Weeks passed, the same old happenings passing by as Emurdol looked down on the streets of Lugunica.

And it's so boring.

The fascination of sentient demihumans walking alongside their more human counterparts and the sight of dinosaur-like reptiles being used as intelligent beasts of burden have all but burned away.

The only thing that interested him more was how many times he could sigh in a single day and see if he ends up making a sound out of it. He never does.

Beating thugs close to death in the back alleys no longer seemed fun anymore. Tormenting them in their sleeping places with nightmares and terrors was starting to lose its charm. And Raeburn getting on his case is starting to get more than a little annoying.

Anymore and Emurdol will lash out. The last thing he wants is getting their possible spat creating rumors in this place similar to the ones he and his kind had in Pandemonium.

The reputation of his kind was just getting a little more better a month ago after all of his labors. He won't ruin that progress by losing his mind here.

He sighed soundlessly, his chin touching his chest and his silver hair flying sideways from the wind.

He should have died by now, or at least returned to the Underground City. Whoever brought him to this foreign world out of his home, Pandemonium, they have a lot to answer for. It isn't going to start with a conversation. Oh no. It starts with a sickle to the head, just like he always preferred, then they talk.

"Thief! Stop!"

Before he heard the end of the first word, he was already up to his feet and eyeing the source of that shout.

And there, he saw it on the streets of the bazaar.

Stakes of ice flew, over the heads of ducking bystanders and careening through the air to hit a rather tiny target. That target was a little human girl, blonde haired and incredibly mobile, lithely twisting her slim body horizontally, the projectile flying past where her waist should have been before her hand caught the edge of a roof and easily lifted her small frame up and ran away.

He turned his attention to the victim of that thief, and his eyes widened like plates, his green eyes glowing in surprise. At this moment, he knew this is never going to end on a boring note.

White.

Nothing but white. Compared to the rest of the scenery around this woman, convoluted with every color possible found in the clothes, furs, and scales of civilians and the materials of every floor, wood, and wall, her pale figure was a jarring sight. White clothing. White skin.

The most prominent, her white hair.

She wasn't old. She was incredibly young, yet to reach her second decade by another 2 turns.

With his longing for home still fresh in his mind despite a whole month, he nearly mistook her for another one of his kind. No one else would have such pigment in their hair during their youth, but he was quick to remember that this world is nothing like the one he is born from. That he was alone here.

He watched as she quickly began to give chase to her thief, slickly slipping through people and obstacles. And she's incredibly fast. Far too fast for a regular woman. Her form is also distinct. Upper body leaned forward and each step directly beneath her center of balance, keeping her speed from diminishing. And every sway of her body is graceful.

No mundane human moves around like that, he can agree.

And she looked quite frantic too for the thievery. Either it's something sentimental or the woman is just very possessive.

This could be interesting. He should follow.

Without a second wasted, Emurdol slickly moved away from the rooftop edge and began tailing this interesting woman.

With hope, this doesn't end in a violent confrontation like the last time.

Raeburn literally asked for it just by being there. He cannot accept that he, of all people, was in the same situation as him. He absolutely cannot. Drawing the attention of that red-haired Sword Saint again is the last thing he wants.

Before even a minute has passed, the woman stopped, her gaze turned to something at the side of the street.

He quirked an eyebrow. A little one on the side of the street, frantically looking around.

A lost child?

He watched the white woman approach the little one gently and knelt down, saying rather assuring words. He couldn't hear her from this distance despite his improved hearing but coming from a species of humans that communicated with lip shapes, clicks, and words, it wasn't difficult to know what she said. From what he could see, she's trying to calm the child down.

It doesn't seem to be successful, as the little one's tears are getting worse. Frantic, the white woman tried to calm her down.

Admittedly, he was a bit amused at her attempt. She almost look like she's begging. Just another display of evidence how children can actually break others older than them with very little action or words.

After a few more entertaining seconds, the little one was slowly ceasing her tears and eventually took the white woman's hand.

Still, he had to ask. Why is this woman prioritizing the child instead of the thief? Is the object stolen from her not that worth the effort? Or is she sidetracking?

He'd be very disappointed if the latter was the case.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

She was sidetracking, and his disappointment was immeasurable.

Honestly, he couldn't tell why he had his hopes up. He thought an episode of idiocy from these humans wouldn't come up for more than a single day but it seems that's asking much, even from another world.

Right after he found her delivering the lost child to her parents, receiving a little flower ornament in return from the little one, the white woman talked to the grateful father, who happened to be the same person he bought apples from yesterday, Kadmon.

How coincidental. He didn't think this scar-faced merchant was the little one's dear Papa.

Surprisingly, Kadmon seems to know the thief's name and location. It was 'Felt', and she's found among the slums.

Thought Emurdol suspected the location himself, it still surprised him.

He just visited that place not too long ago, with two carts worth of bought fruits, vegetables and clean water behind him.

Among the people who came to received his senseless charity, he didn't see the nimble blond girl among them. Granted, he didn't stay long and went away as soon as possible but he usually doesn't miss details.

After the white woman bowed gratefully to Kadmon, she quickly turned around and went back to her sprint. It doesn't seem like she's going to rent a vehicle or anything. She's heading directly to the direction of the Slums instead. Is she honestly heading there on foot? If that's the case, she will have to prepare for a long trip. The place isn't that nearby, after all.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

With the help of Souls and Spirits native to this world, he managed to find Felt's whereabouts, both her sleeping place and the building she frequents most often.

He took a different approach once he got bored of the white woman running. He went on ahead of her, taking the shortcut he knew and bolted off faster than the girl could manage, arriving far earlier.

If his calculations are correct, she should arrive at the Slum borders by 30 minutes from now, maybe 5 less if he's being careful.

He kept himself in the shadows, making sure he wasn't seen or recognized by the unfortunate men, women, and children here, especially if they happened to be the ones who received his charity.

Drawing attention will defeat the purpose of what he's planning to do, and it's bad enough that he already sticks out with his extremely pale complexion, silver hair and bone-inlaid armor. The dark scowl and the glowing eyes added to that as well.

Even if this world has no idea what kind of people his kin are, their appearances are pretty much the easiest clue for anyone to have. If these people notice his extra arms, it'll make him completely unforgettable.

The last thing this world needs is a medium for Pandemonium's evil to reach it like himself. Even if he longs to go back to that hellhole more than anything, he would not let this beautiful and untainted world be dragged down to that place's blight.

Raeburn cannot count as another medium. He's perfectly assimilated into this world, leaving behind everything that defines his birth in Pandemonium. That boy deserves to find happiness here.

An alien like Emurdol has no right for such privileges.

But still, it doesn't mean he should rush. If he has done enough for the Order of the Serpent, then he has every right to enjoy his freedom, not as a Priest of the Serpent but as a Human Being.

Oh, how he missed Pericus' face. He never thought he wanted to punch it any more than he wants to right now. It'd be the most lenient assault he's ever done to that unstoppable moron.

But still, it doesn't mean he should rush. If he has done enough for the Order of the Serpent, then he has every right to enjoy his freedom, not as a Priest of the Serpent but as a Human Being.

Oh, how he missed Pericus' face. He never thought he wanted to punch it any more than he wants to right now. It'd be the most lenient assault he's ever done to that unstoppable moron.

He remained unmoving and posted himself on the back wall of the Slum's resident loothouse found at the very edge of the Kingdom's borders.

The nearby Souls and Spirits report that 2 people are inside, one of which was Felt and the other being a man in his senior years.

Anytime, the white woman will enter. If a confrontation happens, he will step in to basically endanger everyone inside with the threat of murder and imprisonment of their Souls inside his wand alongside the other Supreme Sins.

It's a stupid idea, and he's aware of it.

He spent years changing the perception humans have on his kind for the better, even achieved the outcome through hell and back, and now he's doing the exact opposite.

However, this world has no concept of him, therefore there isn't any loss here. Besides, people who practice the kind of magic he has are already feared, so the headache is not worth it.

He's got the plan ready. Once he begins the attack, it will force both the thief and the victim to work together, setting aside their difference for the common goal of defeating him. He will limit the amount of power he will expend in the scuffle to only bone darts, punches, scratches, and maybe a few dozen skeletons with clubs.

He will allow himself to lose to them, so long as they do everything in their power to fight back to the point of spitting blood, of course.

Humanity's greatest qualities tend to come when they have nothing to lose, and he always loved it when it shows. It shows that every sentient being in his line of sight is not a complete idiot that deserved to be left behind to rot during the Rapture.

Once the two girls have earned each other's respect, with Felt and the white woman making peace and giving back what was stolen to the other, he will finally break the façade and introduce himself as a friend, relish in their outrage if possible.

He will see if the white woman, who he will now dub as the 'Dear Girl', is worth the time he took to be scheming like this.

As he listened to the casual conversation inside, barely bothering to remember any of it, he idly fixed the straps on his black gauntlets, making sure the tips of the metal claws were sharp enough to leave lacerations at the slightest brush against flesh while the knuckles protruded out enough to leave harsh bruises once it connects. The mana in the environment seemed sufficient for the coming brawl, and he already planted some 'seeds' for the finale.

Raeburn is surely going to bitch about this the sooner he finds out and frankly, he's had enough of his lectures and of him.

The Mace Man may be the savviest in regards to adapting to this world but Emurdol genuinely lost the ability to care. He might as well not come back and banish from the man's presence.

If it wasn't for that boy's ability to communicate with Souls the same way he does, including the fact that he had a beautiful Wolf companion that could easily track Emurdol down by his scent, that would have been a conceivable notion.

He sighed.

He waited, recalling the songs taught to him by the Order being sung through the lips of Priestesses and children, entertaining himself with the melody after months of never thinking about it. He hoped the Souls here could sing along when the time comes.

Then he heard the cue. A knock on the door.

She's here now.

24 minutes in, that woman finally arrived. Close enough.

He became even more statue-like compared to before, fully blending in the scenery of the loothouse's back wall that not even his hair and robes fluttered against the smallest wisp of winds. Ears sharpened, attention spanning in all directions, he listened, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

"Gah!" There's Felt's surprised gawk. She didn't expect her victim to find her all the way out here, did she?

"I'm glad you're here. This time, you're not going anywhere." Emurdol mentally hummed in interest at the kind of voice this woman has. Clear as a bell and chiming pleasantly to the ears. The fact that it was laced with a hardened tone makes it all the more fascinating. It isn't fake.

