Chapter 205: Celebration, Ceremony, and Divine Descent
"We've won! We actually won!"
"Selwyn's been defeated? That's amazing! Damn bastards started this war and tanked my business all year. The royals bought a whole batch of my goods for next to nothing—but hey, at least it's over now."
"Tch, I kinda wish it lasted longer. The war sent my alchemical tonics flying off the shelves. Sure, the prices were low, but the sheer volume made it a great deal. Now that it's over, who knows when I'll make another sale like that."
"I'm more curious about what happens now that Selwyn's lost. Will they be annexed into our kingdom? I doubt it. The Church of Light and the other kingdoms would never allow it. Maybe they'll have to pay tribute annually? Either way, we'll surely gain something."
"Eh, whatever. It's a festival day. All the royal and newly-elected noble businesses are selling their goods at half price. I'd rather think about what I'm going to buy today."
"Yeah!"
In the heart of Aleisterre's capital, within the grand plaza known as the Kingdom's Eye, the air was thick with celebration. Citizens flowed through the square in droves, their conversations abuzz with news of Selwyn's defeat in the long and grueling war.
The fall of Selwyn's capital and the crumbling of its defenses under the assault of Aleisterre's armies had been relayed to the royal family via long-range transmission devices.
From there, the news spread like wildfire through every echelon of the capital. Though opinions about the war had varied, the citizens were universally happy that it had ended.
A celebration had already been scheduled to coincide with the reelection of seats in the Elder Council. As the tidings of victory arrived, the festivities were officially set in motion. The largest plaza in the capital had long since been prepared with stages and seating.
Though the inner seats—reserved for families newly inducted into the Elder Council—were not open to the general public, the outer perimeter was lined with stalls offering free food and drink. Festive performances added to the allure, drawing in citizens eager to lose themselves in the joy of triumph and merrymaking.
Bursts of colored streamers exploded overhead, showering the crowd below in a rain of vivid ribbons. Given the vibrant throngs of people, the scene radiated all the mirth and warmth of a true celebration.
Only the families who had won seats on the Elder Council had been formally invited. Those who had failed to secure a position had wisely chosen not to show their faces.
The common folk, however, cared little for these political undercurrents. They reveled openly in the celebration, grateful for the rare chance to bask in both victory and festivity.
Among the long banquet tables prepared for the nobility, lords and ladies dressed in ornate finery raised their goblets and traded plans for the days to come with buoyant confidence.
Many among them hadn't expected to win a seat at all. To be invited to a formal celebration of this scale—something even past elections had lacked—was a clear sign that they had finally stepped into the true circle of power within the capital.
With practiced grace, they laughed behind gloved hands, offered measured bows, and sipped fine wine with restraint. Their wealth and bearing was indeed as expected of the capital's upper crust, and their noble bloodline and education lent them an air of cultivated dignity.
On the stage, performers from the royal theater danced and played, filling the air with refined music. The atmosphere was both exuberant and elegant.
"There really is a festive atmosphere to it all... Not bad. One last shift before I'm off the clock," Wang Yu murmured to himself. "Still, in a setting like this, even the most incompetent royals would pull out every last card to make sure nothing goes wrong. Honestly, I feel like overkill."
Perched atop the roof of a tall building overlooking the plaza, Wang Yu crouched silently, observing the throng below. Laughter, music, and the warm glow of lanterns painted a picture of celebration. He had to admit—the event had turned out well.
"The news of our victory, along with this ceremony, should be enough to suppress most of the recent unrest. It'll buy the royal family some much-needed time to tidy up loose ends. I'll give them this—well played."
He fell quiet, mulling over the significance of the occasion. The more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that the royal family had planned things well.
"How's it looking on your end?" he asked, bringing the magitech communicator to his ear.
"Situation normal."
"No issues."
"No abnormal signs detected."
"I'm right below you. Why not look me in the eye?"
A chorus of brief status updates from the Nightblades filtered through, efficient and precise. Wang Yu, nominally the acting team leader, was responsible for the reports. Though he was soon to resign and vanish from the picture entirely, with both Hugin and Sieg absent, most of the responsibility for tonight's mission had fallen to him.
The Nightblades had been commissioned by the royal family to ensure the security of this celebration, an occasion of immense political weight. A single mishap could bring about disastrous consequences.
Hugin and Sieg, whose powers were in a league of their own, were stationed along the outer perimeter, ensuring that no threats slipped through the city's defenses. Wang Yu and his team, meanwhile, were embedded discreetly within the plaza, maintaining order and watching from within.
The lone voice that stood out from the rest belonged, unsurprisingly, to Charles.
Wang Yu glanced down and spotted him waving cheerily from the crowd. He blended in with effortless ease—despite his good looks, his lazy charm and slouched posture made him seem more like a pub-crawling layabout than an elite operative.
