The clang of iron shattered the sharp, cold air once more, echoing against the walls of the dark chamber. The harsh breathing mingled with the scent of blood, making the atmosphere feel as if it were biting the skin. Each swing of Peter's sword cast deep crimson sparks, and every friction of its blade spat black droplets from the corpse-like apparition with his brother's face.
One strike.
Two strikes.
A series of gashes tore open the phantom's body, spraying black blood like boiling oil.
The apparition hissed in fury and retreated swiftly. The gash across its neck split wide, exposing white bone faintly glimmering beneath layers of flesh. The skin barely held the head in place, swinging like a broken puppet.
"Impudent…" it snarled, clutching the dangling part.
Meanwhile, Peter stood still, eyes tightly shut. No consciousness showed on his face—cold, hollow, mechanical. His breath formed tiny wisps at the corners of his lips, as if the surrounding air itself had plummeted in temperature. Each step he took sounded light yet oppressive, rippling through the pools of blood covering the floor.
From the underground, something began to crawl upwards.
Shadowy tendrils emerged like living sand drawn from the depths of the earth, forming long hands stretching from nothingness. The skeletal fingers entwined Peter's legs, coiling around his waist and arms, attempting to halt him. Their pressure was suffocating, as if they sought to crush his bones into splinters.
Yet Peter continued, striving forward despite his body being nearly squeezed apart. Pale mist filled the room, obscuring nearly all vision, but each swing of his sword parted the haze. The shadows trying to restrain him were sliced cleanly, their shapeless blood spattering onto the floor, reeking of thick iron.
The apparition with his brother's face watched, eyes narrowing, then smiled—a smile utterly inhuman.
It vanished in an instant, exploiting the moment Peter was busy cleaving through shadows. In a blink, it appeared directly behind him. Its hands snatched at Peter's neck, choking him with enough force to crush bone.
CRAAAKKK!
The skin on Peter's neck tore as if a beast had sliced it forcibly. Deep, thick crimson sprayed through the air, staining the apparition's face and arms. Laughter erupted, echoing and piercing the skull like a possessed siren.
"◼◼◼ ◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼ ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼" it whispered, voice emanating from some empty skull.
With a single jerk, the phantom yanked the neck's skin further until chunks of flesh and muscle hung like shredded ribbons. Blood poured heavily, drenching Peter's chest and the floor beneath.
Yet just as his head seemed about to detach entirely—
Peter's body halted.
His bloodied sword, once wildly swinging, moved deliberately now. Its tip aligned perfectly behind him, aimed straight at the phantom. No hesitation. No doubt.
TESSSTTT
The crimson blade pierced the apparition's abdomen with a wet, tearing squelch. Black blood spurted under pressure, staining Peter's still-shut eyes.
As the sword rotated, slicing the phantom's side—
Something in the air shifted.
It felt as if the world itself held its breath.
As if this scene were merely the beginning of something far greater.
Thick fog swirled violently, forming a vortex that devoured the light. The phantom's back bulged, its skin stretching as if something inside struggled to emerge. Through cracked flesh, dim light seeped out… a bluish-black shimmer, trembling like the final breath of a dying flame.
Black blood crawled from the wound, climbing up its body like inverted, living roots. The tendrils dripped, ensnaring its back… gradually forming tattered, thin wings, ripped and made of the ever-dripping dark fluid.
A chilling wind swept the room.
So cold that the blood pooling on the floor began to freeze from the edges inward, cracking like splintering ice.
The phantom's dark eyes quivered. From the corner of its eye, tears of blood fell slowly, heavy, splattering onto the already frozen floor. Its moans were no longer enraged screams… but deep, near-desperate agony. Hands rose as if trying to remove something from within, before it staggered backward.
Peter stood rigid, unreactive. Veins along his neck twitched violently, pulling the torn skin back into place. The head that had once dangled slowly reseated itself with a wet, sickening click.
The phantom chuckled softly, breath trembling as if restraining pain.
"Khh… seems I lack the time to take you," it whispered, metallic, rust-like. "Alas… this is where it ends."