"I'm glad you're here. This time, you're not going anywhere." Emurdol mentally hummed in interest at the kind of voice this woman has. Clear as a bell and chiming pleasantly to the ears. The fact that it was laced with a hardened tone makes it all the more fascinating. It isn't fake.

"Unfortunately, this isn't something I can give up on. If you'll be a good girl and kindly return it to me, I won't have to hurt you."

He felt the change in temperature even if he wasn't inside, the atmosphere dropping to chilling limits, and he reflexively controlled the pace of his breathing, making sure any mist doesn't blow out of his nose, even if his body is naturally cold.

Along with this chill, he heard the crackle of ice forming into existence. It seems the woman is not playing around.

Whatever was stolen, it's truly provoking a strong reaction from her.

"I only have one demand. Return my insignia, it is very precious to me."

An insignia? In whose affiliation could this foolishly kind girl be in to—

Then he froze again.

Murder.

Murder.

Murder.

Murder.

Murder.

Murder.

His mindset changed completely, all prospects of a false battle now discarded for the incoming notion of a true one. Sound around him disappeared entirely, the conversation inside losing all relevance, his organs reorganizing to safer placements, his killing intent rising up, eyes blazing like a green Hell, Mother's blades now aching for a drink of blood, calling for satisfaction inside the void, and his own bloodlust flaring up inside his chest.

All of his plans had suddenly took a turn for the worse.

The Souls and Spirits in the area are screaming. They are screaming. Calling. Shouting. Demanding. Howling. Roaring. They demand satisfaction. They demand appeasement. They wish for their orders to be done. Now.

No living being in this world is ever hated by the Dead except for the very worst.

Fury burned up within him, the presence of an unknown but highly detested presence having entered his sensory, and this one had already entered the building, most likely without any one of them noticing besides himself. The stiff confrontation inside is still ongoing, oblivious of the unknown fourth person in the room.

Dampening his rising rage, focusing the anger into his gauntlets pulsating with energy, he began to move, going around the corner of the building.

Like a phantom, his body contorting uncannily like a boneless mass of meat, his form glided across the ground like a stalking lizard, his chest nearly touching the soil while his hair and robes waved against a current as if they were submerged in underwater, the claws of his left arm touching the wall soundlessly sliding across the rough wood while his other hand pulled his form forward on the soil like a crawling zombie, his legs wearing black armor bending upwards to emulate the shape of tarantula legs.

Once he was in the perfect position for an ambush, he took the opportunity without hesitation nor delay.

Under his will as he touched the soil, the ambient mana converged directly below this unknown entity's position and became material, forming to become a spear, longer than any man had any reason to think in creating it in the forge, and composing of the hardest calcified bone he could muster, tipped with the most serrated bite.

With the will of the Souls coinciding his own, they brought forth the existence of half a dozen more.

Under less than a half-second, without the slightest warning, they suddenly pierced out of the earth, through the wooden floors and straight into the unguarded parts of the stranger.

He threw his body forward with one tug of his hand on the soil, slickly slipping through the tiny crack of the double doors, barely able to fit his armored frame, and he quickly converged on this monster, barely slowing down as he glided over chairs and tables.

The unknown fourth person was still alive. She somehow managed to dodge multiple impalements that barely anyone before could see coming.

He didn't think about it. He didn't second guess. He didn't take the time to look at the people inside. He focused on one primary target. He saw her position, he saw that she's still alive, and he swiped his glowing claws to the head the sooner he was in reach, intending to maul it off.

"Whoops."

The target ducked with minimal movement, the nearby wall blown into a hole as it took the blow in her stead, and she swiped a shining black kukri to his midsection. A gauntleted left hand caught the slim wrist, instantly crushing it in a dull crunch, and pulled it upwards, quickly leaving the target dangling in the air and about to receive a backhand to the face.

He was about to receive a kick to the midsection to deter his attack, but the high-heeled foot passed through his abdomen as if it was made of air. The target had the time to widen her purple eyes in shock before her head twisted to the side under the force of his right fist, bent to the side, the neck completely bent in half, and her lifeless body was quickly sent flying to the wall with a rock-hard kick.

Before the target could collide against the wood and send her outside, another contraption of bones erupted in the direction of her body's trajectory, a cross shaped totem, littered with millions of spikes from top to bottom, the Souls cheering him for his actions making the process quicker than it necessarily should under normal circumstances, and the 'arms' closed like crocodile jaws despite having no joints, crushing the woman's entire chest with a sickening crunch.

Not satisfied, his bloodlust and fury still blazing, he dashed to the assortment of bone spears jutting out of the ground and kicked them at the stem, separating the hardened weaponry from the earth and they floated before they were subjected to gravity, their lethal points aiming at the target's direction, and they took flight like ballista bolts, nearly breaking the speed of sound and utterly decimating both the target and the cross.

When the dust cleared and the roaring noise fell under the deafening silence, the aftermath of that brutality is the shattered cross and the target's upper half and broken organs covering the nearest walls and ceilings in red splotches while her lower half is left as the only thing intact about her as it laid on the floor with bent legs, her general location reduced to a pothole full of broken wood, bones and blood. Pieces of headless spears lie uselessly beside it.

He expelled the breath through his teeth, a nearly-inaudible hiss. Green eyes and glowing gauntlets dimming from its welting fires and pulsating light, bloodlust and fury held down under his iron will, his form straightened from its stance while his hair and robes stopped floating, subjected to gravity.

When the dust cleared and the roaring noise fell under the deafening silence, the aftermath of that brutality is the shattered cross and the target's upper half and broken organs covering the nearest walls and ceilings in red splotches while her lower half is left as the only thing intact about her as it laid on the floor with bent legs, her general location reduced to a pothole full of broken wood, bones and blood. Pieces of headless spears lie uselessly beside it.

Growling lowly, he turned his eyes to face the three occupants, and they returned his gaze with frightened looks, aghast at the brutality of his deed. It seems they're going to misunderstand that he's here to kill them.

"That…." The little one, Felt, was nearly choking on her words, pointing a shaky finger at the topless corpse, "…that lady….that lady was the one who hired me….."

The white woman moved to the front, shielding the senior, who is apparently a hulking figure of a man, and Felt, arms spread wide as sharp icicles formed over her shoulders. "Explain yourself, cloaked stranger."

He grounded his teeth in frustration. The outcome he wanted was twisted into a different direction. He's now seen as hostile, as he expected, but he's considered a genuine threat to their life. That wasn't the point.

He clenched his fist—

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive.

His hand immediately went to the wand on the left side of his belt, and the assassin's Soul was not inside.

Impossible.

Quicker than sound, his form immediately assumed a battle stance as he turned around, forgetting the three of them, eyes and gauntlets now blazing and pulsating with green light, fully on the defensive. His hair and robes could barely keep up with his snapping movements and they immediately began floating in response to the severity of the situation reviving itself.

"My goodness….."

The intruder's corpse was whole.

"WAGH!"

"What the!?"

"Eep!"

Clothing. Flesh. Face. Arms. And a twisted smile. Her voluptuous form rose up from horizontal to vertical like a lever, cheeks flushed as she held it with a free left hand, eyes staring at him lustfully and longingly. Had this been nothing like a situation where he is going to shove someone's Soul in the wand, he would have been very flattered for earning such a gaze. But now, that gaze is reminding him of someone he loathed so much and mutilated in Pandemonium.

"….that actually surprised me."

It's driving him mad.

Every single bit about the target has been restored to a complete 100%, as if what he had done to her had never happened in the first place. The remains of her top half is still littering the walls, and she suddenly grew a new one.

However the hell this woman did to come back to life, he will not let that stand.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

His stoicism shattered. A grimace, venomous and cruel, contorted his face, morphing it into a mask of pure hatred. This rage, this festering loathing, this all-consuming desire for retribution – it was fueled by the innocent lives this woman had snuffed out in her depraved pursuit of pleasure. Families torn apart, lives extinguished with chilling indifference. Some, perhaps, undeserving of such a cruel fate, caught in the crossfire of her twisted desires. They were treated like mere playthings, disposable pawns sacrificed to her whims. Their laughter, their hopes, their dreams, all snuffed out like dying embers.

"You look at me as if you hate me, Handsome. Whatever have I done to you?"

A sonic boom echoed through the loot house. In a heartbeat, he had vanished, the floorboards cracking beneath his explosive departure. His fist, launched with devastating force, shattered the sound barrier repeatedly, the shockwaves rippling across his gauntlet and searing up his arm. Pain pulsed through him, but his resolve remained ironclad - he would obliterate her once more.

The impact was catastrophic. The left wall behind the woman crumbled, disintegrating into a million razor-sharp shards flung outwards. Sparks danced in the air, ignited by the sheer kinetic energy unleashed. Through the gaping wound in the building, the dying light of dusk painted the scene in fiery hues.

His fist connected with thin air, leaving barely a smear of blood where it should have met flesh. His target, no ordinary foe, had evaded his lightning-fast attack with inhuman speed. This demanded extreme caution, a Titan-level response.

Glancing down, he saw a second gauntlet-wearing hand holding a gruesome trophy - a severed arm still clutching a gleaming kukri.

The enemy, in her dodge, had attempted his own demise. He had been spared by a hair's breadth, saved from disembowelment by the very armor she sought to pierce. His Mother had saved him. He shuddered, imagining the gruesome alternative – a fight with his entrails spilling out.

He clutched the severed arm in his first hand's grip, the dead fingers still curled around the hilt of the blood-soaked blade. Her lifeless fingers snapped and fell as he wrenched the weapon free. As the steel settled in his gauntleted right hand, a cacophony of voices erupted. Hundreds of fallen souls, tormented by the very blade they'd met their end against, whispered, screamed, and pleaded for release.

Men. Women. Children. Adults. Seniors. Innocents. Scums. Animals. Witchbeasts. Rich. Poor.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

Gratify us.

She killed them all.

Hatred simmered in him, hotter than Pandemonium's fires. None, not even the vilest Hellspawns, the most depraved Supreme Sins, bore such venom from the Dead. Even humans couldn't touch this depth of loathing.

To reach this extent…..

….to become so loathed….

He tightened his metal grip, pulverizing the woman's arm into dust. The echoing crunch reverberated off the walls, a horrifying counterpoint to his demonic growl. It was the loudest he'd been all day, a guttural echo of his fury. A demonic growl, raw and primal, ripped from his throat, surpassing any Hellspawn's snarl.

Knives sang through the air, aimed for his head. He whipped around, swatting them aside with practiced ease. The woman, swift as a wraith, materialized behind them, her lost arm regenerated. With a predator's cunning and in an inhumanly low-crouch, she lunged at his abdomen, seizing his momentary distraction.

