A Living Hell!

The old captain sat in the crow's nest, taking slow, rhythmic puffs from the pipe in his left hand while his right held a strip of salted smoked jerky to chase the tobacco smoke. Below him, newly recruited crewmen were being chewed out by the veterans. They hadn't actually done anything wrong, but not finding any fault only made the senior sailors berate them all the more harshly. By now, his small pirate ship had left the harbor and reached open waters where Fire Island remained in view, exactly as Mr. Alfred had instructed. Although this was hardly the right time to go "hunting" again—after all, the new hands still needed time to break in—the old captain had decided to do as he was told. He had accomplished nothing of note in his life. Through decades of hard toil, he had barely scraped together this modest pirate vessel. The ship's solitary magic crystal cannon was a mere hollow shell that couldn't fire a single shot, kept purely to maintain appearances. Nor had he ever raided any grand vessels or unearthed any treasures. Nowadays, any merchant ship of decent scale carried more firepower than his, and in a boarding action, his handful of men stood little chance in close-quarters combat. At any rate, he knew his old bones could no longer swing a blade. What little water armor he could muster couldn't stop even a single spell bullet, and the chill would only leave him with a cold the next morning. Thus, his ship's livelihood usually came from extorting protection fees from native islands or collecting intelligence fees from small merchant convoys by tipping them off about the recent movements of major pirate fleets and changes in ocean currents and weather. At other times, he would haul local specialties back and forth to pocket a modest margin. One could say that both he and his ship were mere slackers drifting through these waters. Because of this, he hadn't found it the least bit surprising when his eldest son rebelled against him. Young men in their prime naturally detested such an aimless existence; their hearts still surged with true pirate passion. Of course, when the rebellion failed and his eldest son died, he hadn't grieved much. Not only did he have many sons, but he also had no idea which ones were biologically his. Back when he was young and strapped for cash, sampling a "pastry" wasn't a solitary indulgence. The whole crew would pool their coins to share one woman for the night. Later, someone would turn up pregnant, dump the baby onto the ship, and declare, "It's yours... all of yours." Whose child it actually was among their bunch, no one knew—nor was it even certain whether the baby belonged to their crew at all. Regardless, they just raised them. Half of all pirates were orphans who never knew their parents. Of the remaining half who weren't orphans, half again had too many fathers to tell apart. It was all a muddled ledger—begun in confusion and carried on in confusion. In total, the old captain had taken in eleven sons. That he had never adopted a daughter wasn't due to favoring boys over girls, but because daughters born to prostitutes could receive a small relief stipend from the Church of Mills, where an aid-society-like organization helped raise them. Boys, by contrast, were money-losing burdens here. The sea had little land to farm and no pastures to graze, and the one thing this place never lacked was desperate men turning to piracy. Of the eleven sons, three had died of illness—none in infancy, but after they had learned to speak and call him "Father." Originally, the old captain could have saved enough to upgrade his pirate ship, but treatment at the island's specialty hospital was exorbitant, and the illnesses were bizarre. It had drained the bulk of the savings he accumulated during his prime earning years in middle age, yet the boys still hadn't survived. Once he started rolling downhill past middle age, he stopped caring. He suddenly felt that a decorative magic crystal cannon was fine after all; had he actually procured a real one, he would only have agonized over the outrageous price of magic stones. Three more sons were gone. One had gotten into an argument in a brothel and was stabbed to death. The old captain made inquiries and learned the killer belonged to one of the seven pirate families. Well, no point in seeking revenge—he simply wrote it off as a loss. Another was carried off by a shark while swimming in the sea. One had relatively good luck: while unloading cargo on a native island, he caught the eye of the chieftain's daughter, who dragged him straight into her tent to wed. Back then, the boy had wept and begged to be taken home, while his dark, burly daughter-in-law with eight nose rings stood grinning by his side. The old captain figured that was quite a decent outcome; his daughter-in-law looked like someone who could keep both feet firmly on the ground. Not long ago, the eldest among the survivors had died. The old captain sighed—not over his deceased eldest son, but over his own muddle-headed