Its scarred hands patted the still-sword-pierced abdomen, drawing a long, deep breath as if gathering remaining strength.
"When you awaken fully… I shall find you again. Remember my name."
"My name is Reniro."
With unsteady steps, it retreated—its body merging into the flesh wall behind. The surface pulsed, breathing, moving like a giant heart pumping black liquid. Once the phantom's back disappeared completely, the wall collapsed… vanishing entirely.
Peter remained motionless.
Seconds passed before his body finally faltered. His legs lost strength, collapsing into the thawed blood. The liquid surged upward like tide, swallowing him until only a faint shadow lingered beneath the crimson surface. Bubbles surfaced and burst one by one, before the blood seemed to rain down from above, washing the floor in a violent red deluge. The fog gradually dissipated, leaving behind the metallic stench and oppressive silence.
---
"Ughh—damn it…"
Liam groaned, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His breath was ragged, chest rising and falling violently. His heartbeat pounded as if striking his ribs. Each inhale burned dry and hot, as if the surrounding air had been boiled away.
Before him, the oddly formed phantom still hovered calmly.
The creature had no human body, only a massive, glistening eyeball surrounded by slowly rotating rings, each studded with more eyes. Even the surface of the spinning rings had small eyes blinking in unison.
Liam felt utterly exposed, stripped bare by observation from every direction. No blind spots. No refuge.
Every subtle movement seemed foreseen. Every step, every swing of his sword missed narrowly, while the phantom moved effortlessly, keeping an invisible dome over the village intact.
The sun above seemed unnervingly close. Too close. Its heat pierced skin, roasting slowly as if deliberately cooking Liam alive. Sweat drenched his hair and clothing. His throat burned dry, his breath growing heavier.
"Damn…" he muttered.
Was this truly a high-level spirit? Impossible. Historical records never mentioned beings like this. High-level spirits should have human forms, blend, live, and walk among humans unnoticed.
Then… what is this?
The sword in his hand radiated heat, nearly molten. His grip slippery with sweat. Muscles screamed, exhausted, but the phantom remained, unmoving, and observing.
Liam forced himself upright. Knees trembled, leg muscles protested, but he suppressed all complaints, holding on to the remaining breath. He gripped his sword tighter, heat crawling from the hilt to his palms, searing the skin from within.
His gaze flicked to the golden chains encircling him, coiling like prison bars, trapping lower-level spirits that writhed, groaned, and struggled, their cries no longer resembling living voices.
They were trapped. Choked. Suspended in the dimly glowing chains.
Liam grinned faintly, a smile born of fatigue and defiance, not confidence.
"I have a unique ability too, you know?" he whispered.
The giant eye blinked.
A single blink was enough to hit Liam's lungs like a sledgehammer. His chest collapsed, air forcibly sucked from his body. He staggered, reflexively bent, and vomited fresh blood, dribbling onto the already heated, filthy ground. The suffocating pressure felt as if something had gripped his lungs from inside, squeezing every second of pain.
Damn.
If this condition persisted, he knew he would die here.
This mission… was absurdly heavy. Unreal. Even Liam doubted whether the captain could endure much longer against such a creature. The man always appeared relaxed, seemingly knowing everything, yet never truly revealed his limits.
Ironically, Liam's initial reason for joining this cursed undertaking was not justice or bravery. Only curiosity. About the captain. About the man who stood at the center of chaos, smiling annoyingly.
The rattle of chains echoed sharply.
The lower spirits struggled again, attempting escape. Their bodies twisted unnaturally as they were pulled by the tightening golden coils. Their screams turned hoarse, then ceased abruptly as the chains revealed their true nature.
The golden chains did not merely restrain.
They pulled.
Like miniature black holes, the chains drew in anything weakened nearby. The flesh of spirits blurred, their forms collapsed, then disintegrated into thin, dark smoke. The smoke whirled, trembled, before being sucked toward Liam, absorbed through his skin, breath, and pores.
Heat coursed through him. Not the torturous heat from before, but something raw and wild—raw energy forced inward, mingled with blood and muscle. His heart pounded, adjusting to the sudden surge.
This was the ability.
A bank of energy.