As if.

His right foot whipped forward, a rock-hard projectile aimed at her face. Spinning, he poured the momentum of his attack into the blow, confident it would shatter her skull and snap her neck.

But she wasn't just any opponent.

Crouching low like a coiled panther, she anticipated his move. In an eye-widening feat, she sank even lower, practically skimming the floor, her feigned gaze dropping to his abdomen. All along, her true target was his exposed thigh. His kick missed its mark, finding only empty air. The woman, now a coiled spring, erupted upwards, her strike aimed at the vulnerable spot she'd revealed.

With a mighty stomp, he unnaturally redirected the momentum of his kicking leg, not into a forward thrust, but a crushing downward blow. Her head met the floor with a sickening thud, then through the floorboards and into the hard earth itself. Simultaneously, his standing foot shifted, the knee adorned with skulls meeting her grasping fingers instead of the blade. A sickening crunch echoed from her broken fingers and into his limb, but his leg remained whole, a testament to his split-second improvisation.

Her head pinned to the floor with his boot, he grabbed her arms and ripped them from her body with a sickening rip, the crimson spray painting his cloak and face in a macabre tableau. Stepping back, he cupped her mangled head in his hands.

He spun, momentum propelling him and her body in a deadly dance. With a sickening twist, the assassin's head snapped off, a crimson fountain erupting from her severed neck. Her corpse, a discarded ragdoll, slammed back to the earth. But the respite was fleeting, the earth being a false sanctuary. Bone spears erupted, impaling her and hoisting her high, a grisly trophy displayed on a skewer of sharpened bone.

His grip tightened on the dismembered head, ignoring the lifeless eyes staring vacantly back. Claws dug through the skull, bones giving way with a sickening crunch. Brain matter, blood, and bone shards erupted in a geyser of gore, splattering his hands and the surrounding area. The bone spears, embedded in the assassin's body, mirrored the explosion, disintegrating the assassin into a gruesome shower of flesh and bone that rained down on the nearest bystander.

The bone dust settled, the red mist dissipating like a fading dream. Against all odds, she stood again, epicenter of the carnage. Yet, her arrival wasn't marked by fury, but a chilling affection. Her smile, twisted and poisonous, bespoke an attraction reserved for the deranged.

"….did you know? That's actually the first time anyone has ever killed me more than once under no less than 2 minutes."

"H….how are you still alive!? You were blown up twice!" He heard Felt shout something.

"I guess you could say I'm special. A Shaman took really good care of me to make me this way."

Her words hung heavy, a chilling revelation: her immortality was not absolute, but a fragile construct vulnerable to unraveling. He grasped the chilling implication – he could end it. The prospect ignited a fire within him. Even if it meant an eternity of relentless struggle, he will unravel the secrets of her immortality.

Hated by the Afterlife, the enemy faced not only a skilled fighter, but a conduit for the Souls' vengeance. Fueled by their desire to see her suffer for her transgressions, they eagerly empowered him. As a Priest of the Serpent, he's never afraid to please. His victory seemed assured, a grim execution fueled by the collective rage of the Afterlife.

"And with that aside….." A shiver ran down his spine, not from fear, but from primal disgust. Her flushed cheeks, the saccharine smile, the gaze that promised both pleasure and pain – it was a mask, hiding the monster beneath. The Souls wanted her dead, and he understood why. The thought of her victims, viewed with the same seductive intensity, turned his stomach. "….why don't we start the dance over, Handsome? I find you to be a very exciting partner. I hope your insides look the most beautiful compared to everyone else here when we're done with each other."

Her primary target is the abdomen. That explains the consistency she was showing with the direction of her strikes.

His gaze held, unwavering, as he advanced once step forward. A predatory lean stretched his tall form, exuding power and a chilling bloodlust. The air crackled around him, his hair and robes whipping in an unseen wind. The grim scowl twisted, revealing a menacing snarl, teeth bared and sharp, a terrifying contrast to his former self.

Bewilderment contorted the observer's face as the assassin settled into an unorthodox stance. Arms splayed, side presented, legs barely apart - it was a mockery of conventional defense, riddled with openings and devoid of any space for a counter. Yet, underestimating her based on technicalities felt ludicrous. This wasn't an amateur's blunder; it was the deliberate posture of a predator confident in their lethal grace.

She's dangerous. He did not forget that. He will not underestimate her.

"The Bowel Hunter, Elsa Granhiert."

Big mistake.

A whisper-thin snake fang, a harbinger of silent death, launched from his robes, targeting her eye. He'd perfected the art, a hidden weapon few ever realized was aimed at them.

But her response was a symphony of motion. From stillness to black blur, she vanished, reappeared off the wall, a rebounding projectile now screaming towards him.

A flick of the elbow, a clang of steel. The man barely flinched as the blade bounced harmlessly off his ultra-hard counter. He barely registered the impact, standing firm. Unrelenting, the Bowel Hunter used the rebound to launch herself towards the ceiling, aiming for a surprise attack from above. But he was ready. With inhuman agility, he raised his arm, blocking her strike at the peak of her arc. His elbow pointed skyward, showcasing an impossible reach, as if defying gravity. Simultaneously, the earth around him writhed. Bone stakes erupted from the ground, hissing like vipers, their razor-sharp tips aiming to skewer the airborne attacker.

Abandoning the downward slash meant for his arm and through his back, she twisted, a flawless sphere evading the third impalement. Fluid as a serpent, she curled into a ball, momentum carrying her across the ground and up a nearby wall. Like a spider, she traversed the vertical surface, her blade flashing as she launched herself back at him with renewed ferocity.

He didn't block. Instead, he mirrored her aggression, leaping towards her. One clawed hand, extended like a spear, aimed to pierce through her face, down her throat and deep into her torso.

Nimbly, she caught the metal wrist, and the blade moved like wind to sever it—

He flickered, turning immaterial just as she and her blade touched him. Her form harmlessly passed through him, leaving her exposed. Then, the deadly dance resumed. Those flexible spears, forever aiming their serrated teeth at her, lunged. But she was no prey. Spinning like a drill, she shattered them with each touch, their stone-like hardness no match for her blade-like form.

Leaping before her feet even touched the ground, she evaded the claws of his gauntlet that snapped for her spine.

Emurdol blocked her retaliation, crossing his forearms in a desperate X. The blow, powerful enough to shatter stone pillars, met his ultra-hard steel with a deafening clang. His arms held, but the shockwave rippled through him, a testament to her raw power upon rebounding off the nearest wall.

Elsa, a whirlwind of limbs and blades, began bouncing around him once more. Ignoring the throbbing ache in his arms as he blocked her blows, he flung off his cloak in a smooth motion, tossing it aside. Mother's sickles materialized around his exposed nape just in time to deflect a beheading swipe.

Hiding was futile. He'd reveal his power eventually. This assassin mirrored his every move, her attacks escalating with his own. The more power he unleashed, the faster and deadlier she became. He was caught in a deadly dance, matched step for step by a foe who thrived on his desperation.

As she began bouncing all over the place once again, he blocked out the throbbing sensation in his arms from reaching his head and quickly removed his cloak before throwing it aside, his nape quickly protected from a beheading swipe by Mother's sickles. There's no point hiding it. He's going to end up exposing it at some point. She's toying with him. This assassin is mirroring the intensity of his attacks. The more power he uses, the quicker and deadlier she becomes.

Elsa landed back to the ground, taking in the entirety of his fully revealed form as she straightened her posture seductively. "My…."

A symphony of dull cracks echoed within his armor as he rolled his shoulders back. Two pairs of additional arms, armored and clawed, unfurled from their hidden slots, eager to join the fray. One pair sprouted directly behind his original limbs, wielding black, serrated sickles that gleamed with an unsettling newness. Beneath them, a second pair emerged, each hand gripping a kris - long, wavy daggers built to inflict grievous wounds. Their silver shimmered like moonlight, catching every available light source.

"Six arms…." She observed, smiling, "….how lovely. You don't impress me as one of the Many-Armed Tribesmen from Vollachia. I thought they be bigger and have blue skin. You do have their mean faces, though. At least that's what the books told me."

With a sickening green glow pulsating from his gauntlets, he slammed his foot against the floor, shattering the surface. Reaching upwards, he seized the air, pulling forth bones erupting from the ground. They erupted, shattering the floorboards, sending hundreds of dragon teeth flying. These teeth formed a protective, diagonal circle around him before darting towards his opponent.

She responded with a flurry of bounces, seamlessly leaping from surface to surface, effortlessly dodging every projectile aimed her way. Her speed was astonishing, matching the crackle of sound itself. Each rebound and swipe triggered sonic booms, and her movements were like a giant Northman's axe held in the hands of the largest warrior in Pandemonium. A single swing from her could demolish a small house.

His every fiber screamed in protest. Even with Mother shielding him, each blow reverberated through his body, threatening to shatter his ribs and shake loose his heart. He couldn't sustain this much longer.

With a desperate flourish, he dispersed the protective ring, its razor-sharp teeth widening their deadly dance across the air. Mother, sensing his struggle, switched tactics, deflecting blows rather than absorbing them, drawing a crimson path through the air as the assassin grazed their edges.

He wasn't done. With a surge of power, the fangs morphed into serrated wheels, spinning with a terrifying whine into lethal buzzsaws. Emerald eyes blazing, he commanded them with his will, bouncing off surfaces with a sickening thud, leaving deep gouges in the wood and shattering fragile objects. More blood rained down, the assassin paying dearly for her agility.

"So beautiful. So utterly beautiful. You truly are amazing, Handsome." Even with her continually bouncing all over the place, her voice managed to breach his hearing. It sounded like it was right next to his ear, her lips practically grazing the earlobe. This shouldn't be possible. How is she doing this? "You truly are a gifted man to have this power."

He found a pattern.

He whipped his arm back like a striking snake, catching the woman's leg mid-lunge. Her momentum almost took him down, but he dug his heels in, twisting her leg back. The bone snapped, visible through her torn leggings. He pivoted, using her own force to send her flying over his head.

Just then, a glint of steel flashed. Mother, with lightning reflexes, deflected the kukri aimed at him with her sickle's curve.

Elsa, weapon gone, lunged for his head. But before her hands could reach, a blur of metal flashed. Both appendages fell limp, severed at the wrists by the second sickle.

With a guttural roar, he punched her jaw with his free hand, teeth shattering under his fist. The loothouse echoed with the ivory scream of saw blades as they tore into her now lifeless body, organs spraying in a macabre ballet.

