The familiar irony scent of blood permeated through the workshop. Cleavers hacked away at humanoid limbs that were haphazardly tossed onto a butcher table. Red precipitation clung to the walls and the thick garbs of several people who stood around a long table.

Bodies were collected from a pile and thrown onto the table. Then, they were passed along the table like they were on a conveyer belt. Limbs were hacked off and collected into a basket. Afterwards, they were moved to another section that specialized in removing the skin from the muscle.

Another section would then remove the adipose tissue and collect the nerves. Afterwards, the body would then have the organs processed. An industrial blender powered by a hand crank minced whatever was considered waste into a fine pulp.

This pulp would then be packed into one meter-large cubes, stacked, and then wheeled into a walk-in freezer. Within this freezer: which was made using giant pillars of Ice Crystals: were hundreds of tons worth of frozen biomass, alongside perfectly preserved cadavers.

“Is that last of the Larin Empire meat?” A figure asked as the workload suddenly died down.

“That should be all of them.” Another replied, their voice muffled by their mask. “The remaining prisoners were willing to talk, so we cannot process them. They are in the custody of the Black Wings.”

“How unfortunate. Hmhmhm. And I thought we’d be having a long workday today.”

“Do you think the Black Wings will allow us to observe how they process information out of meat?”

“Doubtful. Even as nobles of the Nex Megalopolis, we should not overstep our privileges.”

“Hmhmhm. Well said. Oh, how liberating it is to be able to experience this.”

“My, exquisite if I must say myself.”

“You know what they say~ Paradise wasn’t built in a day.”

“Hmhmhm. But it was felled in one.”

“Hauhauhauh. Now that is humor.”

Each of the twenty figures within this cramped space wore hazmat suits with a respirator. However, contrary to its supposed function, the mask was actually a device that pulled air into their mask.

This was a reverse respirator.

If one looked closely at their goggles, then they would find bloody precipitation building on the inside.

No one could tell each other apart.

Because of the way the suits were designed, it was impossible to tell how tall they were, their gender, the sound of their voice, and so on. For instance, a smaller statured person would have to stand on stilts.

This also meant that there was a size limit, since anyone too tall could be told apart from the rest.

As for who and what these people were–

* * *

–The Serial Convention.

A highly elusive Syndicate made up of upper-class society members. Nobles, for instance, who were bored of their bureaucratic lives or possessed excess wealth but had nothing to do with it, joined the ranks of the Serial Convention in hopes to stave off their boredom.

To express this, they dabbled in highly depraved activities as a group of anonymous individuals. This was not limited to cannibalism, corpus artworks, creating music from the flesh, or slaughtering targets that fit a certain criteria.

Their group was founded over four hundred years ago and remained a staple ultra high-class society. Usually, there were one or two members per Kingdom, although, no could verify this since they were completely anonymous.

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Members of prestigious Houses within the Nex Megalopolis made up a significant bulk of the Serial Convention and were among the cruelest practitioners. However, they were never prosecuted. Not even Justica Arms raised a brow.

One would assume that this was because of their wealth. However, in truth, it was because they fulfilled a role that Ateliers could not.

They were categorized as ‘cleaners’. Any dirty work that an Atelier or even an Association could not handle could simply commission the Serial Convention. Their anonymous nature also made it difficult to pinpoint the onus.

Moreover, they performed their services entirely voluntarily and often without malice. It was no more than a pass time for the ultra high-class, who could not embark as an Adventurer due to a wealth of problems.

Status, prestige, the aversion to being associated with the common folk, as well as being exposed to regular struggles were enough of a reason to avoid becoming an Adventurer.

They were also among the first machinations of the Hearts and Blood Festival Impuritas. The Maestros of Flesh for instance had roots in the high-classed pastime of using rescued slaves as instruments (Corpus Movement). As for the Blood Festival, a part of their origin came from the morbid curiosities of the Serial Convention.

But of course, they alone did not construct the Blood Festival. Impuritas were, after all, a manifestation of humanity’s impurities.