life. In his youth, he had loved lying in bed with his arms around prostitutes, spinning tales of his grand dreams. As he grew older, the women were no longer willing to give him discounts just for listening to his dreams. The old captain drew a brand-new notebook from his chest pocket. It was a gift from that Mr. Alfred. Before departing, Alfred had also given him an extra sum of point coupons and instructed him to leave messages via the communication array at set intervals according to the designated coordinates below. He had asked the gentleman whether he should only leave a message when encountering things like "tales of treasure" or "rumors of secret realms." The gentleman had replied: No, even if you are in a good mood today and have an extra cup of rum, you can still leave a message. He hadn't quite understood. The gentleman said he believed every coincidence surrounding his young master was bound by necessity. The old captain had scratched his head and briefly summarized his worthless life as a slacker pirate, hinting that the gentleman shouldn't waste the effort on him... or more importantly, waste the point coupons, since using communication arrays was terribly expensive. Yet that gentleman had simply smiled and said, "Once you met my young master, destiny ceased to follow its original trajectory." "Sigh..." The old captain sighed once more. He truly couldn't fathom how these people thought—always speaking in cryptic, holy riddles that he could never relate to. Perhaps it was precisely because he couldn't understand that he had remained a mere servant all his life. But that wasn't for lack of effort or devotion; rather, not long after that tiny maritime church took him in, it was wiped out in an inter-church conflict. Below, the senior crewmen had bullied a newcomer to tears. The old captain listened with mild amusement and prepared to refill his pipe. Just then, An earth-shattering roar erupted from Fire Island ahead. The clouds above the island were dyed a fiery crimson, and immediately after, a terrifying, monstrous three-headed hound appeared. Even from this great distance, the beast's immense silhouette was distinctly visible. With a clatter, The old captain dropped his pipe, yet his fingers clenched the notebook in a death grip. Suddenly, he began to believe what that gentleman had said. Could it be... His destiny truly had changed? *** "It really is the Three-Headed Hound of Sin. To think that after being sealed for so many ages, it still possesses such dreadful might." "Naturally. In its prime, it was an entity that dared offend our Lord, after all." "Bula, Deli, protect me while I cast." "Laura, what do you mean by this?" "Laura, what are you planning to do?" Standing on the rooftop, Laura gazed at the colossal three-headed hound ahead and spoke: "Although its momentum is fierce right now, I don't sense much rage or savagery from it. Endless eras of sealing have already worn away the impurities in its soul. I want to guide it and give it a chance to return to its homeland, back to the Abyss. The Abyss is its true home, and our church could gain a guardian beast from this." "Laura, have you forgotten the elder's instructions when we set out? We were strictly ordered that we only have the authority to witness, not to intervene! The policy our church currently pursues is contraction and restraint." "Don't act on impulse, Laura. We only need to confirm that this Three-Headed Hound of Sin no longer harbors hatred toward our church. I don't believe taking the risk to subjugate it is necessary—it might only make things worse." "Bula, Deli, don't forget that I am the leader of this three-person team." "But we will not permit you to act on your own and defy the elder's will." "Indeed, please don't act rashly." "In this era, the gods remain absent, and the mighty divine and ferocious beasts closely tied to the legends of gods are rarely seen. In this context, obtaining a newly awakened ferocious beast holds immense value for our church. If it were decrepit, if it were on the verge of collapse, if this were merely its final dying roar, I would stand here quietly, watch what I came to see, and depart. But I sense youth and innocence within it. This is a Three-Headed Hound of Sin, but not the one from back then—it is a descendant countless generations removed. Right now, it hasn't awakened its bloodline memories. It possesses immense potential; it represents a fresh start. If we can claim it, it might develop into an entity on par with divine beasts in the future." "However, according to the prophecy, aren't the gods about to return?" "Exactly! The recent events across the world and all the current omens indicate that a series of awakenings and revivals has begun. The gods' return, one after another, might not be far off!" Facing her two companions' continued pleas, Laura's gaze narrowed, her voice solemn: "When the gods return, if our church already possesses a youthful ferocious beast, it means we take the initiative in this new tide. It marks a new