A guttural growl ripped through the air as he grasped her ankle with one hand and jammed his hand into her skull with the other. His intention was clear: a brutal, spine-shattering rip in two. Mother didn't wait. With a chilling swiftness, her sickles danced, a scissoring cut bisecting Elsa's midsection. Blood and viscera erupted, bathing the attacker in a crimson shower.

Throwing her lower half to the wall, he infused power into the hand jammed inside Elsa's head still connected to her upper half. Emerald light emanated from her eyes, nose, the gaps of her broken mouth and the stump of her midsection, and with a determined sneer, she exploded in a messy rain of both blood and organs, all her bones having become the most violent explosive existent inside a human body.

His guttural rumble intensified, morphing into a wracking groan. With a pained surge, the ribcage surrounding his breastplate opened up. He lurched forward, held only by the iron grip of his lower arms as a gush of crimson bile erupted onto the floorboards. Hissing agony filled the air as the liquid sizzled, dissolving the wood where it touched.

The battle's tremors still coursed through him, each vibration a fresh assault on his already churning stomach. It felt like molten lava sloshing within, threatening to erupt at any moment. He couldn't believe he'd somehow maintained his fighting prowess through the searing pain and nausea.

Now, as his ragged breaths echoed in the silence, a chilling calm washed over him. The agony receded, the churning subsided. He relished the hollow emptiness, a perverse peace after the storm.

[Feeling better now?]

Disoriented, Emurdol instinctively lashed out with the weapons of his six arms at once at the voice. But his attacker was nowhere to be seen.

[Relax. I'm in your head. And I'm here to hear you out, on the behalf of everybody. Just play along and I'll trust you for now. Deal?]

The voice's maturity soothed his rattled nerves, particularly its understanding of his actions. He was too drained to explain himself fully, so playing along seemed easier. He nodded curtly.

[Good. We're getting somewhere. First question, was that woman a threat to everybody, especially to the cute girl in white?]

He nodded.

[How can you tell? I sensed her bloodlust, but you appeared out of nowhere, weapons drawn, ready to kill her like she wronged you deeply.]

Emurdol struggled, his lips twitching before managing a single word, barely audible and thick with an unknown accent, "Killer."

[She was a killer?]

He nodded.

[And you attacked her to protect us?]

He shook his head. The intention hardly came first to his mind. He replied, a word with easier syllables this time. "Enemy."

[Are you one to us as well?]

He shook his head once more.

[Hmm.]

Suddenly, the voice materialized, taking physical form where the white woman once stood. "He's safe, everyone!" she announced, her voice carrying authority. "Believe it or not, he just saved us from that woman. She intended to harm us all."

That voice made Emurdol whip his head around, his white hair flying in the motion. And once again, what he saw next is another point where this alien world continued to surprise him, revealing the impossible at every turn.

There, above the Dear Girl's shoulder, floated a cat. Cream-colored, with a tail that defied gravity, it stretched impossibly long. It winked and waved, a cutesy smile plastered on its face. "Hiya! Surprised to see me in the flesh?" It purred.

"Hey," Felt stepped around from her crouched position behind the bar counter, her eyes still rattled by the recent battle. "Was that lady actually gonna kill us all?"

Emurdol, nursing a groan for having to repeat himself, nodded curtly. He reached for a fallen bottle on the ground–miraculously intact. As he inspected the faded label, he ignored the gruff voice from the senior man lecturing Felt about getting dangerous company involved in her commissions.

The clawed gauntlet's thumb popped the cork, sending the cap flying with a hiss. The bottle, filled with a likely disgusting taste, was lifted to his lips... then abruptly halted.

A swift switch of his grip to the neck and the bottle became a projectile, hurled towards the lower half of the assassin's form.

A delicate hand, slick with blood, snagged it mid-air. Wine sloshed, dribbling down bloodstained fingers as a red tongue lapped at the spilled liquid.

"I appreciate the offer," Elsa said, her voice laced with a chilling nonchalance, "but I prefer my drinks off-duty and in a more comfortable setting." With disconcerting nonchalance, she politely set the bottle down on the floor.

"Goodness, you're quite a hardy girl, aren't ya?" The Cat was more exasperated than surprised at this point, "I don't think I've seen anybody as stubborn as you."

"To be treated as unique by a Spirit is an honor."

Spirit? Emurdol idly wondered.

"Icy blades materialized with a mana-chilled hiss, the room temperature plummeting. Each icicle, bigger and sharper than before, could cleave a bear in two. 'Treasure it,' he growled, It'll be the last thing you'll take with you once you fall.'

Unhesitant, the Dear Girl stepped forward in front of him, hands outstretched. Mana crackled in her palms, ready to solidify at her command. 'Leave this to me, stranger,' she declared. 'You're weary. Let me repay your kindness earlier.'

He narrowed his eyes. To face such ferocity with such confidence... she was either unbelievably powerful or recklessly brave. Clicking his tongue, he adjusted his gauntlets, summoning the raw energy of his Soul. No matter her reason, he wouldn't stand idly by and watch good intentions face Elsa's icy wrath.

As a Priest of the Serpent, he must satisfy the needs of the Dead.

"We never introduced each other, did we, Lady?" The cat began as icicles begin flying, and a hailstorm of chilling sharpness fell upon Elsa. "My name is Puck, remember that as you go to the Afterlife."

Elsa danced a deadly ballet, dodging lethal icicles with acrobatic cartwheels and springs. Meanwhile, a chilling presence descended from above. Emurdol, quick and silent, glided down the ceiling and positioned himself behind the assassin.

The sooner she was in his range, Puck ceased firing and Mother executed a cleaving strike with her sickles.

The curved blades flashed down, aimed for her neck. But in a blur of steel and defiance, she whipped her back in a shocking contortion, the arc defying the limits of human flexibility. The executioner's strike met empty air, while a double flurry of kukris danced towards his midsection, a deadly reply for a near-miss.

Mother's lower arms wielding krises parried the blows with twin krises, sparks spitting from the clash of steel. He lunged, aiming to grab her head, only to pull them back as Elsa suddenly began spinning like a deadly pinwheel in her posture, her blades whistling just past his fingers.

With him out of the way, Puck unleashed a flurry of icy blades raining down on Elsa. She deflected the deadly rain with lightning-fast movements of her kukris, each parry echoing the desperate symphony of survival. But this reprieve was brief. With a surge of adrenaline, she broke her defensive stance and charged towards Emurdol, recognizing him as the true danger.

Emurdol met her charge head-on. His gauntlets pulsed with ominous light, reaching out to ensnare her once more. The distance between them dissolved in a blink upon his second step, his claws reaching for her belly and the sickles from his upper arms coming to behead her in a scissoring motion.

He braced himself, expecting a graceful dodge - a leap over him. Instead, the ground trembled as she broke the sound barrier, unleashing a sonic boom that battered him with sheer force. His body convulsed, tinnitus ripping through his skull. Acidic bile surged up, erupting from his throat in a violent spasm. His heart stuttered, then hammered against his ribs.

Disoriented by the searing ring in his head, he saw only white. Balance fled him, and he crossed his arms defensively. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and have Mother crawl him away from the fight with the four other arms and his legs, watching as the icicles flew over his prone form, keeping Elsa away from him.

Suspended from the ceiling by Mother's death-grip on the rafters, his legs inexplicably clinging to the surface, he clutched his armored chest. A sneer etched on his face, acidic fluids dripped from his fangs, mixed with protective red saliva.

Nausea churned. His ears throbbed with a maddening ringing. The world shifted, his sense of direction lost. Internal bleeding gnawed at him. A surge of bile rose, erupting from his mouth to eat away at the floor below.

This has dragged out for far too long than he liked. This woman must be stopped, but she keeps coming back from the dead. How can he fully neutralize her?

With bloodshot eyes, he scanned the bellow him. The assassin, ankles firmly locked in a rising tide of ice, lay helpless at the mercy of the Dear Girl and her cat, Puck. A surge of mana, ominous and final, crackled toward the assassin. He slammed his teeth together. If encasing her in ice was their plan, it had better be swift. Could she shatter free from stasis? He wouldn't know unless they acted fast.

"Goodbye!"

From both hands and paws, a torrent of ice erupted, a chilling juggernaut unstoppable as it charged forward. Spikes of lethal intent shattered walls, ceiling, and building itself. In the frigid aftermath, Elsa lay trapped, a prisoner of her own creation, forever slumbering in a tomb of ice, youthfully preserved but eternally silenced.

However, this woman continued to display her persistence. That was not what happened.

With a desperate flick of her knife, she severed her own legs at the thighs. Blood sprayed, painting the frigid air crimson before solidifying like crimson shards. Clinging to the wall, a ragged gasp escaped her lips, seeming to have had an orgasm. "That was so close….I thought I was actually going to die again….."

Emurdol's growl, laced with venom, sent spittle and blood flying. With a purpose, Mother let go of the rafters. The decaying wood groaned under her weight, cracking beneath her hands and knees as she slammed into the ground, stopping his head from hitting it completely.

As he rose to his feet, Mother's four arms folded behind his back into specific shapes, the position of the metallic appendages and her weapons simultaneously forming 5 runes, and the Souls immediately began congregating to his location like flies to meat.

Eyes blazing green, his entire vision narrowed solely on Elsa as she focused her attention on him, even while she dodged the surprisingly quick swings of Rom's attacks using a large nail-covered club, who has now joined the fight and shaking the nearly-collapsing building with his footwork.

His gauntlets, no longer glowing, began to corrupt the surrounding mana. The effect spread like an oil spill, slowly suffocating the magic in the air. This building, already near collapse, would become a death trap for anyone wielding magic. Even a simple spell would drain them faster than words could escape their lips.