As to what they were currently doing here–

* * *

A flurry of knocks banged against a metal door. The person knocking did not wait for a response, as it swung open with enough force to suck out the air from the room. The hinges and the frame were undoubtedly made of specialized material. Otherwise, it would not have been surprising for the walls to crumble.

“O’ Blood Angel? My, isn’t it a bit too early to collect the goods?” A muffled voice spoke out.

The Blood Angel removed her respirator and swiped a hand into the air like how one would open a window. Her hand disappeared into a tear in space where it searched for something.

“We’re operating on two different timescales. You must’ve enjoyed yourselves if you lost track of time.” She spoke without acknowledging them with her eyes.

Her gaze landed somewhere above the others, her head held high like it would hurt her pride if she dared to address them as equals.

Then, after a few seconds of searching, she brought out a thick cigar and dragged the tip against the bloody table. She held it out to the side where an ex-Scarlet Logic member produced a flame before they stepped back into her shadow.

“Huuufff… Pwaaaaah. So. Are the goods ready?”

She breathed a thick red mist. It clogged the respirators of the Serial Convention, who had to twist a notch in their masks to allow themselves to breathe in the Blood Angel’s presence.

“One meter by one meter by one meter cubes, as specified! We processed five thousand criminals into equal portions of raw biomass, living materials, and reference cadavers for the doctor.”

“Good, good. Word on the street is that we have a new Atelier to feed. Plus, the Head’s gonna need the living ones.”

“Oh! We’re working for the Head too!?”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” The Blood Angel used a severed tongue as an ashtray. “But I suppose you can have that honor if it means you lot stay useful. A spleen goes overlooked until it ruptures. Then you realize that any living system worth shit needs to be filtered thoroughly, by any means necessary. You understand what I mean.”

“Absolutely! I could not agree more!” One applauded.

“Exemplary example, great Blood Angel!” Another toasted with an invisible cup of tea.

Their gestures were elegant, befitting that of nobility. Even how they walked around the room exuded upper class. Another who was holding a machete kept their pinky sticking out: a habit drilled into those of higher class.

“If you do not mind me asking: and I do apologize: but will we know what the meat will be for? If it is to sate the appetite of exemplary fellows, then may I suggest a few seasonings?”

“Do you take the Head to have a taste for humans?” The Blood Angel asked, garnering haughty laughs from the members of the Serial Convention.

“You humor us. It is well known by now that the Head has a particular taste for the living. Perhaps you were not present during the Black Nexus event!”

“Oh! What about when the Head herself devoured the Blood Moons and the Red Giant in the City of Spades!”

“That is old news. My circles have kept up to date about the Head’s feast during the Assembly!”

“And vampires decidedly declare the Head as an Honored One! How disgraceful! Nothing wears my heart like slander! Slander, I tell you!”

“It’s that daughter of the blood-fiend whore D’ Grace. I knew we should have left an anti-healing stone in her grandmother’s tea centuries ago!”

“That would have been bold. Do not forget that the region was dealing with Nosferatu at the time. Her premature death would have left that monster with unchecked power.”

The Blood Angel took a long breath of smoke. Though her face remained stoic, she thoroughly enjoyed their gossip. The Blood Angel in question was an old era Witch by the name of Guinevere: a Witch lost to time who once held extraordinary power among the Kingdoms.

Most notably was her political marriage to Arthur and her ownership of an ancient weapon called Lancelot. The chaos in their conversation reminded her of a particularly tumultuous time during the Dark Ages of Elysia.

“The Larin Empire’s people work as a leverage. Of course, far from political hostages as they serve no purpose other than talking sacks of meat.” Guinevere approached one of the prisoners that was shackled against the wall.

They had witnessed the cruelty of the Serial Convention but had luckily escaped being tortured by the Black Wings in a separate building. This person was only kept alive because the Serial Convention required someone to share their passions with. It was no different than keeping a pet cow whilst slaughtering the rest of its herd simply because it was the butcher’s favorite.

“After all, what use are hostages with little value to the host?”