dominant facade. My `[Soul Sight]` skill, still flickering in my peripheral vision, showed me faint traces of grief clinging to him, like dust motes in the air. He was a man holding himself together by sheer force of will.
We walked past empty barracks, a silent mess hall, and then into a large, open courtyard, ringed by high walls and crumbling battlements. A few guards, grim-faced and alert, patrolled the perimeter. They eyed me with suspicion, their hands never far from their weapons. Roric ignored them, his attention focused on a row of training dummies, battered and scarred, standing at one end of the yard.
“You possess formidable physical attributes,” Roric said, gesturing towards the dummies. “Claws, I observed. And flight. I need to see their full extent. You will train.”
I smirked, a genuine flash of amusement. Finally, something physical. Something I could understand. “Gladly.”
I approached the first dummy, a crude effigy of a knight, its straw-stuffed torso stitched together with thick cord. My new body pulsed with restless energy. I flexed my fingers, my obsidian claws extending, sharp and deadly. They were beautiful, terrible.
“Don’t hold back,” Roric commanded, his voice sharp, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He crossed his arms over his chest, his stance wide, ready to observe.
I didn’t. I moved, a blur of motion. My `[Claws]` skill, a primal instinct, flared. I lashed out, not with the clumsy swings of a human, but with the fluid grace of a born predator. The dummy’s head flew off with a sickening crunch. Straw burst from its torso as my claws ripped through the thick padding, tearing it to shreds. Again and again, I struck, faster, harder, fueled by the lingering frustration of my former human life, by the raw power of my new form, by the hunger twisting in my gut.
My body felt alive, exhilaratingly powerful. Each strike sent a jolt of energy through my limbs. I spun, kicked, and slashed, my tail lashing, a dangerous counterpoint to my movements. I wasn’t just hitting a dummy; I was unleashing years of pent-up anger, years of feeling small and insignificant. This was power. This was freedom.
When I finally stopped, the dummy was a mangled mess of wood and straw, utterly annihilated. My chest heaved, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but a profound satisfaction coursed through me. My skin glowed faintly, a soft luminescence that quickly faded.
Roric was silent, his dark eyes fixed on the ruined dummy, then on me. A flicker of something passed through his gaze – surprise, perhaps, but also a grudging respect. “Effective,” he finally said, his voice a low rumble. “Brutal. Good.”
He took a step towards me, his eyes now sweeping over my body, assessing, approving. The intensity of his gaze was almost a physical touch, making my muscles clench. My `[Succubus Hunger]` debuff, previously a dull ache, suddenly flared, a sharp, demanding pang in my core. Red text flashed in my internal vision, more insistent now. My blood warmed, a flush rising across my collarbones.
He was a walking feast, and I was starving.
“Now,” Roric said, turning away, the moment of shared intensity broken. “Let’s see if you can fly.” His words were clipped, his voice perhaps a little tighter than before. He led me towards a smaller, enclosed area within the courtyard, a high wall where the wind often swirled.
I didn’t move immediately. My hunger was a siren song, calling me to him, demanding relief. My mind raced. How could I subtly nudge him towards the real payment? The mana crystals would do nothing for this aching void. This deep, profound emptiness was only for life essence. For his life essence. I needed to feed. And soon.
My tail twitched. He was a challenge. And I, Aella, the newly reborn succubus, had never been one to back down from a challenge. My `[Succubus Hunger]` debuff pulsed again, a vibrant, insistent throb, a constant reminder of the price of my power, the cost of my survival. And Roric, for all his awkwardness and his formidable power, was quickly becoming the only currency that mattered.
Shadow-Kissed Steel
[POV: Aella]
The air in this cursed castle was thick with unspoken threats, each glance a poisoned dart. My succubus senses screamed danger, a constant thrum beneath my skin, demanding action, demanding sustenance. Roric. He was the eye of my storm, the anchor to this terrifying reality. My body craved his essence, a hunger that gnawed, a primal need that warred with the Seattle girl still buried somewhere inside me. I was a weapon, forged anew, but a weapon tethered, bound to this quiet, powerful man. He was an enigma, a handsome, hulking shadow, and the way his gaze sometimes snagged on mine, a flicker of something ancient and dangerous, sent a tremor through me that was equal parts fear and a strange, forbidden curiosity. He was the leashed monster, they said, and sometimes, when he looked at me, I felt the tremors of that power, a raw, untamed force that promised destruction and, terrifyingly, protection. My human mind screamed caution, but my succubus heart, or whatever demonic organ now pulsed in its place, whispered of a different kind of survival. A dangerous game, to play with a warlock’s fire. Every touch, every stolen glance, was a step closer to the precipice. And now, this sparring. A test of limits, a dance with the very danger I craved and feared. My skin buzzed, electric, anticipating not just the clash of magic, but the brush of his hand, the heat of his breath. It was a terrifying, exhilarating descent.
The smaller courtyard, high-walled and sheltered from the biting wind, felt like a cage. Or a stage. Roric stood opposite me, his stance wide, his shoulders squared. He wore a simple tunic, dark and functional, but it did little to conceal the powerful musculature beneath. His arms, thick with cords of muscle, were bare, his fists clenched at his sides. He moved with a quiet intensity, a coiled spring of power.
“First, flight,” Roric commanded, his voice deep and measured. He gestured towards the open sky above the courtyard walls, a small, grey patch visible between the crumbling battlements. “Show me your capabilities.”
I stretched my new wings, the leathery membranes rustling with a dry, almost sensual sound. They were strong, ending in sharp points, reflecting the faint light like polished obsidian. A thrill went through me. This was freedom. This was power. I pushed off the ground, a surge of pure energy propelling me upwards. The air whistled past my ears. I didn’t just fly; I soared, a feeling of pure exhilaration taking hold. I twisted, turned, and dove, performing aerial acrobatics I’d only ever dreamed of in my human life. Wind whipped through my hair, a joyful, wild sensation. Below, Roric watched, unmoving, his gaze following my every move. His expression remained unreadable, but I could feel the invisible thread of his attention, a weighty presence.
After several minutes, a silent command from him pulled me back to earth. My feet touched the stone with barely a whisper. My blood thrummed, alive with the magic of flight.
“Impressive,” Roric rumbled, a faint inflection of surprise in his tone. “Faster than I anticipated. More agile.” He walked towards me, closing the distance, and my succubus senses flared, the hunger in my gut twisting. He stopped a few feet away, his presence eclipsing the air around me. “Now, claws.”
He held up a thick, leather-bound target, a training shield that looked like it had seen centuries of abuse. It was scarred, dented, and heavy. He held it steady, his arms braced. “Hit it. With intent. Show me what you can do.”
My own claws, now retracted, tingled with the memory of tearing through the dummy in the larger courtyard. My body remembered the feel of destruction, the surge of power. I extended them, the obsidian tips gleaming. They were beautiful, deadly.
I moved, a low growl escaping my throat, a sound I didn’t recognize as my own. It was feral, primal. I struck. The leather of the shield groaned, then tore. My claws ripped through the layers, leaving deep gouges. Roric grunted, the shield shuddering in his grip. I struck again, faster, a flurry of blows, each one aimed at the same spot, seeking to break through. My tail lashed behind me, a blur of motion.