S̴̤̈ḯ̵͕n̴̗̄n̷̼̔u̵̙̒l̶̠̃. ̴͙̿Sin̵̯͐nu̵͎̾l̴̨̈́. S̆͜i̴͕͌n̶͎̍n̴̜̒u̶̹͗l̵̛̩.̷̲̄ ̷̮̈́S̴̫̽in̵̜̎n̶̗͠u̶̬̅ĺ̶̖.̷̩̿ ̷̹͑Si̵͔͒ń̶̘nul̈́.̵͕̉ ̶͙̑S̶̄ͅi̵͎̐n̴̼̔ń̴͜ụ̴̀l̶̝͗.̶̰́ ̶̪̕S̵̞̑ǐ̸̼n̴͙̅n̶̢͊ų̵̌l̶̹̔.̶͓͝ S̵̟̏ǐ̴̙ṉ̷͑nl̂.̵͈̌ ̷̠͋S̶̢͝i̷̙͛n̶̍ͅñ̶̗u̵̦̔l̷̨̛. ̷̫͂S̵̗͠i̴̦͋n̶̢̊n̵̲̋u̶̳͘l̴̺̊. ̶͓́S̷͓͘i̶̓ͅn̴̳̆n̵̥͒ủ̵̮l̷̩̚.̷̹͝ ̷̼͊S̶̥̃ḯ̵̫ṉ̵̎n̵̩̐ú̵̘l̷̞͝.̴̡͒ ̷̚ͅS̷̝̋i̴̛̩n̴͔͛n̴̦͗ṳ̶̆ḻ̸̆.̈́ S̷͎͋ị̵͒ṇ̵̓n̴̠͠u̷͕͠l.̵̪̉ ̶̲͌S̶̞͒i̵̗̚nn̷̝̈́u̵̘̓ĺ̶̠.̷̬̆ ̴̤̌S̶̮̍ín̵̡̈́n̷͓̉ü̵͔l.̵͙̋ ̶͖̂S̴̤̈ḯ̵͕n̴̗̄n̷̼̔u̵̙̒l̶̠̃. ̴͙̿Sin̵̯͐nu̵͎̾l̴̨̈́. S̆͜i̴͕͌n̶͎̍n̴̜̒u̶̹͗l̵̛̩.̷̲̄ ̷̮̈́S̴̫̽in̵̜̎n̶̗͠u̶̬̅ĺ̶̖.̷̩̿ ̷̹͑Si̵͔͒ń̶̘nul̈́.̵͕̉ ̶͙̑S̶̄ͅi̵͎̐n̴̼̔ń̴͜ụ̴̀l̶̝͗.̶̰́ ̶̪̕S̵̞̑ǐ̸̼n̴͙̅n̶̢͊ų̵̌l̶̹̔.̶͓͝ S̵̟̏ǐ̴̙ṉ̷͑nl̂.̵͈̌ ̷̠͋S̶̢͝i̷̙͛n̶̍ͅñ̶̗u̵̦̔l̷̨̛. ̷̫͂S̵̗͠i̴̦͋n̶̢̊n̵̲̋u̶̳͘l̴̺̊. ̶͓́S̷͓͘i̶̓ͅn̴̳̆n̵̥͒ủ̵̮l̷̩̚.̷̹͝ ̷̼͊S̶̥̃ḯ̵̫ṉ̵̎n̵̩̐ú̵̘l̷̞͝.̴̡͒ ̷̚ͅS̷̝̋i̴̛̩n̴͔͛n̴̦͗ṳ̶̆ḻ̸̆.̈́ S̷͎͋ị̵͒ṇ̵̓n̴̠͠u̷͕͠l.̵̪̉ ̶̲͌S̶̞͒i̵̗̚nn̷̝̈́u̵̘̓ĺ̶̠.̷̬̆ ̴̤̌S̶̮̍ín̵̡̈́n̷͓̉ü̵͔l.̵͙̋ ̶͖̂S̴̤̈ḯ̵͕n̴̗̄n̷̼̔u̵̙̒l̶̠̃. ̴͙̿Sin̵̯͐nu̵͎̾l̴̨̈́. S̆͜i̴͕͌n̶͎̍n̴̜̒u̶̹͗l̵̛̩.̷̲̄ ̷̮̈́S̴̫̽in̵̜̎n̶̗͠u̶̬̅ĺ̶̖.̷̩̿ ̷̹͑Si̵͔͒ń̶̘nul̈́.̵͕̉ ̶͙̑S̶̄ͅi̵͎̐n̴̼̔ń̴͜ụ̴̀l̶̝͗.̶̰́ ̶̪̕S̵̞̑ǐ̸̼n̴͙̅n̶̢͊ų̵̌l̶̹̔.̶͓͝ S̵̟̏ǐ̴̙ṉ̷͑nl̂.̵͈̌ ̷̠͋S̶̢͝i̷̙͛n̶̍ͅñ̶̗u̵̦̔l̷̨̛. ̷̫͂S̵̗͠i̴̦͋n̶̢̊n̵̲̋u̶̳͘l̴̺̊. ̶͓́S̷͓͘i̶̓ͅn̴̳̆n̵̥͒ủ̵̮l̷̩̚.̷̹͝ ̷̼͊S̶̥̃ḯ̵̫ṉ̵̎n̵̩̐ú̵̘l̷̞͝.̴̡͒ ̷̚ͅS̷̝̋i̴̛̩n̴͔͛n̴̦͗ṳ̶̆ḻ̸̆.̈́ S̷͎͋ị̵͒ṇ̵̓n̴̠͠u̷͕͠l.̵̪̉ ̶̲͌S̶̞͒i̵̗̚nn̷̝̈́u̵̘̓ĺ̶̠.̷̬̆ ̴̤̌S̶̮̍ín̵̡̈́n̷͓̉ü̵͔l.̵͙̋ ̶͖̂S̴̤̈ḯ̵͕n̴̗̄n̷̼̔u̵̙̒l̶̠̃. ̴͙̿Sin̵̯͐nu̵͎̾l̴̨̈́. S̆͜i̴͕͌n̶͎̍n̴̜̒u̶̹͗l̵̛̩.̷̲̄ ̷̮̈́S̴̫̽in̵̜̎n̶̗͠u̶̬̅ĺ̶̖.̷̩̿ ̷̹͑Si̵͔͒ń̶̘nul̈́.̵͕̉ ̶͙̑S̶̄ͅi̵͎̐n̴̼̔ń̴͜ụ̴̀l̶̝͗.̶̰́ ̶̪̕S̵̞̑ǐ̸̼n̴͙̅n̶̢͊ų̵̌l̶̹̔.̶͓͝ S̵̟̏ǐ̴̙ṉ̷͑nl̂.̵͈̌ ̷̠͋S̶̢͝i̷̙͛n̶̍ͅñ̶̗u̵̦̔l̷̨̛. ̷̫͂S̵̗͠i̴̦͋n̶̢̊n̵̲̋u̶̳͘l̴̺̊. ̶͓́S̷͓͘i̶̓ͅn̴̳̆n̵̥͒ủ̵̮l̷̩̚.̷̹͝ ̷̼͊S̶̥̃ḯ̵̫ṉ̵̎n̵̩̐ú̵̘l̷̞͝.̴̡͒ ̷̚ͅS̷̝̋i̴̛̩n̴͔͛n̴̦͗ṳ̶̆ḻ̸̆.̈́ S̷͎͋ị̵͒ṇ̵̓n̴̠͠u̷͕͠l.̵̪̉ ̶̲͌S̶̞͒i̵̗̚nn̷̝̈́u̵̘̓ĺ̶̠.̷̬̆ ̴̤̌S̶̮̍ín̵̡̈́n̷͓̉ü̵͔l.̵͙̋ ̶͖̂

Intense chanting erupted from him, guttural and primal, pulsing through the room like a physical force. The echoing voices of the Souls amplified his power, their words weaving a tapestry of punishment and suffering. He invoked the Knife's bite, the Thorn's prick, the Hand's crushing grip, the Claw's tearing agony. With each invocation, a wave of hate rippled outward.

The monstrous giant and the lone woman froze, startled by the sudden eruption of howls within their own minds. Glancing around in confusion, they pinpointed the source: Emurdol. The Dear Girl's knees buckled, her legs trembling beneath her like failing pillars. Her outstretched hand, moments ago wielding magic, faltered, the spell sputtering out. Gasps for air grew shallow and uneven, rattling in her constricted chest. Head drooping, spine aching, the weight of her own body became an unbearable burden. Her eyelids fluttered closed, threatening to surrender to the encroaching darkness.

"I….I can't st…stand…." The girl quickly fell on her backside before the rest of her followed, her eyes quickly closing as her consciousness is wiped out.

"Hey…the hell're you doin'?" Rom asked grimly, his free hand covering his left ear, failing to block out the increasingly loud howling and wailing as he started backing away.

"Hmm….." Elsa only smiled charmingly at him, sauntering towards him with the grace intended to show off her supple legs that have grown back, cloth and all. "What are you going to do next, Handsome?"

The sound of snapping wood erupted before the loud clanking of metal arrived behind her, which she answered with a swift twist of her body and a quick slash of her kukri, the knight sneaking up behind her instantly cut down—

And the unmanned set of full armor clattered to pieces on the floor, displaying indication of no living person being inside and wearing them while it was about to run her through with a dull sword.

"What the….!?" Rom was flabbergasted.

"Oh…?" Before Elsa could ponder over it any further, the double-door entrance suddenly burst open, and she blocked a bone axe from burying itself to her head, parrying it away and throwing off the attacker behind her. Before she could process the form of her new opponent, she quickly side-stepped, evading the thrust of a sword behind her and countered with a quick slash to the head.

The second attacker's upper half of its head is lost, but it was still standing. A skeleton's grin is still present, and the bony construct swung its weapon diagonally upwards, nearly shredding her supple breasts with its serrated blade as she leaned back. The second skeleton swung down its axe on her head, and she leapt out of the way, the ground shattering under the might of the weapon.

Unhampered by exhaustion, motion-range limitations, and fear, the undead duo bore down on her with an impressive mix of both animalistic ferocity and martial finesse. The Axe fought with nothing but pure strength and the intention to kill her as quickly as possible. The Sword functioned as defense, parrying and countering every slash Elsa threw to leave openings for its partner to exploit.

This time, their battle could truly be called a Dance. There was no break or pause, only continuous and nonstop, and no movement is wasted, only utilized in the most unorthodox way possible. The Sword's upper half is knocked backwards with a kick, its lower half started going for her legs with kicks and stomps before both halves reconnected again. The Axe missed another downward strike and had its weapon embedded to the ground, it cartwheeled forward without letting go and nearly slammed the assassin's head to the floor with its feet, the decimated floorboards exploding and causing the building to shake.

Elsa exhibited greater combat prowess, having a counter available for every attack that came her way, never once taking a hit and dealing more blows to her skeletal opponents, slowly riddling them down, bit by bit. She doesn't even look exhausted as well, maintaining that smile throughout. Every time a new move was executed, she would never forget it and have a counter ready by the time it's repeated.

Then, the skeletons started running away from her, charging the giant and the thief. The latter was easily lifted over a bony shoulder and taken behind the counter. Rom himself was left baffled as the spindly and unassuming Axe lifted his gigantic body off his feet one-handed and threw him over the counter next to Felt, shaking the building upon landing and making a few breakable pieces of the walls fall off. The construct ran to the fallen girl's form and pulled her into cover.

