Reborn as a Prophet in a Horror Movie

#131Reader Mode

Trigger Warning: May contain scenes of violence/gore that are graphically depicted, which may upset sensitive viewers.

#131

The moment Leimia confessed he was a man, Charles’s easy smile vanished, replaced by something cold and unreadable. He took a step back, his whole body stiffening, jaw clenched tight. Lost in a haze of panic and tears, Leimia didn’t notice the subtle retreat, her words spilling out between ragged sobs.

“You think you can just—” Another hiccuping breath. “Camry and I have people. Followers! They’ll come for you if anything happens to us! You’ll never get away with this!”

The threat, shaky and tear-choked, barely held together. Her face, streaked with tears and snot, stripped the words of any real bite. And to make matters worse, a deafening clap of thunder roared overhead, swallowing her voice and leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

Charles had heard every word, though. He paused, his dark eyes narrowing as if he were actually considering the claim.

Leimia’s tears slowed, mistaking Charles’s stillness for hesitation. A flicker of hope sparked in her red-rimmed eyes, her breath hitching as if she dared to believe her bluff might’ve worked.

But Seojun saw the truth in Charles’s silence. This wasn’t the hesitation of a man second-guessing himself out of fear. No, he was weighing whether Leimia’s body was still worth handing over to Wendrick—especially now that she— or he—wasn’t what he’d thought.

“Hmmm.”

The kitchen knife clattered onto the cutting board as Charles set it down. He turned without a word, rifling through a drawer until his fingers closed around something smaller, more sinister—an awl. He tapped it lightly against his palm, his movements almost casual, like he was lost in thought.

Seojun couldn’t tell if it was meant to unnerve them or if Charles was just working through some twisted mental checklist. Either way, it wasn’t comforting.

His wrists burned, the skin rubbed raw from struggling against the restraints, but he kept twisting them anyway. If Charles’s obsession with his lover made him steal their fingernails because he was too impatient to wait for his own to grow, Seojun figured he could live with that. Losing a nail was a small price to pay to stay alive.

But then the thought of Hugh’s arm being hacked off so casually flashed in his mind, and the fragile hope in Seojun’s chest shriveled up. Charles didn’t seem like the type to settle for small, petty mutilations. Every move he made looked like he enjoyed the process as much as the result. And from the chilling hints Charles had dropped earlier, this mudslide-stranded group wasn’t his first victims.

Time to stop pretending I can talk my way out of this.

Seojun’s muscles throbbed, a dull ache spreading from the brief but intense tension moments earlier. But he couldn’t afford to relax—not in the presence of a murderer who so casually justified carving flesh and bone in the name of love. Behind the messy strands of his hair, Seojun’s grim gaze hardened with resolve. He just needed one opening. One chance. That’s all it would take.

“A man, huh. Tsk.” Charles’s nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something rancid. The disgust in his eyes could’ve stripped paint as he stared at Leimia, before dismissing her with a huff of pure contempt. His attention shifted, apparently done with Leimia’s male genitalia revelation.

Unfortunately, he still had options: Camry and Alice. His predator’s gaze landed on Alice, but before he could open his mouth, she spoke up.

“Just so you know, I’m a man too. Got something the size of my forearm hanging down there.”

“……”

“…Shit.”

No one believed her, and the awkward silence that followed her wild claim only made her click her tongue in frustration.

But before Charles could decide on his next victim, a sound heightened the tension in the kitchen—a wet, meaty thud that snapped every head in the room toward its source. Wendrick’s arm had just… detached. It hit the floor with a squelch, like an overripe fruit splattering on the ground.

She hadn’t been attacked. There was no hidden injury either. It was as if her body had simply given up, succumbing to decay right before their eyes. The flesh at the separation point looked like something you’d find in the back of your fridge after a month, oozing a stench that had everyone fighting their gag reflexes.

Charles, who had been prowling around like a butcher sizing up the finest cut of meat, froze mid-step. His eyes widened in horror as he whipped around to face Wendrick, a howl of despair ripping from his throat.

“No, no, NO! My queen! I’m sorry! I got distracted. I took too long!”

“Oh, hush you! Don’t mind my husband. He’s always like that.”

Wendrick’s words played on a loop, lifeless and flat, growing more chilling with each repetition. The unnatural detachment of her tone clashed hideously with the terrible state of her body, creating a surreal, stomach-turning dissonance.

Charles was unraveling, pacing the room like a caged animal, guilt and desperation pouring off him in waves.

“I’ll fix this. I have to. I’m sorry, my queen. You deserve perfection, but we’re out of time!”

His movements were frantic, darting around the kitchen with a manic energy that made his captives flinch and shrink each time he passed. Through it all, Carrot somehow stayed passed out cold, dead to the world while everything went to hell around him.

