Depraved Noble: Forced To Live The Debaucherous Life Of An Evil Noble!-Chapter 518: Nun In Red
The Royal Capital of Lufthansa.
A city so grand that it seemed to stretch endlessly beneath the heavens stood as the crown jewel of the empire.
The city itself was alive from dawn until long past dusk, its air filled with the crisp clang of blacksmiths, the laughter of children running through alleyways, and the hum of merchants shouting over one another in a dozen languages.
At the the middle of it all was the Royal Palace.
A colossal structure that dwarfed every other building in the capital.
Its walls gleamed pale gold under the sunlight, its banners rippling proudly in the wind. Dozens of massive towers rose high into the sky, crossing the cloudline as if trying to touch the heavens themselves.
Sculpted gargoyles, massive statues, and ancient runic carvings adorned the walls, marking it as both a place of rule and an impenetrable fortress.
Surrounding the castle were high walls, each thick enough to withstand a siege and tall enough to cast long shadows that stretched across entire districts.
Armed guards patrolled the battlements—knights in polished armor, mages in flowing robes—each one vigilant as they watched the lively capital below.
Below the castle, the Grand Market District sprawled in vibrant chaos: hundreds of stands selling spices, fruits, magical trinkets, enchanted clothing, potions, jewelry, imported carpets, sold alongside street performers, fortune tellers, and beastfolk dancers. The smell of grilled meat, sweet pastries, and fragrant incense blended into a delicious fog.
It was always loud. Always bright. Always alive.
But today...
One part of the market was deathly silent, as right in the middle of the wide road—twelve men lay on the stone pavement.
Middle-aged men. Old men. All of them bound tightly—arms tied behind their backs, legs shackled together, and thick cloth gags shoved between their teeth.
They trembled violently, their bodies pressed flat against the ground like animals awaiting slaughter.
Tears streamed down their faces, mixing with grime and dust, and their eyes darted wildly, begging—pleading—for someone, anyone, to step forward and help.
But no one did.
Instead, a massive crowd of commoners surrounded them, forming a wide circle around the bound men.
People watched silently. Some looked frightened. Others looked sickened.
But several...several looked at the men with pure hatred.
As if these men had committed an unforgivable sin.
As if this punishment was justice long overdue.
Every person stood still, unmoving, waiting and not daring to interrupt the scene unfolding before them.
Not daring to even breathe too loudly.
And among the sea of onlookers stood a group that immediately drew the eye.
Eight nuns.
At least, they looked like nuns at first glance.
They wore black robes, cinched with belts of silver and leather, but their posture and presence were nothing like the gentle, welcoming sisters found in small churches.
These women radiated coldness—hard, disciplined, unflinching.
Their expressions were neutral, empty even...but their eyes were sharp, trained, almost like they were mercenaries instead.
Most shocking of all, they were armed.
Long daggers hung from the belts of some.
Two others carried short swords strapped to their sides.
And one—one tall, muscular woman—carried a massive battle axe slung across her back, the edge gleaming with fresh polish.
They did not look like servants of the divine.
They looked like soldiers returning from war.
But even among these intimidating figures...there was one woman who eclipsed all the rest.
She stood right beside the line of bound men, separated only by a single step.
She alone wore white—a pure, luminous nun’s dress trimmed with gold threading that shimmered softly in the sunlight.
But any sense of purity or holiness stopped there because her beauty was so breathtaking that it could be considered sinful.
Her long hair—messy, vibrant pink—fell down her back in wild, uneven strands. Yet instead of appearing soft, the locks looked almost stained, as if drenched in blood that refused to wash out completely.
Her skin was pale, smooth, unblemished, glowing faintly under the sun.
And her eyes.
Icy blue, sharp enough to freeze blood on sight.
And even though she wore the robes of a nun, her body contradicted everything the garment represented.
Curvaceous. Plump in all the wrong or right places. Her silhouette alone felt sinful, almost taunting, as if challenging the world to touch her.
But even though she was so beautiful no one dared to look too long as the moment their eyes met hers, their courage shattered.
It wasn’t just coldness that lived in those eyes. It was disdain.
A pure, unfiltered contempt for everything around her—the bound men, the trembling crowd, perhaps even the air itself.
Where Carmela’s gaze froze hearts in cold fear, this woman’s burned with holy scorn, as though she were staring down upon a world she found unworthy of existing.
And in her hands—
She held a weapon that could crush a horse:
A giant war hammer, its metal head larger than her own skull, engraved with holy runes that pulsed faintly with golden light. The handle was wrapped in white leather, pristine and spotless despite the carnage likely committed with it.
She held it as casually as a young girl might hold a parasol.
What was she planning to do with such a colossal weapon?
Why would a nun—someone who should preach mercy and compassion—carry a war hammer large enough to crush stone?
The answer came in the next heartbeat.
Without warning, the nun lifted the hammer in a terrifying motion.
And in response, the crowd gasped, while the bound men convulsed in panic, muffled screams trembling through their gags.
And then—
CRRRRACK!
"MMMRGGGRG!!!!!!!!"
The sound was obscene: bone shattering like dry kindling, cartilage exploding, ligaments snapping like wet rope.
The man’s left kneecap simply ceased to exist.
A red crater bloomed where it had been, shards of white bone jutting out like broken teeth. Blood jetted in a high arc, splattering the cobblestones three paces away.
"H-HIS KNEE! HIS KNEE IS GONE!" A woman in the crowd shrieked, high and piercing.
"LOOK AWAY! DON’T LOOK!" A man shouted, but his own eyes were locked in horrified fascination since the hammer was already rising again.
And then went down again—
CRRRRACK!
The right knee.
The leg folded completely backward with a wet pop, the foot now pointing toward the sky. The man’s body convulsed, ropes creaking as he thrashed.