Elsa knew what was coming and turned to face Emurdol, "Are you finally finished preparing that spell of yours?"

Gratitude twisted his features as he devoured the tainted mana, siphoned by the Souls. Each tainted drop fueled his transformation, converging into a potent magical elixir capable of annihilating a city. His eyes flared, consuming his face in a blinding emerald light. His body shimmered, blurring the line between flesh and power. His hair whipped wildly, echoing the tempest within him. Then, with a guttural roar, he unleashed the amassed energy. It erupted from him, a torrent of emerald malice, flowing like a shattered vessel and engulfing the planted 'seeds' in its destructive tide.

Beneath the loot house around it, hidden inches deep, lay an arsenal of bone fragments scattered across the dusty ground. These were the remnants of meticulous preparation, a stockpile of weapons and soldiers waiting for the original clash he planned with the Dear Girl and Felt. Now, as the situation had spiraled into madness, the time for their deployment had arrived.

With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed the most devastating bone spell of his repertoire. The ground shuddered, and fragments erupted from the soil, propelled skyward by an unseen force. As they ascended, they morphed, their size and weight defying natural law. Some, still halfway risen, cracked the earth, their growing mass sending tremors through the very foundation of the loot house.

Soon, the building was swallowed in shadow, the sky blotted out by a macabre spectacle. Skulls, fingers, claws, ribs – every bone imaginable – swelled into monstrous forms, their ivory surfaces glinting ominously. This wasn't just a hail of projectiles; it was an ivory cloud, a harbinger of catastrophe poised to unleash its fury upon the unsuspecting earth.

Millions of razor-sharp bone fragments, swirling in a deadly cyclone, surrounded the loot house. Escape was impossible. The air crackled with the chilling symphony of bones colliding, breaking, and reshaping. The howling and screaming of the Dead blended with this macabre orchestra, creating a soundscape of pure terror.

The loot house walls crumbled under the relentless onslaught, leaving them exposed to the swirling blades of death. Ears threaten to erupt, the noises reaching a cacophonous peak….

And he screamed.

As the bones struck downwards and the cyclone suddenly flew inwards, the loot house was no more.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"Oh god, I hope you didn't end up murdering someone, Hero….!" Of course, knowing that man, it'd be the same as asking a dog to not bark. A wild one compared to his Brother. Even if that man did not shove his claws inside someone's face and blew it up, he has permanently disabled someone somewhere.

Raeburn gritted his teeth, his grip on Tank's reigns tightening, his knuckles turning white. "Fuuuuck...why is he, of all the people in Pandemonium, the one to be here…!?"

Once partners in an epic struggle against an Undead Titan in the hellhole they called home, the Necromagus, as he preferred – lest a misplaced sickle find its way to his face, had become nothing but a thorn in his side. The man barely heeded his counsel, transforming his life into a Vollachian Gladiator Island of its own. But just as he'd escaped that Darwinian nightmare...

"Geez…." He patted Tank's jet black fur, his fingers tracing over the red highlights near his mane. "….at least I have you to keep me sane, right, boy?"

The Liger yipped in agreement, barely slowing down from his sprint across the Slum roads, kicking up dust and leaving behind a trail. The stench of despair clung to the kingdom's underbelly, where lives festered in the gutters. Each visit filled him with a fresh wave of pain, a stark contrast to the hope he tried to kindle. Despite the kingless chaos, he persisted, channeling his earnings from bounty hunting and street music into fleeting moments of comfort for the abandoned souls. Yet, the weight of their misery remained, a heavy burden on his own heart.

Despite his initial displeasure with the "charge," Raeburn found solace in the man's unexpected act of charity. Initiating a spontaneous act of compassion, the Death Mage bought out five stalls of fruits and vegetables, hauling them directly to the impoverished community. His generosity brought smiles back to the faces of starving men, women, and children. While Raeburn himself earned his share of smiles through kindness, the ones bestowed upon the Death Mage were the most radiant, shimmering with genuine gratitude. This display of pure benevolence, confirmed by the Souls themselves, began to chip away at Raeburn's ingrained negativity towards the man.

Even if he was rebellious and a complete asshole, this Necromagus had a human heart, one that was blessed and loved by God.

He didn't believe it at first when he had a long conversation with the Souls regarding the Necromagus and discovered through them that the man was the revered Hero of Pandemonium that had killed and caged the actual Spirits of the Supreme Sins inside his wand, even if the Dead have no capacity to lie and are ever trustworthy sources of flawed but reliable information.

It has been 5 years since he was taken to this world, and under those 5 years in Pandemonium, a Necromagus of all people was the one to achieve the impossible, and happened to be the one person to be taken away from Pandemonium as well.

All doubts were washed away thanks to that act of kindness he did days ago. He was a coldhearted asshole when Raeburn first met him, he still is now, but people can change with time. The Necromagus must have grown a fire inside that icy heart of his during those 5 years before being brought here.

"Now, I wonder what the hell you have done in this hour." After the Souls reported to him of a powerful disturbance and a great influx of mana coming from the edge of the Slums, he feared the worst, especially when it was confirmed that the Necromagus was responsible for it. "Reinhardt before be there before me."

In no time thanks to Tank's speed, he reached the location of the disturbance, and he could only gawk as his Brother slid to a stop, creating a dust cloud.

Raeburn recalled a loot house, tucked against the border wall, beckoned. Now, that wall was on the verge of collapse, riddled with cracks and sporting a grotesque rib bone embedded on its surface like trophy. The very earth seemed ripped open from below, gaping wounds marring the landscape.

Gone was Rom's loot house, replaced by a colossal crater, five feet deep and choked with debris. Bone fragments, splintered wood, and scraps of junk littered the scene, interspersed with skeletal remains far larger than any human. Thankfully, not as large as the big old man, Raeburn mused with a sliver of relief.

Then, half-buried in the crater's depths, a monumental skull caught his eye. Did the Death Mage summon a skeletal titan? The question loomed heavy, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Is that you, Raeburn?" A male voice called out to him.

Turning, Raeburn's face broke into a relieved smile as he spotted the unmistakable figure of the Lord Sword Saint himself, Reinhardt. His presence alone seemed to settle the swirling dust of anxiety.

Nearby, Rom and his adopted granddaughter Felt sat huddled, their disheveled clothes and drawn faces hinting at a recent ordeal. With a quick dismount from Tank, Raeburn offered a friendly wave to Reinhardt, the Knight among Knights, "Good evening, Reinhardt. I came to check on what's going on."

"Did you also come to check on your friend as well, the Lord Death Mage?" Reinhardt mentioned.

"Wel—uh, y-yeah! I am. You know where he is?" Raeburn asked.

"Over there." Beside the crater, a white-clad woman lay unconscious, moonlight illuminating her silver hair. But her vulnerability is made unsettled by the six-armed Necromagus kneeling next to her, his mouth gaping wide as he ate some sort of sickly green energy seeping out of her form.

The most concerning detail is the fact that the man is covered in blood. He could only wonder whose.

Reinhardt clarified, "He's currently draining the tainted mana Lady Emilia has absorbed by accident."

Ah, of course.

From the outset of their first 'partnership', he recognized the Necromagi's inherent incompatibility for teamwork. Their disregard for collateral damage during potent spellcasting was reckless, endangering allies as much as foes. Moreover, their magic left a lingering taint that stifled other mages' abilities, rendering them powerless at a critical moment, even nearly causing their demise through unintended mana corruption.

While the cleanup effort after their last encounter was absent, this time, at least, the aftermath wasn't left to fester.

"That's good to hear." Raeburn surveyed the scene, his eyes landing on the pulverized houses, their collapse seemingly driven by an internal force rather than external assault. The culprit was evident – the telltale signature of a powerful spell, undoubtedly belonging to the Death Mage's. "The hell happened here? An explosion or something?"

"Well, according to the two here," Reinhardt nodded to the old man and the blonde, "To summarize: A woman, whose descriptions could undoubtedly belong to the Bowel Hunter, had somehow attacked them. Your friend came in the nick of time to save their lives and Lady Emilia's."

The mere utterance of the name "Bowel Hunter" sent waves of agitation among the Souls. Raeburn's normally jovial expression vanished, replaced by a grimace that spoke volumes. It was clear this unwelcome moniker belonged to someone they'd rather not encounter. With a voice laced with trepidation, Raeburn uttered the question that hung heavy in the air, "Who… who is this 'Bowel Hunter'?"

"A dangerous individual, if you will." That could be an understatement. Reinhardt, throughout their six-month acquaintance, had never struck Raeburn as someone who spoke plainly or without reservation. "She's been wanted from many cities due to a string of murders she committed over the years."

The crater loomed before him, a testament to raw, unleashed power. A wince split his face, a smile fighting to break through. His mind conjured the scene: the earth erupting, the air crackling, the enemy dissolving into oblivion. This wasn't meant for mortal battles; it was a force reserved for Pandemonium's hardiest demons, the Titans. "Must have been so hated that she had to be reduced to a crater as an act of justice."

"Additionally, these two said that she has resurrected herself from death three times."

Raeburn snapped into a combat-mindset, drew the club out of his shoulder, and began surveying the area, looking over the shadows and places where someone could conceal themselves in. Body stiff, nerves cold, the mana gathering into his legs as he stood idly, he asked for a reconnaissance report from the Souls.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He looked over to Tank, and the good boy showed no body language of caution. If the Combat Liger of Vollachia wasn't worried, then he should relax as well. Not that he would, of course. Being paranoid is the greatest survival method he ever knew since being born in Pandemonium. If it saved him in that Hellhole, it'll do him a big favor to be alert in the right moment.

"Is something wrong, Raeburn?" Reinhardt asked, concerned.

"Just checking." He slowly rested the club against his shoulder, surveying one more time and checking with the Souls again, just to be safe. "If you say 'resurrected', then I have a good reason to be a little more alert."

"I understand your concern, but not to worry. If a surprise attack were to happen, I will definitely see it coming and prevent anyone from getting harmed."

That was blatantly the most assuring thing he has ever heard this day, delivering an immense amount of ease into his mind. In a world like this, there is no one as reliable and well-capable of protecting lives as well as Reinhardt. With every Blessing imaginable inscribed in Reinhardt's Soul, literally nothing could stop the Knight of Knights from performing his duties.

"If you say so." Raeburn accepted, letting go of his club and letting the heavy head pull it over his shoulder. Despite wearing neither harness nor sheathe, his weapon somehow managed to stick itself to his back, as if it was magnetized to his body. "Now I'm just gonna have a talk with my friend here once he's done with whatever he's doing to her."