atmosphere, heralding the rise of the Abyss." "You're mad, Laura." "Yes, Laura, you're mad." "I am not like you two. I can sense things you cannot perceive and see farther than you can. Trust me, this is an opportunity, and I intend to seize it. Even if the elder were here, he would agree." "No, we don't agree." "Yes, we don't agree." "Then just stand by and watch me get killed if an accident strikes during my spellcasting. Heh." On the rooftop, Laura relaxed her body, no longer suppressing the natural upward levitation. Her entire form drifted into the air. "Laura, you!" "You will be punished for this!" Laura ignored her companions' protests. Floating in midair, she looked down upon the terrified crowds fleeing through the streets below, hearing the cries of children and the screams of women. *Rest assured. I shall bestow peace upon you.* Laura raised her left arm. A holy radiance emanated from her, and an opening seemed to tear across the sky above. A beam of pure white light poured down, forming a halo that settled squarely over her. "In the name of my vow, release my seal, welcome the radiance of heaven, and bear witness to my angelic form!" A ring of light expanded beneath Laura's feet. Once it reached a certain span, the figure of an angel manifested within the halo, crossing her arms over her body as pure white wings slowly unfurled behind her. Clear hymns echoed all around, sounding as though countless devout child believers were singing praises. Laura also folded her arms across her chest, and her body began to merge with the angel behind her. Below, Bula and Deli exchanged glances. Once Laura took action, they had no choice left. As Everfallen, their duty was to protect the Angel. Bula stepped to the left, while Deli stepped to the right. Both ignited with gray and white flames. "Unseal!" "Unseal!" With their seals released, the buildings beneath their feet shattered instantly, unable to support their immense weight. Dust billowed into the air and gradually settled, revealing two colossal black figures where they stood. The residents inside and the refugees fleeing down the street were crushed in droves, yet the two figures stood towering and majestic. A faint smile appeared at the corners of Laura's mouth. Having completed her fusion with the angel, she reached out and pointed toward the distant Three-Headed Hound of Sin: "Giragon, deep within your soul, do you still remember your homeland?" A ripple of light surged toward Giragon. The hound, which had been engrossed in carefully stacking houses like toy blocks, shivered and looked up in confusion. There, it saw a beam of white light flanked by deep, dark seas on either side. The next instant, The scene shifted. Fragments of memory that seemed long forgotten yet still flowed within its blood began to surface—memories of its homeland. Hell had once been its homeland, now known as the Abyss. It wasn't particularly beautiful, nor was it hospitable, but home was an imprint soaked into soul and bloodline through sheer familiarity. Until one day, a terrifying man appeared in its homeland. His arrival thoroughly shattered the peace and destroyed the balance. He sought to turn his own will into the law of that realm. Countless powerful beings launched attacks against him, only to have their bodies and souls shattered one after another. Giragon chose to bide its time. When that entity appeared to depart, leaving behind only a puppet, it chose to strike. But because the other ferocious beasts failed to answer its call, believing the man was still present, it ultimately failed. The consequence of failure was that upon the man's return, he moved to annihilate it. It escaped. It had always wanted to return, always. That longing for home was etched into its very bones, passed down from generation to generation as an enduring attachment. "I now grant you permission to return—to see the place where you once lived, to remain there, and to begin your life anew. The Abyss is your eternal resting place." The angel wings behind Laura flapped gently, scattering rays of holy light toward Giragon. Gradually, the head on Giragon's left, representing "Curse," took on an expression of bewilderment and nostalgia. That was its homeland, and it was also its cursed land. But now, the curse could end; it could return. The left head let out a call, responding to Laura's summons. Laura smiled and hooked her finger beckoningly: "Come, follow us. Return with us. Everything in the past has ended. When the great God of the Abyss returns, my Lord shall grant you the status of an Abyssal Divine Beast. "This is your opportunity, your chance to ascend. "Come... "I will lead you... "Home!" Giragon began taking steps toward Laura. Yet as it moved, each paw landed as lightly as possible, doing its utmost to minimize the tremors caused by its colossal bulk. Laura opened her arms in an embrace, and the angel behind her mirrored the posture, looking down with maternal affection, like a mother calling her child home. Giragon continued moving