Flor didn't hurl or complain this time. Her skirt soaked in the murky floor, she had once grimaced at the sight. The choice was handed to her, stripped of all sweetness and lies. Death due to complaining or survival, and to her, survival was of utmost importance.
'It's decreasing even faster.' Carnage glances at the time limit as it drops another number.
Carnage leads the way to the shack, which he had only spared a brief glance at, dismissing it as nothing more than an old house either lost in the sprawling expanse of a forest or placed there for its solitude. However, the path ahead betrayed them, for a low, familiar growl rises from the silence their huffs had filled just a moment ago.
'Skinwalker.' Carnage hisses as they stand face-to-face with another skinwalker.
"What do we do?" Flor whispers.
"Come on, Agnar—" Carnage begins, striding forward, but Agnar steps past him, stopping him with a firm hand.
"I don't need your aid in this rumble. We have little time." Agnar says seriously, eyes firm on the creature ahead. "If you may, I must spare this one with both of my swords."
The fire of determination burns in Agnar's eyes. Carnage, recognizing it, doesn't question his resolve. Instead, he retrieves the blade from his inventory and places it in Agnar's hand.
"Go forth; I'll rejoin you when it's over." Agnar unsheathes her other sword, sliding into a unique stance, the blades forming an X over her chest.
"Okay. The shack is not that far from here up ahead." Carnage directs her.
"Understood." She nods, speeding ahead, her body carrying the faint trace of green. "It'll only take a few minutes."
'She looks more confident. Could it be she was holding back when we fought together? She was given two swords, but until now, she's only used one.'
Before he disappears from view, they catch a fleeting glimpse of Agnar clashing with the skinwalker, the echo of their impact rippling through the trees.
.
.
Guided by his memory, they make their way along the winding trail. Ernest notes the change in the atmosphere and the sparse leaves falling gently around them; even these small details speak volumes about the passage of time.
"It's unraveling..." Ernest says.
"What is?"
"Time."
At last, the trees part, and the old shack looms ahead. The old house blends seamlessly with the dark eeriness of the forest. Its walls sag beneath the weight of time, the wood blackened and slowly corroding, yet stubbornly standing.
Moss clings to its sides like second skin, and vines creep up the frame, as if trying to drag the structure back into the earth. The windows shattered, and the roof is patched with rot and jagged gaps, with a small sign dangling from it.
'Ved'ma's shack.' Carnage reads along.
As the others press onward, he holds onto Ernest, halting him in place. "Pass me your weapon."
Ernest, confused and hesitant, switches weary glances between his palm and face. "Okay..." He sighs, the shard materializes, and he extends it to him.
.
.
Knocking on the wooden door, they wait patiently, hearts in sync in rapid beats with each drop of the timer.
"Where—"
The sound of the doorknob squeaking as it turns causes them to backstep as a hunched figure covered in a black cloak peeks out.
"Hello, travelers, or should I call you sinners?" the elderly woman's voice emerges from the darkness of her cloak. "I take it you're here for the secrets history hides?"
Carnage nods. "Yes. That's correct."
"Then come in." She shifts to the side, creating just enough space for them to enter.
Carnage strides in first, while the others linger at the threshold, reluctant but eventually forcing themselves to follow.
Inside the shack, unlike the outside, it is clean, lit by candles, and swarmed by a flurry of books, on the walls, scattered across the wooden table in the middle of the room, and even on the floor, mingling with the many weird trinkets and scriptures.
"How is this possible?" Flor twirls around, taking in its grandeur.
"Magic can be a wondrous thing if wielded with good intentions." The elder voices.
"Are ya saying all of this is magic?" Artticus questions.
"Precisely."
"Oh wow." Ernest's eyes light up. "Are you also a historian?" He picks up an old book, scrolling through the pages of a language he had only seen once in the eldest and only scroll about hell in the archives" So that book came from here."
"Well, you can say that; I'm a fiend for the past." She closes the door with a melodic chuckle. "I am also a follower of Ved'ma, the witch of the past." Artticus immediately freezes up.
"Are all the books for this hell in this language?" Ernest questions.
"Yes, the tongue of the dead, rarely used outside our books." She explains.
"No wonder it's only in books; it's not much of a language to be spoken out loud." Ernest snickers, reminiscing on the many times he and his sister tried and failed to learn it; though it may have been followed up with a mind-splitting headache, it was oddly fun.
"Wonderful observation." They say ominously.
"Enough, our time is very scarce." Carnage chimes in.
"Right." The cloaked woman nods. "Let us begin." She approaches one of her shelves and tugs on a random book, causing the entire shack to vibrate as it slides open to reveal stairs leading down. "Follow me."
Exchanging a few wary glances, they join her descending the cobblestone stairs.
With each footfall breaking the quiet, the follow of Ved'ma begins. "As you may already know, history is a vital part of identity. It shapes your heritage, molds your character, and anchors you to purpose. Without it, a person is left with nothing."
Her voice echoes as faint lights spark to life along the walls, guiding their descent step by step.
"In Nullity, that truth runs deeper. A village, a city, or even an empire can erase its past, but the price is steep. Forgetting your past is akin to forgetting the effect and purpose of time, so it revokes its power, halting in place, and their people become hollow souls, or monsters drifting endlessly, wandering without purpose."
'It's so close...' The memory of his sentence replays.
Shaking it off, he questions. "Is there a reason why a village agrees on such a thing?"
"Many. But in Skreigh, the ones that forced their people to make such a decision are the skinwalkers." The follower states as they reach the bottom of the stairs, stopping in front of a steel door. "Here is where I leave you. I can't proceed from this point on."
「5/6 skinwalker defeated!」
'She did it.'
"Okay." He moves up to the door, palming it to push it open, but it doesn't budge.
「To enter, all skinwalkers should be slain.」
"Huh?" he mutters, pulling back. The sudden movement leaves everyone—himself included—momentarily thrown off. Then he winces, clutching his hand as if it's been struck by fire.
"Carnage!" The group stiffens, rushing toward him.
He drops to his knees, pressing a trembling hand to his chest. "It burns," he gasps, every note of agony carefully measured.
But behind the mask of pain, his eyes never leave Evrad.
"Are you—" He begins, but is drawn down by Carnage instantly, who pulls him closer. "Huh?"
"What are you willing to do for me?" he whispers, still feigning broken breaths.
"What?" Evrad murmurs. Carnage's grip tightens. "I… I will do anything."
"Great." He smirks.
Timing everything perfectly, the shard materializes and springs upward, slashing toward his throat with deadly precision.
"I want you to die, just for a moment." He says coldly, as blood floods from the jagged line etched into his neck.
Pure horror aligns the rest of their faces as Evrad stumbles back, gripping at his throat. "You…lied," he says, a devastated, guttural sound escaping his throat.
"I didn't. You aren't worthy yet. You'll have to die first." He cleans the blood off the shard, storing it back into his inventory, spins around back to the door, and it slowly opens.
Ernest watches Carnage's back, questioning if he should feel relief or guilt; it's him who wanted Carnage's help, but now deep down, he wonders if it was the right choice.
'Now Covenant. Repeat what the text said.'
「Text extracted from Elzub's Guidebook: An unranked devil has a grace period of 1 minute to be brought back alive using the demonic cores of fallen ranked devils; however, it must be sufficient enough to ascend them to the rank of tormented. It's known as 'The One-Minute Reclamation.'」
'Inventory, demonic cores.' In his palms, two orbs of pure white energy form. 'Let's see if this devil is speaking another truth.'