Anything dying, anything on the brink—whether creature, spirit, or other form of existence—could be drawn, destroyed, and converted into fuel for him. Not beautiful. Not clean. Only efficient.
Liam lifted his head slowly, eyes locking with the massive eye still observing emotionlessly. Blood continued to drip from the corner of his mouth.
The phantom's broad wings shivered slightly, almost imperceptibly. Yet this faint quiver altered everything.
The air around Liam collapsed.
Invisible pressure slammed him from above, like a mountain dropped directly onto his back. The ground beneath cracked loudly as Liam was hurled down, face hitting the hot, sticky surface smeared with his own and other disfigured creatures' blood.
All the raw energy he just absorbed now seemed wasted, forced back into his body, rebelling in his veins like boiling liquid trapped inside.
"Ahkk… ugh—"
His groan came in broken bursts, more like a wounded animal than a human. Breath stuttered; his throat felt sanded by fire. With what remained of his consciousness, Liam lifted his neck a mere inch, enough to gaze straight at the giant eye.
It stared.
Unblinking. Unreactive. As if his suffering was merely a minor alteration of the air.
Then another voice sounded.
"Stop. He is not our target."
The air beside the massive-eyed phantom trembled, then tore like thin fabric from within. Through the gap emerged another figure resembling a man. Its face perfectly symmetrical, unnaturally clean, designed to deceive instincts.
From its back extended black wings like dead branches, sharp and dripping thick, dark liquid that hissed like acid.
It floated leisurely, one hand touching its still-fresh wound, black blood trickling slowly between its fingers.
"⬛⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛."
The words emerged directly, not as sound, but as pressure implanted into Liam's mind.
The giant-eyed phantom trembled.
A brief moment, yet enough for a visible reaction.
"What… is… that…?"
Liam's head throbbed, not just pain, but as if struck from inside. A sharp ringing pierced his brain.
His vision distorted, colors fading then returning strangely. The language… incomprehensible to humans. Words bypassed ears, striking nerves, forcing the brain to interpret the untouchable.
He clawed the ground, nails tearing skin. Cold sweat emerged suddenly all over. The sun's earlier heat vanished, replaced by a biting chill crawling along his spine.
The humanoid figure then turned, gaze landing squarely on Liam.
Its black, empty eyes wept dark liquid like rotten tears, inspecting him as one might a defective object still breathing. Its lips rose slowly, forming a wide grin, stretching unnaturally close to the ears.
"Rinero," it uttered quietly, yet clearly. "Remember my name."
Before Liam could respond, the sky above cracked.
A massive portal opened, gaping like a cosmic wound. Beyond it, stars shimmered, unnaturally beautiful for an escape path for such beings. Light spilled cold onto the blood-soaked battlefield, creating a painful contrast.
The two figures began to vanish.
The giant-eyed phantom was pulled upwards, its body dissolving into starlight. Sineru followed, smiling until the last moment, its black wings dripping the final drops of dark blood before disappearing.
The portal narrowed.
Stars folded one by one.
Silence followed.
The remaining lower spirits no longer resisted.
Their bodies lost skin, softened, cracked, then melted like wax overheat. Flesh and bones merged with the blood-soaked ground, absorbed as if the earth itself opened its mouth and swallowed them. Soft hisses punctuated the air, mingled with the stench slowly dispersed by the wind.
The strange layer previously forming a dome over the village dissipated. Fine cracks spread across it before the structure collapsed silently, vanishing like swept mist.
The scene shifted.
Wooden houses disappeared one by one, replaced by towering dark-barked trees with thick foliage. Wild grass, shrubs, and damp earth reclaimed the space once occupied by civilization.
No ruins. No remnants. As if the village had never existed.
The sun, once scorching low, dimmed rather than intensified, sinking into gray before vanishing entirely. The sky darkened, not with clouds, but as if dusk had fallen too swiftly.
Fresh forest air assaulted Liam's lungs.
He coughed violently, inhaled deeply, relief flooding his chest. For a moment, his head felt light.
Pain came belatedly.
