The Shadow of the Old Era

Scythes danced, longswords sang, and blood flowed freely.

Knights roared, wailed, panicked, and raged with fanaticism, yet none could withstand the black-clad harbinger of death!

The long hem of her robe fluttered gently with her swift movements, already stained with countless spurts of hot blood.

The colossal scythe, wreathed in ashen mist, carved through the air with ferocious power in her slender, delicate hands, claiming one grotesque soul after another.

Her crimson eyes left trails of bloody afterimages in the swirling mist, brimming with an endless, chilling cold.

Holy light diminished, while chaotic magic surged.

Black mist billowed forth, carrying the death god’s roar as it shattered the fragile defenses.

The steadfast knight formation finally collapsed.

“Ahhh! Run!”

“It’s a devil!”

“We can’t win, we absolutely can’t win!”

“Mama! I still have money left to spend!”

Oston watched his subordinates descend into complete panic, then simply ‘Tch’ed.

He continued to burrow deeper into the scattered crowd, evading the crimson slaughterer’s relentless hunt.

“Call me discontent with the divine, or say I’m avenging a thousand years in a dark cell… Regardless, I simply cannot tolerate any of you!”

The scythe descended in a vertical cleave, bisecting a knight.

“Always so arrogant, always so unscrupulous, always so nauseatingly hypocritical!”

The long handle swung, snapping two necks.

“I am no good person, yet I could never destroy everything someone holds dear, then feign a ‘this is for your own good’ expression… What? After being worshipped for so long, have you truly begun to see yourselves as gods?”

The blade swept horizontally, dismembering three knights at the waist.

“Impossible! Impossible… Demon! Who are you? Who are you?!”

The sole remaining knight, his longsword stained with the blood and gore of his comrades, trembled uncontrollably.

He watched as the figure who had shredded all his companions approached, the dripping scythe reversed in her grip, and finally, he screamed in utter terror.

“Very well… seeing as your original sin is the slightest, I shall grant you a clear understanding before you pass! Listen closely, child, I am the millennium-old undead, once known as the ‘Crimson Slaughterer,’ the ‘Enemy of the Divine,’ and ‘The Last Devil.’ Abandoned by light, willingly fallen into darkness, condemned for slaughtering the corrupt, sealed away for a thousand years, and now, the inheritor of Count William’s noble title!”

No sooner had the words faded than the blood-soaked scythe descended once more, cleaving the questioner in two.

With the knight’s demise, a profound silence descended upon the nightmare barrier, thick with dismembered limbs and spilled blood.

A soft sigh escaped the puppet.

The puppet in the clearing sighed, then swung the colossal scythe in her hand, stirring a tempest of wind and crimson rain.

“Nightmare… I never imagined that after a millennium, we would still have the chance to fight together… even if it’s only against such scum.”

A faint sigh emanated from the puppet’s lips.

She lowered her head, her white-gloved hand gently stroking the intricate patterns along the scythe’s long handle.

The grey mist shrouding the caressed scythe rippled softly a few times before settling back into silence.

“I understand, I understand. Next time, I won’t sully your warrior’s honor with such filthy blood.”

“…………”

“Sigh… I say, Captain over there playing dead, isn’t it time to get up now?”

After waiting for a considerable time, seeing no movement from the person she addressed, Sally shook her head with a resigned sigh.

With biting, bone-deep sarcasm, she spoke towards a spot shrouded in dense fog at the edge of the domain.

A ‘corpse’ drenched in blood slowly staggered to its feet.

It was Oston, the very man who had earlier spurred his team to charge.

Yet, now that all his comrades lay dead, he bore almost no wounds himself; merely splattered with the blood of others, looking only slightly disheveled.

“Your Excellency… truly formidable! I am thoroughly convinced of my defeat!”

Oston’s face was a picture of righteous self-sacrifice, radiating integrity, his eyes even holding a touch of tragic despair that he could no longer punish evil.

“You needn’t maintain that façade of false heroism any longer. I can see directly into your soul…”

“Haha, you jest, Your Excellency… From your words just now, it seems you hold a long-standing grudge against the Holy See?”

The heroic figure ready for noble sacrifice vanished, replaced by an utterly obsequious clown.

His fawning demeanor made the puppet frown.

“And what if I do?”

“You see, since you’ve already vented your anger, there’s no benefit in killing me… Why not spare my life? I could become your spy within the Holy See, relaying information, or even sending false reports to aid your hunt of the Holy Court priests!”

“…Truly shameless. Befitting your corrupted soul.”

Oston’s seamless transition from righteous indignation to groveling servility disgusted Sally somewhat.