"If I'm not intruding, how fares your relationship with him?" Reinhardt asked respectfully, aware of the kind of rocky relationship he had with the man, if it was even called a 'relationship'.

He turned a bitter smile at him, "Oh, you know, as usual. He's still causing me a headache."

Reinhardt chuckled.

After one more minute, the Necromagus stopped draining the girl of her tainted mana and his left gauntlet began pulsating with green light. Once the energies gathered into a vaporing ball in his hand, he pressed his metallic palm to her forehead and infused them into her Od.

Instantaneously, the girl sprang up like a lever with a cute yelp and nearly hit her head against the Death Mage's own. After hyperventilating for a few seconds, she found her voice and started asking, "Wha—what!? What's going on? Why am I here?" As she looked around her, taking in the faces of the people nearby, she took a long look on the Sword Saint, "Reinhardt? What are you doing here? What's going on? What happened before I pass—"

She fell silent, her face turning blank, and Raeburn could see the gears turning in her head as she recalled her last moments before losing consciousness.

"Ah!" There it is. She remembered everything. "What happened!? Where is that horrible woman!? Is she defeated!? Is it over!?"

"Calm down, Lady Emilia. The ordeal is over." Reinhardt assured, kneeling next to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. "The Bowel Hunter is defeated and everyone is safe and sound. I can't say the same for the wall and this establishment but what matters is everybody lived. You have accidently drained tainted mana earlier, hence why you passed out. The Good Ser here has cleared your Od of the impurities and even gave you a dose of his own to wake you up."

Standing with his back to this Lady Emilia, the "Good Ser" coughed, hacking up liquid and spitting bloody chunks onto the ground, which made the earth sizzle and smoke from its acidic properties. Raeburn's gaze flicked to the surrounding Souls, their praises washing over the Death Mage like a chilling wave. He had slain the "Bowel Hunter," earning the grim gratitude of the fallen.

A public service, perhaps, but knowledge of such a feat reaching beyond these shadows could bring unwelcome attention, especially towards the ears of nobles.

Fueled by a simmering hatred for nobility, the Necromagus refuses to lend his power to any conflict, regardless of its perceived righteousness. Raeburn, understanding the dangers of necromancy, believes its practice should be reserved for trained individuals like the Necromagus himself, who possess the knowledge and control honed since birth.

Raeburn doesn't know what purpose the Necromagi's magic serve to themselves and to the world at large but it obviously doesn't involve throwing it into chaos that not even the primordial times of the Rapture could compare to it. Otherwise, why would they hunt down Necromancers, so-called blasphemers who perverted the dark art of Necromancy for the most twisted reasons?

They've been around for since God gave the world a chance and Pandemonium still managed to be stable.

"I see." This Lady Emilia nodded her head, looking down. Then she began to rise to her feet, "I better thank him."

With Reinhardt's gentlemanly assistance, she rose gracefully and approached the Death Mage. The latter remained oblivious, his back to her as he methodically unbuckled his gauntlets.

Raeburn's gaze narrowed. A single detail, bathed in moonlight, sent a jolt through him. Beneath the silver hair and amethyst eyes, the girl's ears were pointed, unmistakably Elven.

By God, she has them. Though Raeburn was more conflicted than unsettled despite what he's learned from this world and its devil. For one, he's not an idiot. That was 400 years ago. Secondly, the Souls aren't agitated in her presence. Rather, she was loved by them.

A timid voice, barely a whisper, broke through the heavy silence. "Um, Ser?" the girl began, her tone laced with utmost politeness, "Would you kindly please turn around and let me see your face? I… I want to thank you, for saving us."

The full moon bathed the scene in an eerie glow, highlighting the Death Mage's last gauntlet unbuckling, his lower pair of arms took them off his hands. Underneath, emerged hands with skin untouched by sun, starkly white against the night. Moonlight accentuated the lanky limbs, covered in a network of fresh bruises. The Death Mage, unfazed by the evident pain, rubbed his palms together. Slowly, he turned, his green eyes, devoid of emotion, settling upon the girl.

Lady Emilia, however, seemed transfixed by his arms. Her brow furrowed at the sickly discoloration. "They must be painful," she remarked, reaching out. Her delicate hands pulsed with white light – healing magic, convenient indeed. "Hold still, I'll—"

A sudden grip on her wrists halted her mid-sentence. The Death Mage yanked them closer to his line of sight, "What? What are you doing?" she stammered, anxiety creeping into her voice.

The Death Mage ignored her, his gaze fixated on her hands. With an intensity that bordered on obsession, he scrutinized every finger, every inch of forearm, as if encountering an anomaly he desperately needed to map before it vanished.

Raeburn, ever-wary of the mage's eccentricities, shifted uncomfortably. He dreaded another violent outburst if he intervened, but the Necromagus's prolonged scrutiny was unsettling. He hoped the man wouldn't overstep his boundaries, whatever his intentions were.

After what felt like an eternity, the mage gently released her arms. His focus narrowed to her right hand, which he cradled in both his own. His thumbs traced her blood vessels, a faint green luminescence emanating from his fingertips – a telltale sign whenever he made physical contact.

Raeburn's realization dawned. This examination, meticulous and thorough, mirrored the Death Priest's invasive inspection of the demihuman guest long ago. That incident, seared into his memory, had been the most humiliating moment of his life. He'd intervened then, rescuing the beast man from the forced examination.

But compared to that ordeal, this moment was far more subdued. No coercion, no stripping bare. Just a quiet, unsettling scrutiny.

The Necromagus' hand, cold as death's grip, crawled up Lady Emilia's body, searching every crevice. A yelp escaped her lips as the icy touch reached the bare skin. Raeburn couldn't help but wonder how these seemingly lifeless bodies retained the ability to move, their touch a chilling contrast to their apparent lack of warmth. But asking the Necromagus was out of the question. The man, except for the occasional bloodcurdling scream, remained stubbornly silent.

Reaching her face, the gentleness vanished. Rough hands tilted it this way and that, the glowing green gaze far too intrusive. Grunts of protest rumbled from Emilia, her hands locked on his bruised forearm. Lady Emilia, despite the discomfort, kept her hands clenched on his bruised forearm, her only protest a guttural grunt. He examined her with the morbid fascination of a scientist studying an alien specimen.

Raeburn gulped, now moving a little closer in case he needed to do something.

With two fingers, he widened both her left eyelids, peering into the depths of her amethyst eye. Its shine seemed to hold his gaze captive for a moment before he shifted his attention. Next, his touch, like a shard of ice, explored the delicate, leaf-like shape of her ear, a telltale mark of her heritage. A yelp escaped her as his fingers pinched, sending shivers down her spine. Not satisfied, he clamped a hand on her jaw, forcing her mouth agape. A guttural groan escaped her as his cold eyes scanned the cavernous space within.

The silence stretched, thick and stifling. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Death Mage's grip loosened. With a deep sigh, he released Emilia. She stood there, blinking, cheeks flushed a fiery red, and moistened her dry, trembling lips.

"What... what was that?" she stammered, frown etched deep into her brow. "What did you just do?"

"Heh! Sorry, Ma'am, but you'd have to be really lucky to hear this man talk." Raeburn was quick to warn her about it, smiling bitterly, "I've been with this guy for weeks and every attempt at conversation I have gets me a lot of him screaming at me and—"

A sharp "Shh!" cut him off.

Raeburn froze, eyes widening in disbelief.

The Death Mage, the man of chilling silence, had shushed him. It was the first non-violent sound Raeburn had ever heard from him. The shock hung heavy, unspoken, between them.

The atmosphere falling silent, the Necromagus turned to face the elven girl again and opened his mouth. Raeburn could swear he saw a flicker of something in those green eyes, something other than the usual emptiness. The mage opened his mouth, and Raeburn held his breath, every fiber of his being straining to catch the first syllable, the first word that might change everything. Is he going to…? Is he actually going to….!?

A single word, "You...," emerged, gravely low and rough. Like steel scraping concrete, it clattered through the oppressive quiet, heavy with an unfamiliar accent clinging to each syllable. To Raeburn, it was the raw, guttural utterance of a beast attempting human speech, sending shivers down his spine.

Before he could fully process the shock, another sentence followed, slow and deliberate: "...are….not…like this….Priest."

Raeburn swallowed, the silence amplifying the weight of the Necromagus' words. He struggled to choke out his words, his breath hitching in his chest. "Holy shit….."

"This Priest?" Lady Emilia echoed in question, tilting her head, "What do you mean, Ser?"

The Necromagus, his face grim, reached up and slowly turned his head, revealing his right ear. It's leaf-shaped as well, but compared to her, it ended in two points instead. Turning to face her again, he repeated, "Not….like…." He struggled, searching for the right word, his lips twisting into a mask of frustration. Finally, he pointed a pale and lanky finger at his own chest, his voice heavy with unspoken meaning. "Not... like... me."

In other words, he thought Lady Emilia was one of his own but was actually not.

"I see." The girl nodded slowly to that, then looked back up to him, asking, "What is….what is your name, Ser? I believe you never told me. Will you please tell me? If you do, I will do my very best to thank you."

The man responded in a move that stunned Raeburn to silence. The man's eyes fluttered shut, followed by a single, deliberate step back. A pale hand, stark against his bony cuirass, rose to touch his chest. Then, he dipped his head in a profound bow. Raeburn's jaw threatened to detach as his eyes strained to stay in their sockets. This alien movement contrasted drastically with everything Raeburn knew about the man, both in here and the chaotic realm of Pandemonium.

Just what happened to this man?

"This Priest...is the Third Right Claw of the Dragon…..Emurdol…" Raeburn noticed the bone wand on the man's belt flashing once, "…..Viandegroc."

So that was his name. Emurdol Viandegroc. It sounded like a pretty good name. Now he no longer has to refer to him as 'that guy' or 'Necro' anymore.

Honestly speaking, Raeburn was pissed off. He's tried so hard to get him to talk, even an insult would have sufficed, and this girl managed to bring him out of his stubborn shell by practically doing nothing.

Tank started growling—

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

Kill her.

"Look out!"
"Ser Emurdol!"

A sudden surge of killing intent ripped through the air as Raeburn and Reinhardt shouted a warning, but before their words could fully form, the crater erupted. A pile of rubble exploded outwards, spewing dust and debris. From the epicenter, a black blur shot forth, a deadly shadow aimed straight for Lady Emilia.

It was Elsa, healed and whole once again.

