To the police, a missing person is a tragedy.
To the things living in the shadows, a fresh kidney is a delicacy worth a fortune—
and you're the only one with the stomach to serve it.
A DARK FANTASY RPG
You are the razor's edge between the mundane and the monstrous. You don't just deal in death; you franchise it.
By night, you harvest the raw materials humanity won't miss. By dawn, you trade that warm flesh for substances that shouldn't exist—narcotics that grant god-like strength, telepathy, and immortality.
You are the supply chain for nightmares, building a crime empire on a foundation of bone and blood.
Your client list reads like a mythology book written in gore.
The bottom feeders—the Carrion Kin—will scrap for rotting leftovers, but the real power lies in the penthouse suites of the Vampiric Houses and the abyssal depths of the Leviathan Conclave.
Every tier demands a specific cut. Every client offers a more potent, reality-bending high.
But be warned: the higher you climb, the hungrier they get.
Superhuman Strength
Telepathy
Regeneration
Speed & Fury
Mind Control
Future Sight
From gutter rats to boardroom gods, everyone wants what only you can sell. Here, neon doesn't purify—it sears away your last scraps of humanity.
You trade in data, flesh, and forbidden tech for corporate warlords who make street gangs look innocent. Every deal feeds the machine. Every upgrade cuts deeper.
The money is obscene. The power is addictive.
In a world where "cutthroat" is mercy... can you rise to the top without losing what's left of your soul?
Exploring new combinations that would drive most men mad and reap the incredible rush of power. Every death is a new opportunity. Every formula a step closer to godhood.
"Money is Power and Power is Life."
Embrace the cleaver. Every beating heart on the street is walking inventory. No discrimination. No hesitation. The monsters pay well for variety.
"Meat is meat."
Your empire will rise either way, but only one path keeps the monsters from noticing what you've become.
You think you're the partner? The tycoon?
Look closer at the contracts.
There's a reason the ancient horrors tolerate a human middleman. Your blood doesn't just spill... it sings.
And the smartest clients are already wondering what you taste like.