“Look at what you’re saying, Your Excellency… How could a small fry like me withstand your wrath… Just treat me like a fart and let me go!”

“Your smile is truly repulsive, but it seems there’s more than just Holy Light within you? That ancient, decaying, unpleasant sensation—what is it?”

With an inquiring tone, the puppet grasped the scythe with both hands, its sharp tip aimed directly at Oston, whose face had suddenly paled.

“Isn’t that right? You used that power to subtly influence the mental state of your squad members just now, didn’t you?”

“You truly love to joke, Your Excellency, I am but a humble servant— Ah! Ugh… Aaaaoooh!”

Under the puppet’s scrutinizing gaze, Oston initially forced a smile, attempting to brush it off.

However, the sudden internal mutation immediately made him howl in agony.

His eyes rolled back, his body began to convulse, and his abdomen swelled abnormally.

He could only emit a hoarse, dying wail, like that of an ancient elder, as a putrid, repulsive aura began to rise.

“But… you promised… me…”

A viscous, black-and-red fluid began to seep from his seven orifices.

“Vile, lowly human! You are worthless now; become my nourishment! This is the supreme grace bestowed upon you by the great Lord Turuv!”

A high-pitched voice emerged from within him, laced with malice and delight.

“You… Aaaahhh…”

A torrent of pain erupted from within his body, causing Oston to tremble violently and incessantly.

His eyes, fixed on the scythe-wielding figure, were filled with a desperate plea for death.

“Kill… me…”

Swish!

The scythe sliced through the air, and a head flew.

Yet, no blood gushed from the severed neck; only a foul, mud-like black substance slowly dripped.

“Aaaahhh! You vile wretch! How dare you interrupt the great Lord Turuv’s meal! Your sin is unforgivable! I shall tear you into countless pieces, mince you and feed you to the Swine God! I shall make your soul suffer the torment of purgatory for all eternity!!!”

The headless corpse began to shrink, replaced by black sludge that surged from the severed neck.

Standing nearby, Sally took no action, merely tapping her chin with a finger, watching the churning black mud with a thoughtful expression.

The pristine white flowers in the floral expanse, touched by the oozing sludge, slowly began to wither and mutate, growing sharp thorns.

The puppet waved a hand, and every white flower in the field glowed with a grey light, repelling the sludge.

‘This characteristic of infecting the mind… are they servants of the Old Ones from ancient times? Truly rotten things.’

Disgust flashed in her silver-grey eyes.

The black sludge began to writhe and coalesce on the ground, forming an opaque, elongated mass of viscous, black, soft material.

The upper part of this upright column of black mud then began to swell, as if leavened dough, and an amorphous, hideous head emerged.

As the column continuously elongated, bulging eyes began to appear; two arm-like appendages slowly stretched out, developing tentacle-like feelers at the hands, probing outwards.

This colossal, hideously grotesque creature would instill an unspeakable terror in any ordinary person, driving them into a state of frenzy and trapping them in an endless nightmare.

However, this entity, a profound horror to all humans, was merely on the level of a roadside rabbit to the puppet.

For a devilish saint completely immune to mental madness, this creature, whose primary attacks were only mental shockwaves and physical crushing, was virtually incapable of harming her.

“Hahaha, you lowly ant! Accept Lord Turuv’s judgment!”

A consciousness brimming with utter chaos and vileness began to assault Sally’s mind.

“A decent mental shockwave of madness, but utterly meaningless! Servants of the Old Gods, who gave you the courage to face a Saint?!”

Her silver-grey eyes, which had just returned to normal, once again turned blood-red.

Behind the puppet, a colossal, shadowy figure seemed to appear, radiating immense power, as if the world revolved around him, seated upon an opulent throne.

Upon sensing the mental assault, this dark figure immediately opened a pair of blood-red eyes, identical to the puppet’s, then, with an unparalleled and supreme aura, effortlessly shattered the minuscule consciousness that dared to invade its domain and kingship.

“Aaaahhh!!”

The grotesque monster began to shriek, clutching its head, as countless dark, inert black sludge oozed from its body.

“Damn it… you ant! How dare you harm the noble and supreme Lord Turuv! I will not let you get away with this!”

Splat!

A sound akin to crushing an insect echoed as a black boot stomped on the head of the black monster, which had shrunk to the size of a squid.

“Servant of Zatagua, you ugly creature known as ‘Formless Spawn,’ now tell me, why have those who were sealed thousands of years ago in the undersea city of R’lyeh reappeared? Trust me, you wouldn’t want to experience the soul interrogation method once popular in the Abyssal Depths!”

With the phantom of a Saint behind her, the puppet, her face obscured by a mask, revealed a bone-chilling smile.