Reinhardt thundered forward in her defense, while Raeburn unleashed his kanabo club, its chain whipping through the air. He prayed it would find its mark before the assailant reached its target. Hope dwindled. The studded cylinder seemed lethargic compared to the blur's supersonic speed. Disbelief and dread warred within Raeburn.

Suddenly, Emurdol Viandegroc intervened. Suddenly turning into black smoke, Emurdol Viandegroc phased through Lady Emilia and solidified himself in-between her and the black blur. The impact of their collision was like a miniature earthquake, a shockwave radiating outwards. Blood erupted, staining the air crimson as a black kukri glinted stabbed into Emurdol's abdomen.

Despite the wound, Emurdol, fueled by rage and bloodlust, closed the distance. His razor-sharp teeth, stained crimson, clamped down on the assailant's neck. The lighter figure was flung back, but the struggle continued, a vicious dance of death played out in a spray of blood.

The woman, teeth clenched, plunged her kukri again and again into Emurdol's midsection. His extra arms, a flurry of razors, raked across her body, leaving gashes everywhere. Hair and flesh flew as blood gushed from the gaping bite on her neck, his jaws barely releasing their grip. His bare hands, like vises, crushed her shoulders, shattering collarbones with each agonizing squeeze.

Desperate for a chance, Raeburn lunges toward the fallen kanabo, aiming to deliver a crushing blow to the woman's head without harming Emurdol. With a final, desperate kick to Emurdol's chest, Elsa throws him back. A gaping wound marrs her neck, a bloody testament to her near demise. Rolling like a wounded beast, she leaves a crimson trail as she scrambles towards the nearest intact building.

Tank lunges at her, claws tearing at the ground for propulsion. He's about to clamp down with his powerful jaws when a well-aimed kick connects with his snout, sending him yelping and sprawling.

"Tank!" With a roar, he threw the kanabo head towards her form again to avenge his Brother, only to miss. The woman, upon reaching the wall, crawled straight up to the roof like a lizard before she could be crushed by it and leapt to another house, the decrepit structure taking the hit, flash-freezing solid in an instant from the invocation of the spell inside one of its pyroxene crystals, and crumbling to a thousand pieces on the ground.

"Fuck!" He yanked it back and the connected chains retracted into the voluminous depth of his club's shaft, the misty cylinder clanging loudly upon reaching the head of the flanged mace.

"Soon, I will disembowel every single one of you." This woman—the Bowel Hunter turned to look at every single one of them in the eye, heedless of the missing parts of her head, neck, arms, chest, and shoulders, and Raeburn saw the promise of revenge in her deep purple orbs. "Until then, take good care of your bowels."

And she was now gone, disappearing in the dark of night.

Raeburn was tempted to run after her, but the wellbeing of his wolf took priority. So he ran over to the Liger's fallen form, checking his snout for any severe injury, trying not to cry from the sound of his pained whining. "Hey, Tank, boy. You okay? Ssh. It's alright, buddy. I'm here."

"GET BACK!"

The ground rocked, making Raeburn bounce upwards to the air alongside his Wolf and his body automatically assumed a standing posture before his feet met the ground. Looking back behind him, he saw Lady Emilia being pulled away by Reinhardt as Emurdol Viandegroc's fallen body surged with blood. From the cut opening of his plackart and likely the multiple stab wounds within, his lifeblood spurted out in dangerous amounts and encircled his body in a halo, becoming as solid as a paper-thin blade and rotating in speeds that weren't possible, as if it was trying to ward anything from touching him.

Additionally, there were tentacles made out of spinal columns that writhed and lashed at anything within reach, the sole cause of that quake when they emerged from the ground. They surrounded him with the same impression of preventing anything from coming near.

His mouth coughed out blood, choking and barely having a moment to breathe, his body twitching each time as he clawed at his throat, trying to stop the red liquid from bursting out anymore. Raeburn could have been running over there, ignoring the danger posed by those paranoid tentacles that deformed the ground in each lash or that dangerous blood ring that could sever his body in half with the slightest touch, and did something about the bleeding….

But the Souls…..

….The Souls…

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

Farewell.

They are saying goodbye. They aren't crying nor rejoicing for his imminent death just like they would for every other living being. They welcomed it, as if they wanted it to happen for a very long time, and they were glad it's finally happening.

Knowing the mindset of Souls that have limited capacity for desire except to mirror those of the Living….

Raeburn suddenly felt his body lose all will to move the sooner he realized the implication, incapable of looking away from what's happening, all sound and voice drowning out in obscurity from the deafening drone that was coming from somewhere.

Emurdol Viandegroc is letting himself die. Instead of defying every biological norm possible by manually stopping his bleeding or putting his body into stasis to stabilize his condition, feats only those of his lineage were capable of, he was instead quickening the arrival of the inevitable.

Even as he coughed blood, his face didn't show pain nor despair. His green gaze was relaxed, at peace with himself as he looked up to the Moon. His left hand pulled the wand out of his belt and held it with both hands on his chest, clutching it very tightly, as if it will be the very last thing he'll ever hold. His four other arms wrapped around him, almost lovingly, as if it was trying to comfort him.

Time to come home.

Proud of you.

You've done enough.

You may rest now.

Stop suffering for others.

It's over.

Sit down now and let the world be.

Mother loves you.

Come back to her.

She misses you.

Suddenly, the language of the Souls became comprehensible, their complicated thoughts and emotions condensed into a simple sentiment that could be translated into no more than a few words. It was so palpable and intense that he could feel it like it was their own. He wanted to run over there and hold his hand, assure Emurdol Viandegroc that everything is alright, that nothing will ever trouble him anymore, and that he can now take the respite he richly deserved for all that he's done for the world. That way, he can depart knowing that at least one of the Living understood his endeavor.

But to do that…it would be very disrespectful. Raeburn knew nothing about him. He realized it too late. Being born a Necromagus is to suffer. No one will love you. Everyone will scorn you for who you are. He thought he was better than most people, being more tolerant to his presence so long as he's done nothing wrong. He thought banishing him from the group was justified, a natural consequence for his heartlessness towards his fellow man, he doesn't even regret it now…..

…..but now…..he realized that this man had a good heart from the very start. Of course he was coldhearted. If everyone in the world hates you no matter what you do, even if you haven't done anything to warrant it, why should you even bother being nice? Despite all that, he purged Pandemonium of the Supreme Sins and gave that Hellhole a chance to escape returning to what it first was instead of condemning it to its demise.

If he had been treated better, if he was seen more as a human instead of the demon the Church keeps professing his kind as….would it have ended differently? Would he have strove to live longer instead of seeking the easy way out this very moment? Would his inherent good nature be able to show itself openly instead of being locked under the layers of hate and anger in order to protect himself?

With his act of giving to the lowest of the low days ago, preceded by having a taste of a life in this world where no one hated him for his lineage and instead treated him fairly, without stigmas and prejudices, it showed that he could have done many more acts of charity if he was given the chance.

But that was never going to be anymore, Raeburn ultimately accepted.

His wand glowed inside his grasp, brightening to the point that the night is being banished in its emerald light, and that's when Raeburn realized that every bit of mana in the world is being siphoned to Emurdol Viandegroc's location. His own mana stocks is strangely untouched. This amount stolen is enough to fill 20 platoons worth of war mages, and it's still expanding.

From the corner of his vision, he saw Reinhardt running towards the Death Mage's form, about to stop whatever was about to happen—

And he was hit. The Sword Saint of Lugnica, the human beloved by the world itself, the untouchable and unstoppable Reinhardt van Astrea, was hit.

The nearest bone whip lashed across his back, opening a nasty laceration on his immaculately pristine uniform and spilling out the blood that never once met the air of the world. The Knight's eyes went wide, his body automatically maneuvering to prevent himself falling face-first—

Immediately after, in speeds that were impossible to see except in blurs, a flower of spears erupted underneath him, impaling his entire front full of serrated stakes of bone. As if to make sure he never moves from there, the Red Ring above Emurdol Viandegroc warped in shape and cleanly beheaded the Sword Saint through the calcified ivory.

In the face of such a sudden turn of events, Raeburn was eerily calm. And he noticed it.

The Souls were not going to suffer disturbances to this departure. No human, no beast, no demihuman, no knight—not even God himself would be permitted to interfere. They grew the willingness to influence the world once more, letting their presence and will be known with these violent attacks.

Except…those weren't attacks. If they were, Reinhardt wouldn't have been hit in the first place. Without malice or bloodlust, the Souls struck down the Knight with the intention of halting him in place, as if he was expected to survive the blows.

With the Mana of the world gathering to Emurdol Viandegroc's hands, Raeburn felt a pulse in the air, and then another, followed by a third. Soon, a rhythm became perceivable, almost like a heartbeat. A gentle start steadily rose to a rapid rate, and it didn't stop from there. The abnormal pace deformed the beat into an ear-numbing drone.

The skies began to darken, heralding the arrival of a hurricane. The earth trembled, every decrepit house in the vicinity collapsing to the ground. The winds howled, threatening to send anything that isn't firmly planted to the ground flying. Raeburn felt the lives of the poor men, women, and children being snuffed out by flying debris, some of their screams barely reaching him. Lady Emilia's voice couldn't be heard from the violent gales as she was pulled away to safety by Rom and Felt, shouting at him to run. He couldn't move. The Souls compelled him to witness everything to the end, and honor the passing of the Hero of Pandemonium.

His Brother didn't matter. The lives of the innocents didn't matter. The ones around him didn't matter. His own life didn't matter. He must look. He couldn't move. Feelings of despair and outrage were boiling up inside him, but something was holding them down from reaching his consciousness. He's feeling calmer than he should be when a calamity was about to erupt.

Why? Why isn't he standing up and running away?

He should run. It's best to run, right? He'll get killed if he stays. Why isn't he moving? Even though Tank is already pulling him away by the collar of his tunic, why isn't he snapping out of it? When the Wolf snapped his jaws around his stomach as gently as he can and started sprinting away from the scene, Raeburn didn't seem to care. Why isn't he groaning in pain? Why is he—

"GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

And at the crescendo of this rising destruction, a single sound pierced through the cacophony.

The sound of a gem being reduced to imperceptible atoms. Only Raeburn heard the howls of freedom that came after, his own roars of pain and fury blocking out everything else amidst the falling rain.

And with that, Emurdol Viandegroc finally expired and earned his Peace.

As Od Laguna's mindless grace replenished Lugunica of its lost mana, the Kingdom eventually suffered the wrath of the very worst cyclone and earthquake since the Witch of Wrath's saga.