A wave crashed simultaneously, spreading sharp agony across his body. Shoulders torn, back throbbed violently, every breath sending searing pain from chest to abdomen. Legs trembled, barely able to support his weight.
In the distance, a woman still stood.
The woman he had teased earlier.
She regarded Liam with a gentle expression unfit for this blood-soaked scene. Her lips curved in a small, warm, almost regretful smile. Slowly, she lifted a hand in a simple farewell gesture.
Her body began to dissipate.
From fingertips, through arms, to face, she fragmented into pale particles carried by the wind, merging with the vanished protective layers. That smile was the final thing to disappear.
"…ahh."
Liam exhaled shortly, bitterly.
From the start… this place was only an illusion.
The village, the inhabitants, the houses—all bait. A false stage to trap them. Ridiculous. Pathetic. Nearly laughable if he hadn't nearly died inside. They, the spirit hunters, were ensnared so completely they forgot to question reality around them.
A short, dry laugh escaped Liam's throat, humorless.
"…so foolish."
Yet the thought ended abruptly.
Peter.
The boy's face emerged in his mind, eyes closed, body moving despite being supposedly dead. Liam's heart pounded faster.
"Damn… where is he…?"
Before he could move, rustling came from the right.
Liam turned sharply, wincing as pain shot through his neck. Teeth clenched, he forced himself upright slowly, one hand pressing the ground to prevent collapse. His breath labored, mingling with a thin mist exhaled each time.
The fog hovered low between the trees.
His heartbeat surged.
"…don't tell me there's more."
His hand reflexively reached for his sword, body tensing despite trembling. Liam's senses scanned the darkened forest, now feeling alive and far more dangerous.
"Senior…? ah—God, please… this is terrifying…"
The whisper was faint, almost lost amidst rustling leaves and snapping twigs. The approach grew closer, steps uneven, dragged as if the speaker did not fully control their body. Liam tensed instantly, shoulders raised reflexively, muscles bracing despite the lingering pain.
Then he recognized the voice.
Liam froze for a moment, exhaling long and heavy.
"…damn."
From behind a large tree, the figure finally emerged.
Peter.
The youth's face smeared with blood—not merely splattered, but thickly caked across temples, chin, and neck. His hair tangled, strands clinging due to wet blood. His clothing equally torn, the oversized black cloak draped over his shoulders.
Liam's cloak.
For some reason, this sight made the corner of Liam's mouth twitch. The boy, bloodied, nearly butchered, yet conscious enough to carry someone else's cloak.
"Senior!" Peter shouted as soon as his eyes found Liam leaning weakly against the tree.
Without hesitation, he ran forward. His steps hurried, breath ragged, but his hands reacted immediately upon reaching Liam, supporting his arm and helping him stand properly.
The touch trembled.
Not hesitation, but fear held tightly to prevent panic.
"What happened…?" Peter's voice quivered despite his effort to sound steady. "I… I blacked out. Completely dark. When I woke, I was already in this forest. Alone."
He swallowed, eyes scanning swiftly, as if fearing something could emerge at any moment.
"I thought… I thought I was dead."
Liam huffed lightly.
"I brought you out of that cursed place," he said casually, though his body still clearly bore pain. "Be grateful."
The teasing tone came naturally, like an ingrained survival mechanism.
Peter blinked once. Then twice.
He stared at Liam flatly for a second, then exhaled softly, shoulders dropping slightly. Clearly, he did not believe a word.
"…Senior," he finally said, voice trembling but tinged with suppressed annoyance, "if you intend to joke, please find another time."
He averted his gaze, wiping his face with a still-bloody hand, leaving faint red streaks along his cheek. His breath irregular, chest rising too quickly.
"I can still smell the blood," he murmured almost to himself. "I can still hear… that sound. So please, don't joke right now."
A subtle tremor at the end of his words.
Would the boy cry now?
Liam stared at him a moment longer than realized. For a moment, any joke he had evaporated. Peter stood before him, filthy, eyes hyper-alert, expression of someone who had barely survived the incomprehensible.
"…hm."
Liam exhaled softly, patting Peter's shoulder once, enough to make him turn.
"You're okay," he finally said, more serious than before. "That's what matters."