𝓒𝔂𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓪 𝓝𝓮𝓬𝓪𝓽𝓻𝕚𝕩:PART:-1

In Nero’s corpse-choked Rome, Campanula Necatrix seals its doors against the Lupercal’s black heart. No one stirs. Childish giggles fracture into throat-shredding shrieks. Mothers’ wails erupt as phantom blades vivisect unborn spawn, throats vomiting clotted gore. Then the bells awaken: cymbala anklets—bronze death-rattles forged from flayed courtesan skin—jackhammer cobblestones into crimson craters, ghost stomps pulverizing ancient bones to marrow-slurry in seismic rape-orgasms that hijack your pulse.

Dawn unveils slaughter-art: shattered bells encrusted with toddler fingers (nails wrenched inside-out, nerves twitching live), lips skinned to eternal fang-snarls, eyeballs dangling by severed optic nerves like bloody yo-yos. Birds peck the gore and detonate guts-out, birthing maggot-legions that sprint at your throat. Probe deeper? Lucius Verus charged in—emerged ankleless, his severed feet re-ankleted in rigor-mortised agony, toes gnawed to oozing hell-stumps, bells imploded inward pulsing stolen life-juice.

Ligeia erupts: Betrayed hetaera turned Lamia apocalypse—whirlwind of scythe-limbs whipping peeled faces, fang-maw vomiting plague-ichor that melts flesh to bone-rivers. Exorcists pirouette backward till spines snap like whips, arteries exploding in rainbow fountains. Lupercal orgies birth gut-lasso zombies. Nero’s pyres unleash soul-harvest Armageddon. Modern drones capture her flesh-plague going viral.