toward Laura, its left head entirely consumed by nostalgia and yearning. "Roar..." That distant, echoing cry was a call for home. *** When the three-headed hound appeared, Old Wimbot had already been escorted into a carriage under heavy protection. "Patriarch... it's out! It's out!" Old Wimbot smiled faintly and asked, "Have the kinsmen and assets been evacuated?" "Replying to the Patriarch: the kinsmen and movable assets of all three families have been evacuated." "Good." Old Wimbot closed his eyes, resting his hand on his knee as his fingers tapped gently. Everyone inside the carriage waited for their patriarch's decision. Yet what Old Wimbot was pondering wasn't what the people around him imagined. What surfaced in his mind was that young man resting a hand on his shoulder earlier and saying to him: *You are old.* As a truly exceptional old pirate, he trusted his instincts far more than he trusted his own children. The moment he laid eyes on that young man, a distinct, peculiar feeling had welled up inside him. Still, there was no need to dwell on such "details" now. After all, the entity slumbering beneath the volcano had already awakened. Old Wimbot opened his eyes. The gaze that age had softened into mildness turned razor-sharp once more. "Begin." Having given the word, Old Wimbot closed his eyes again, thinking to himself: *I only hope our ancestor didn't embellish stories in the family chronicles just to save face.* *** "The Patriarch orders: Begin!" "Begin!" Milis leaned on his walking stick, standing on a high platform and looking down as he sighed with emotion: "I hope the Delan family chronicle wasn't fabricated, or this will all be for nothing." Beside him, an aristocratic woman stroked the head of her son—the current head of the Watson family—and said, "I'm sure it isn't fake. After all, not only the Delan family, but your Casil family and my Watson family chronicles carry related records as well." Milis shook his head. "Our families originally split from the Delan family; that kind of corroboration hardly counts." "Mother, what are they going to do?" The young Watson patriarch pointed toward the several hundred children kneeling around the pond below. Celine immediately replied to her son in a gentle voice, "Son, they are proving their bloodline to the ancestors. They are doing something very noble." "Is that so? Can I go too?" "You cannot. You are the patriarch." "The patriarch? Shouldn't the patriarch be the first to step forward for something like this? At the clan conference banquet, in the lines Mother had me memorize, I remember that sentence. I remember saying it with my own mouth." Celine gently kissed her son's forehead and instructed him: "Yes, but as the patriarch, you only need to speak the words. Leave the doing to the people below. Do you understand?" "I understand, Mother." "Good boy. My son is so clever." Standing nearby, Milis, the head of the Casil family, didn't even glance their way, but in his mind, he had already stamped the Watson family's future with the label of "decline." A woman who considered herself clever, raising her son with such self-styled cleverness—for the next few decades, the Watson family was essentially finished. Still, this woman was lucky to have caught this opportunity. If the Delan family could bring this colossal three-headed hound under control, their strength would inevitably skyrocket. Although Fire Island's three families would thoroughly become a one-family hegemony as a result, even if they lost a degree of autonomy, the other two families would enjoy a far better environment for growth than they did now. It was well worth it. At that moment, as the order of "begin" was echoed again and again, the altar below was fully activated. At the center of the altar lay a red pond, its bottom paved entirely with fire-attribute crystals. With the altar's activation, a crimson vine sprouted, as if rapidly completing an entire cycle of rooting and germinating in an instant. Immediately after, a vibrant red blossom opened at the very tip of the vine, and a genuinely scorching heat began to permeate the air. *Thud...* *Thud...* Several hundred children bearing the surname Delan were forced to kneel around the pond. Some were completely oblivious and even smiled, thinking this was merely a game—and indeed, that was what the adults had told them. "The numbers seem a bit high," Celine remarked. Milis nodded and replied, "Because they are all from branch families or illegitimate births. The Delan bloodline in them is thin and impure to begin with, and Old Wimbot couldn't bring himself to sacrifice core scions, so they can only make up for quality with quantity." "Should branch members and bastards be treated like this?" Milis smiled. He knew the woman came from humble origins, but she was truly amusing—she had just finished instructing her son in cynicism, yet now she was turning sentimental. "Your son will be the head of the main direct line." Celine was rendered speechless. She silently lowered her head and continued watching events unfold. The vine beneath the red flower split into slender tendrils. The moment they touched the children, they pierced into their skin, and screams erupted in an instant. Their blood was drawn out, purified, and channeled into that small red flower. Upon seeing this, the young Watson patriarch immediately covered his eyes, crying out, "No, don't do this! Mother, don't do this!" Celine pulled her son tightly into her arms, comforting him, "This is their honor, son. This is their honor. It is because of their sacrifice that the world will become a better place." Milis gave a dry cough and said, "You should learn to be strong, young Watson." Celine glared at Milis. She had no wish for anyone else to lecture her son. *Heh.