Then Charles stopped. Inhaled deeply. Exhaled.

“Whew!”

The industrial blender he hauled onto the counter was a monstrous thing, its polished steel blades gleaming under the lights. It looked like something out of a slasher film, a tool designed for destruction. Charles gazed at it with satisfaction, his eyes flickering glee.

Without hesitation, Charles dropped Hugh’s severed arm into the blender. The toss was abrupt, almost nonchalant, and its careless brutality sent an icy chill rippling through the room.

Thunk.

The arm landed heavily at the bottom, the fingers catching awkwardly on the blades. Blood splattered against the glass sides, streaking the surface with crimson smears.

It was too much. Something inside Oliver snapped. His pale, grief-stricken face darkened to a fiery crimson as rage overtook him. Veins bulged along his neck and temple, pulsing as he screamed.

“What are you doing to my Hugh?! No, no, you can’t! You’ll rot in hell for this, you sick bastard! You twisted piece of shit, born from a dog-f*cking father!”

The feral screams kept coming, Oliver’s face crumpling into something demonic – blood vessels bursting in his eyes, skin mottled purple with fury. Yet Charles paid him no mind, humming cheerfully as he worked, completely unfazed by the screams of hate directed his way.

“Blending beats kneading any day! Gets everything nice and smooth~ No chunky bits this way!”

Charles’s singsong voice filled the air, his mood bright as he swayed his hips to a jaunty tune only he could hear. His hands moved with the confidence of routine, measuring and adding ingredients while ignoring the mounting hysteria around him.

Oliver’s eyes blazed with madness, his throat hoarse from screaming.

“You think that’ll make her perfect? I’ll spit on your precious queen! I’ll PISS ON HER! Let’s see how perfect she comes out then!”

Seojun watched the spectacle, unable to look away as Oliver’s rage consumed him entirely. Sanity fled the man, leaving behind only pain turned to sound—words spat without thought, each scream a desperate, flailing attempt to strike back against the unbearable. Oliver wasn’t speaking anymore. He was screaming his soul.

“Almost ready, my love,” Charles crooned to Wendrick. “Just a little longer. I’m preparing something special for you.”

He moved with an eerie calm, wholly unaffected by Oliver’s relentless screaming. To him, the fury and shouts were nothing more than white noise, an inconsequential backdrop to his grim work. This unshakable poise only stoked Oliver’s rage further, his anger growing wild and untamed.

Oliver’s bloody, chewed lips twisted into a snarl, his body tensing as he prepared to hurl more curses.

Seojun’s heart raced. He instinctively knew this had to stop. If Oliver kept provoking Charles, the consequences would be disastrous. Seojun’s gaze darted down to his restraints, testing them. No use. His body was bound tight, but his head wasn’t!

He had to act.

“Y-you… ugh!”

“Shut UP!”

Seojun surged forward with every ounce of strength he could muster, slamming his forehead into Oliver’s face. Pain exploded across his skull, blinding him with bursts of light. His scalp throbbed, his nose stung, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

But Oliver had it far worse. The headbutt nailed him with perfect terrible timing— mouth wide open, tongue caught between teeth. His nose gave way with a wet crack. Blood gushed freely, and the fury in Oliver’s eyes evaporated, replaced by pure shock and pain. He slumped backward, gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Everyone went statue-still. Alice, Camry, and Limia stared at Seojun with wide, horrified eyes. Their expressions quickly shifted from shock to disgust. To them, he wasn’t a desperate man trying to prevent disaster—he was a brute, someone who had just assaulted a grieving man.

Seojun bit down hard on his lip, swallowing the urge to defend himself. Words wouldn’t help now, and explanations were a luxury they couldn’t afford. Not with Charles still in the room. Better to endure the judgment in silence than risk Oliver’s mouth getting them all killed.

While the others shouted and condemned Seojun, Charles remained oblivious, entirely absorbed in his work. His movements were steady as he finished loading the blender with ingredients. A smile crept across his face, wide and unhinged, as his nail-less fingers hovered over the power button. He lingered there, savoring the moment, before pressing down.

The blender roared to life.

Hugh’s hand—those elegant fingers, that masculine wrist, the graceful curve of his arm—vanished into the swirling steel blades. The pale marble of his flesh transformed into a slurry of red and brown. Salt and a fine, white powder clung to the mess, the churned mixture taking on the grainy texture of wet sand.

Oliver stared, unblinking, as his lover’s arm disappeared into the violent vortex. His lips trembled, struggling to form words, until the effort broke him. A terrible cry tore from his chest—a sound so steeped in anguish it was almost inhuman. It echoed through the room, a haunting note of despair that hung in the air long after his voice cracked and faded.