"Mercy! Mercy!" Someone in the crowd sobbed, but no one stepped forward.
Up again.
CRUNCH!
Left elbow.
The joint inverted with a sickening squelch, the forearm flopping uselessly like a rag doll’s. But once again it didn’t stop there as—
CRUNCH!
Right elbow.
"GRKKRKKRKR!!!!!!!"
The man’s scream turned into a bubbling froth of blood and spit, but the pink-haired nun’s face never changed.
Not a flicker of emotion. Not a single blink.
She only raised the hammer one final time.
The man beneath her shook his head frantically, eyes rolling white, snot and tears streaming.
A dark stain spread across the front of his trousers.
But the hammer fell.
SPLAT!
His skull detonated.
Brain matter and blood erupted in a geyser, chunks of scalp and hair spinning through the air.
One piece even of skull landed with a wet slap at a merchant’s feet and the man immediately doubled over and vomited into his own stall.
Blood also rained across the nun’s white habit.
It soaked the fabric instantly, turning the pristine cloth into a slaughterhouse apron. Crimson rivulets ran down her arms, dripped from her pink bangs, streaked across her pale cheeks like war paint.
But she didn’t wipe it away.
She simply stepped to the next man.
And began again.
Knees.
CRACK!
Elbows.
SPLATTER!
Head.
SMASH!
Each blow calculated. Measured. Almost gentle in its precision.
But for some men she changed it up and shattered ribs first, letting them drown in their own blood while they waited for the final strike.
One man tried to scream "I have children!" through the gag and she answered by crushing both ankles, then both wrists, then his pelvis, before finally ending him with a casual downward swing that painted the street red.
The crowd’s reactions grew more frantic with every corpse.
"She’s not human—she can’t be!"
"That’s the Saintess of Thorns...the said stories about her weren’t exaggerated..."
"Haha, s-she’s enjoying it..."
"Don’t look at her eyes!" A mother dragged her child away, both sobbing. "Don’t let her see you looking!"
A veteran soldier, face ashen, whispered, "I’ve seen war...I’ve never seen anything like this."
By the sixth man, half the crowd was openly retching.
By the ninth, people were fainting in the heat and horror, collapsing into the blood-slick street.
By the eleventh the nun’s once-immaculate dress was now a dripping, heavy robe of gore.
Blood squelched between her toes with every step. Chunks of brain matter clung to the hem.
And finally only one man remained.
He had pissed and shit himself long ago. His eyes were glassy, already half-dead from terror.
But strangely...she did not lift the hammer for the final blow.
Instead, the nun slowly crouched beside him, her shadow falling over his shaking form. With a single gloved hand, she pulled the gag from his mouth.
"Ahh! Cough! Cough! Haaah!"
The man sucked in a desperate breath, choking on air, coughing and sobbing at once.
Then her voice, when it came, was cold enough to burn.
"Do you have any final prayers before you move on to eternal damnation?"
And at once, the man broke.
"PLEASE! PLEASE, I BEG YOU!" He shrieked, his voice cracking and raw. "I’LL APOLOGIZE! I’LL APOLOGIZE TO EVERYONE!"
"I’LL GIVE EVERYTHING I OWN! M-MY HOME, MY MONEY—ANYTHING! PLEASE LET ME GO! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! JUST SPARE ME, I’LL DO ANYTHING, PLEASE!"
He writhed helplessly on the stone like a panicked animal, his words spilling out in frantic, broken gasps.
But the nun only stared down at him with disgust.
"You should be apologizing to the Goddess." She said, voice dripping with contempt. "For she alone will pass true judgment over your sins. Begging me is pointless."
Before he could scream again, she shoved the gag back between his teeth, knotting it tight.
Then she rose.
The hammer rose with her, higher than ever, runes blazing like molten gold.
And then she began.
No planned strikes this time.
No pattern.
No mercy.
She just swung with the full, terrifying strength of divine wrath.
SPLATTER!
Both legs at once—femurs shattered into powder, pelvis caved inward like wet clay.
SMASH!
Ribs exploded outward in a spray of crimson needles.
CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!
Shoulders, arms, spine—each blow landing with the relentless rhythm of a blacksmith hammering molten steel.
She struck over and over, long after the man had stopped twitching, long after the screams had died into wet gurgles and then into silence.
And by the time she finally stopped, there was no body left.
Only a wide, glistening smear of red across the stones, chunks of bone and meat scattered like butcher’s refuse.
A grotesque, glistening salad of flesh, blood, and pulverized bone that had once been a human being.
And just like stone ground wasn’t grey anymore—her white dress was no longer white.
It was crimson from collar to hem, heavy and dripping, clinging to every curve like a second, living skin. Only tiny flecks of the original fabric remained, stained islands in a sea of blood.
Her face, her hair, her arms, everything was also painted red.
A chunk of something unidentifiable even slid slowly down her cheek and seeing her bloody figure, the crowd could take no more.
People dropped to their knees, retching violently.
"BLERGH!!!!"
"HRGHHHH!!!"
Some screamed and fled, trampling stalls in their panic.
"Get me away from here!"
"R-Run, before she bestows judgment upon you!"
Others simply collapsed, sobbing or fainting outright.
"My god...there’s nothing left..."
"I can’t—I can’t breathe..."
"She turned him into...into paste..."
Meanwhile, the eight black-clad nuns stepped forward as one.
They dropped to their knees in perfect unison, heads bowed, hands pressed together in prayer.
The pink-haired nun also closed her eyes and a soft, beautiful smile curved her blood-smeared lips.
"Goddess above." She murmured, voice carrying over the retching and weeping. "Accept this offering of justice. Let their suffering cleanse the sins they inflicted upon your children.
"Latom."
The other nuns echoed, serene and calm.
"Latom."