* Milis sneered inwardly. She truly didn't recognize good intentions. The boy's grandfather had once been an old fox on equal footing with him, and the two of them had spent half a lifetime matching wits; *You never would have imagined, would you, that your grandson would turn out to be such useless trash?* Suddenly, Milis noticed that the small red flower was expanding, growing increasingly vivid. He shouted in excitement: "It worked! It worked! The Delan family truly carries traces of the God of Fire's bloodline! Though it must have degraded and declined long ago, or it wouldn't have degenerated into a mere family faith system." Below, amid the agonizing screams of the children, a wave of fervent cheering erupted. One could say that having reached this stage, the sacrificial ritual was already a success, for it proved the nobility of the Delan bloodline. A middle-aged man stepped forward carrying a box. He was Old Wimbot's son and the designated successor to the family—Roban Delan. Behind Roban walked several dozen family elders clad in dark red robes. They raised their hands, chanting family hymns while channeling the family's power of faith. Crimson halos condensed above them one after another, converging before Roban. Roban opened the box and took out a nail that had rusted long ago. Drawn by the rapidly expanding red flower, the nail floated up on its own and settled into the core of the blossom. In an instant, The red flower bloomed fully, bathing the entire hillside in brilliant scarlet. Roban closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found his field of vision vastly elevated. A gigantic ancestral silhouette manifested above the hillside—not the God of Fire himself. However, the flames rising from this ancestor possessed a mystical quality, appearing incomparably majestic under the empowerment of the bloodline and the ancient nail. Roban spoke, and the ancestral phantom spoke in unison: "Giragon, do you still remember me?" Carefully skirting buildings and crowds as it moved toward Laura, Giragon heard the voice. Its middle head turned toward the figure on the hillside. It froze. In its muddled awareness, a terrifying figure from memory began to overlap with the presence before it. Once, after escaping the Abyss, Giragon was discovered by the God of Fire. The God of Fire sought to tame it, but how could Giragon—a creature that had dared rebel against and offend even the God of the Abyss—ever willingly submit at the feet of a deity who wasn't even a chief god? Thus, Giragon had displayed sheer disdain and contempt toward the God of Fire back then. That was far more likely to enrage a god than mere defiance, for gods were invariably the proudest beings in existence. The God of Fire intervened personally and defeated Giragon. To quench his wrath, he sealed Giragon beneath Fire Island, intending to use the power of time to melt it down until he was ready to absorb it. Evidently, the God of Fire never lived to see that "harvest." Moreover, he hadn't disappeared after the conclusion of the previous era, but had gone missing during its latter half. Unlike the speculation surrounding the God of Light's fall, numerous signs indicated that the God of Fire had truly perished. Yet how exactly he fell remained without a definitive explanation and was exceedingly difficult to verify. Still, two mainstream theories circulated among divine historians: The first was that the God of Order had struck down the God of Fire. At any rate, the God of Order had gone on a mad slaughter of deities toward the end of the last era. Taking the blame for one more god hardly mattered, and there was a very high probability it was true. The second theory was that after battling the God of Order, the mortally wounded God of Fire had no choice but to enter the God-Burial Grounds of his own accord. This also aligned with the notion that the God of Order had suppressed the God-Burial Grounds. In short, if a god's fall near the end of the last era wasn't tied to the God of Order, it felt as though that deity lacked prestige. As for the traditional Church of Fire, it had long since fragmented. Many of the modern churches that worshipped fire merely carried on remnants of the old faith's heritage. Roban declared: "Giragon, I hereby pardon your