The gruesome ritual, which had stretched into what felt like an eternity, cut off with a sudden silence. Charles stood over the blender, his grin stretched wide, his eyes alight with a manic fervor that seemed capable of consuming worlds. He admired the grotesque slurry in the blender and then turned to the room, his gaze blazing with unhinged intensity.

“For love, I’d cross every line. Every. Single. One.”

Whether the mixture was too thick or simply too much for a cup, Charles reached for a larger container instead. He poured the viscous liquid into it, the dark, grainy sludge gurgling and sloshing as it filled the container to its brim.

Then, with tenderness, he approached Wendrick. She stood still; her missing arm rotting on the floor, her expression unnervingly blank. Charles cupped her chin with his nail-less fingers, prying her lips apart with a gentleness that somehow felt more disturbing than any violence.

“Wendrick, my love,” Charles whispered, his voice soft and saccharine, like a lover murmuring sweet nothings. “Drink this and be whole again…”

The container tipped.

Thick, dark sludge oozed between Wendrick’s lips, its texture resembling motor oil. Her throat moved mechanically, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of the concoction that had once been Hugh’s arm. The sound of each wet gulp was obscene, an assault on the ears and the soul alike.

Seojun’s stomach turned violently, his insides rebelling as bile clawed its way up his throat. He clenched his jaw and forced it back down, his entire body trembling with the effort. Beside him, Alice let out a faint groan, her face ashen and twisted with horror.

But Oliver… Oliver sat utterly still, unnaturally quiet. His vacant eyes stared unblinking at Wendrick, no longer registering the world around him. It was as if his mind had retreated to some distant, unreachable place, leaving behind only a hollow shell in its wake.

Watching Wendrick drink it shattered something within all of them. The sight hollowed them out, leaving nothing but trembling fear in its place.

As the final, viscous drops disappeared down Wendrick’s throat, Charles exhaled, his voice trembling with reverent awe.

“Ah, Wendrick. My wife, my queen. At last, we’re whole. Our love is perfect.”

His words were a dreamy sigh, thick with devotion so twisted it felt unreal, like the delirium of a fever dream. For a fleeting moment, he seemed triumphant, enraptured by his own madness and perfect lover.

Then everything fell apart.

Wendrick’s face, serene even after losing her arm, began to shift. Her kind, middle-aged features twisted into something terrifying—skin folding with fury, her eyes glowing with an unnatural, hellish red.

Charles stiffened, his triumphant grin faltering as his breath hitched.

“W-Wendrick?” he stammered, his voice trembling with disbelief and the creeping chill of terror.

But Wendrick didn’t respond.

Her body convulsed, morphing in horrifying waves. Her stomach ballooned grotesquely, as though something monstrous inside was clawing to escape. The terrible transformation spread—her neck bulged unnaturally, her sides expanded with sickening pops, her remaining arm twisted at impossible angles, and even her forehead stretched as if her skull was reshaping itself.

What stood before them was no longer the woman they had known. Wendrick was gone, replaced by a creature that defied comprehension, a nightmare birthed into the waking world. The captives could only gape, their minds struggling to make sense of the impossible. The air grew heavy with dread, thick enough to choke on.

Slowly, Wendrick’s head turned toward Charles. Her glowing, demonic red eyes locked onto him, burning with a wrath so intense it seemed the very air might catch fire.

“What…did…you…FEED…me?”

Her voice was a distorted rasp, each word stretched unnaturally, as if dragged through static and corruption. Each rasp struck Charles like a physical blow.

His hands flailed helplessly, hovering just out of reach as though terrified of what touching her might provoke. His mouth opened and closed, sputtering incoherently. “Uh, uh…”

But Wendrick—his queen, his crimson nightmare—was beyond his grasp now. Beyond words. Beyond reason.

BANG!

The sound shattered the air, a deafening roar that felt like the world itself had exhaled its last breath. A shockwave tore through the room, leaving behind a ringing silence.

And then, it rained.

Bright. Red. Rain.

Flesh and blood came down, splattering the room in a horrifying downpour. Thick, warm droplets coated every surface—walls, ceilings, skin—painting everything in a ghastly shade of crimson.

Seojun sat there stunned, the viscera streaming down his face like scalding tears. His bound hands were useless, unable to wipe away the gore as his brain struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Through the haze of red, he watched Wendrick’s legs collapse to the floor, her body crumpling with a wet splat.

Everything above her waist was gone.

It took several heartbeats for Seojun to comprehend the incomprehensible truth.

Wendrick hadn’t just died.

She had exploded.

T/N: Sorry for the late update! I’ve been sick. Othergod readers, the chapter is coming!