sins and grant you true redemption and freedom! But you must submit to me and sign a master-servant contract with my clan, or what awaits you is another endless sealing! The next seal will completely melt your body and soul!" Dread surfaced in the eyes of Giragon's middle head. When it had looked upon the God of Fire with scorn and disdain, it hadn't feared him; even when defeated by him, it hadn't feared him. Yet endless ages of confinement had instilled fear within it. Being sealed generation after generation in a cramped space beneath a volcano, unable to move, relying on its own flesh and soul as nourishment to reproduce across eras—that was a horrific torture in the truest sense. It didn't want to be sealed again. It shifted its footing, turning toward that hillside and walking toward the figure that bore such a striking resemblance to the God of Fire. Beside Roban, expressions of joy spread across the faces of the Delan family members. Once the master-servant contract was signed and that legendary nail—left behind by the God of Fire when sealing Giragon—was used as the contract's token, this terrifying beast would belong entirely to the Delan family. Naturally, neither the Delan family nor the Romaford Alliance was naive enough to think that possessing a ferocious beast would allow them to challenge the Church of Order. But it would be more than enough to make the Church of Order realize which family was truly worth backing and subsidizing! All the pirates' efforts were merely aimed at becoming better dogs for Order. Even though the Delans had proven they carried a faint trace of the God of Fire's bloodline, and even though the consensus was that Fire's fall was inextricably linked to the God of Order, the Delan family had never once considered avenging the God of Fire against the Church of Order. That would be sheer madness! Giragon's massive form moved toward the hillside with awkward, uncoordinated steps. A careless tread still collapsed buildings beneath its paws, and sparks of flame scattered from its body with every stride, drifting down and eliciting screams from the refugees on the island. At this, guilt flickered in Giragon's eyes. It could only do its best to maintain its unsteady footing while drawing in the fire-suffused fur on its body to keep it from shedding. *** Inside the teleportation hall. The hunched youth continuously drained power from Tafman's body, and his pale face began to take on a bizarre, unnatural flush. Faced with such an Elder of Light, the believers brought along by Tafman dared not draw near. They only felt that this elder's identity thoroughly upended everything they knew about the Light. The hunched youth paid them no heed. He couldn't be bothered to waste breath on these small fry, and keeping them around would serve a purpose later. After all, once a traitor was eliminated, someone still had to handle the chores for him. Nearby, Karen had already signaled his subordinates not to act rashly, and under no circumstances to draw upon the power of Order. Watching Tafman's life being steadily drained away, Karen wanted to save him, but the hunched youth's strength made him deeply wary. Even if they were to strike, they had to wait for an opening; rushing in hot-headed would only be throwing lives away for nothing. The other party likely didn't know their identities yet, having been too arrogant to speak a single word to those beneath him. In that case, might there still be a chance for an ambush? Damn it. If this fellow hadn't teleported over ahead of schedule, he would have already led everyone away through the array by now. At that moment, the ground began to tremble violently, and the scorching air wafted into the hall. Pu'er kept her mouth shut without uttering a sound, pressing her feline face tightly against Karen's arm. But in her heart, she knew the useless dog had awakened. Squatting beside them, Kevin had initially eyed the hunched youth with keen curiosity. From him, the dog caught several familiar scents; after all, he had personally banished the God-Burial Grounds back in the day. Kevin now somewhat believed that this fellow might truly have entered the God-Burial Grounds... though he certainly hadn't found his way in on his own. Kevin had utter confidence in his own handiwork; aside from himself, who had deliberately left coordinates behind, no one could possibly locate the God-Burial Grounds. But what if someone—or several beings inside the God-Burial Grounds who had died and then "revived"—had proactively pulled someone in? Why pull in someone of the Light? Because the power of Light could convert into other elemental attributes, which also meant its tolerance allowed it to accommodate many... accessories. In Kevin's eyes, this hunched youth was a grotesque chimera pieced together from scraps. He drained life force not to recover, but to sustain himself. Carrying too much deathly aura, he could only prolong his countdown through this crude and bloody method. Just then, Karen noticed a subtle twitch in Tafman's fingertips. This was definitely a signal meant for him, for in this hall, Tafman could only be communicating with Karen. Was he telling Karen to get ready to coordinate with him? Could Tafman, seemingly completely subdued and reduced to a sacrificial battery, still have the strength for one final burst? Karen steadied his breathing and adjusted his state. If so, he had to coordinate with Tafman. The moment they failed to leave this place, their identities would inevitably be exposed over time. The Church of Order spared no effort in crushing the Church of Light; likewise, any member of Order falling into Light's hands would surely meet a grim end. "Hehehe, hahahahaha..." The hunched youth suddenly broke into laughter. He raised a hand, and a section of the ceiling above melted away instantly. His entire form soared into the air, while below, Tafman remained pinned in place, continuing to serve as a nourishment bottle. The youth was confident that no one here could oppose him. This wasn't a flaw left behind by careless oversight; rather, his mind was simply no longer normal. Anyone stitched together from so many bizarre, incomprehensible things would find it nearly impossible to remain calm and rational. "A creature I personally released—what, do you all intend to fight over it? Hahahaha! Do you even think you're worthy?" The hunched youth looked toward the distant, slowly advancing Abyssal Three-Headed Hound of Sin, raising his left hand and clawing at his own chest. *Squelch!* His chest caved inward as he ripped out a cluster of pure, gentle white light. Yet such power of Light seemed entirely discordant within his current body. Then he halted his movements. Originally, he could have used the purifying power of the Tower of Light to draw the three-headed hound toward him, but now the beast's attention was clearly divided. Consequently, he forced the light he had painstakingly extracted back into his chest. His neck twitched grotesquely as he let out a low growl. Dark gray flames erupted beneath his feet, expanding rapidly and flaring violently until they coalesced into a demonic ghost face. Below, Alfred rested a hand on Karen's shoulder, transmitting his thoughts through spiritual energy: *Young Master, that is the aura of a beguiling aberrant demon—and one of an extraordinarily high order. I cannot even describe its rank; it has surpassed the ultimate limits of aberrant demons.* "Woof, woof." Having received Kevin's prompt, Alfred immediately transmitted to Karen again: *It is a slumberer of the God-Burial Grounds, one of the primordial beguiling aberrant demons—Blaizt.* The giant ghost face let out a string of laughter that instantly seized Giragon's attention. The ghost face spoke: "I am your friend. I am the one you can trust most. We are both wretched souls abandoned and forgotten by this world. "So, "Where did all the rage accumulated over endless ages of imprisonment go? The grievance and indignation of having your home stolen, the humiliation of being defeated... have you forgotten it all! "It was I who granted you true freedom, and I gave it to you so that you could fully unleash your true nature. "Go! "Go vent your emotions upon this world! Make every single one of them understand the agony you endured! "Go destroy, "Go burn, "Go trample, "Go annihilate everything here!" As Blaizt's beguiling power washed over it, the eyes of Giragon's right head, representing "Annihilation," instantly turned into swirling vortexes of gray. The hunched youth asked with a smile, "Did it work?" The ghost face replied with a sinister grin, "I merely pushed over the final block." "ROAR—!" Three heads, three conflicting wills pulling, threatening, and beguiling—at this moment, Giragon's consciousness completely shattered. It didn't know where it was. It didn't know what it was supposed to do. It didn't even know why it existed. It was still only a child. These chaotic emotions and thoughts finally crushed every shred of its reason, transforming into a terrifying frenzy capable of melting souls. It began to roar, it began to bellow—it had gone utterly mad. The left head spewed horrific torrents of magma toward the town ahead. Everywhere the lava swept, buildings, vegetation, and the very earth itself burst into flames. The right head summoned a dense rain of meteors crashing down from the heavens. Charred, gaping craters blasted open as the town was bombarded, and every living thing near the impacts was vaporized in an instant. The middle head opened its maw in a frenzy, drawing in a massive gale from the ground. Its long tongue swept across the terrain, sucking crowds of people into its mouth wave after wave, chewing them with a continuous, sickening crunch. Despair, screams, and wails became the island's soundtrack, and Fire Island was plunging into a living hell on earth. No one noticed that as the three-headed hound wreaked destruction and slaughter without end, crystalline tears glistened in the corners of all three pairs of eyes. It had been kind at heart.