Noticing Wang Yu's gaze, Charles gestured toward a direction near the edge of the plaza. Wang Yu turned, a faint smile played across his lips.
There, walking leisurely among the stalls and streamers, was Edward—dressed in plain clothes and bearing subtle alterations to his appearance to avoid being recognized. At his side was Sue, her fluffy ears twitching and tail swaying as she admired the sights.
So that's why the dutiful heir of a duke had, for once, requested leave from Commander Hugin. He was making time for a rare day out with his companion. Not bad. With both the royal guard and the Nightblades overseeing security, Edward's absence wouldn't tip the scales.
Wang Yu rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Avia was probably back at the little house on Redmaple Street, packing the last of her things. Once Garcia and Fang returned to the capital and he had a word with them, Wang Yu planned to leave this place for good.
Below, the celebration unfolded in perfect rhythm. The nobles feasted in grand banquet halls, reveling in glory and success. Meanwhile, the common folk of the capital danced, drank, and laughed in the firework-lit plaza, savoring a fleeting moment of peace and joy.
The mood was truly lovely. The air smelled of roasted meat and blooming flowers. For a rare instant, Wang Yu saw the brighter side of this world, and it made him pause.
"Hah. If only the entire capital could be like this all the time... But of course, that's just a façade."
He shook his head, a wry smile on his lips, and refocused on the plaza's perimeter. He scanned it for trouble.
While the other Nightblades had chosen to move amongst the crowd for close-range recon, Wang Yu had opted for the high vantage point, using his position—and the weapon he carried—to its fullest advantage.
Beside him rested a newly-forged alchemical rifle, nearly two-thirds the height of a grown man. The thick barrel housed ammunition as wide as a man's thumb, each bullet tipped with a core of reinforced alchemical alloy.
It was Avia's latest invention. Unlike Fury of the Forge, a revolver crafted from rare materials, this rifle had been assembled from more commonplace alchemical components.
Yet in range and sheer power, it rivaled—and perhaps even surpassed—its more famous cousin, especially in terms of penetration and destructive force.
This wasn't just any firearm. It was a sniper rifle.
While it lacked the intricate precision of modern-world weapons, the alchemical fuels, enchanted metallurgy, and inscribed runes native to this world more than compensated for it. Within a range of 3,000 meters, this beast of a rifle could deliver terrifyingly lethal results.
Given the rifle and elevation, Wang Yu could cover the entire plaza with deadly efficiency.
On the stage, the performances continued. As the final act—a blend of dance and magical illusion—came to a dazzling close, the ceremony transitioned to its next phase: speeches from the newly instated nobles of the Elder Council.
One by one, representatives of various houses ascended the stage, taking turns to speak of their loyalty to Aleisterre, their plans for the capital's betterment, and their ambitions for the realm.
For the most part, it was ceremonial fluff, words meant to impress the crowd and soothe the masses. A few, however, used the opportunity to promote their commercial endeavors.
The late Hahn family, for example, would likely have done just that if father and son hadn't been killed in a long string of shocking attacks on Aleisterre nobles.
But the Hahns were dead, and no clues had ever been found. Their deaths had triggered a wave of chaos that gripped the capital for weeks.
Still, as war reached its climax and the surviving nobles devoured the fallen ones' assets, the unrest gradually faded from memory.
Wang Yu exhaled slowly, bringing his thoughts back in line. He resumed his watchful sweep of the square, adjusting the scope of the rifle, alert for any disturbance amidst the celebration.
On stage, one noble's speech concluded to polite applause. As he stepped down, the next prepared to take the stage—only to be tapped on his shoulder.
Startled, he turned around to see a boy of fourteen or fifteen—slender, with clear eyes and finely shaped features—offering him a polite, slightly apologetic smile.
"Excuse me, sir. Would you mind if I spoke first? My father was scheduled to be here, but something urgent came up. I'll be quick. I just want to say a few words in his place."
The boy's silvery-white hair and soft-spoken demeanor made him instantly pleasing to the eye.
The noble smiled indulgently, patting the youth's shoulder and gesturing for him to go ahead.
Among peers, there was no need to stand on ceremony, especially not with a child.
With a graceful bow, the boy ascended the stage. He paused, his gaze sweeping across the sea of citizens and nobles. Then he lowered his head, as if searching for the right words. When he looked up again, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He opened his mouth to speak. "I belie—"
Meanwhile, dazzling golden radiance tore through the fabric of space. The blade in Fang's hand, imbued with divine power from the God of Light, fell like a judgment, disintegrating everything in its path.
The massive stone beneath the three figures in this strange realm split cleanly into two unequal halves. The cut surface was as smooth as glass, so flawless it was difficult to believe it had once been solid rock.
The chimera knight reappeared beside the other legend, Roderick, whose potential took the form of a black sun. Gasping for breath, he stared with lingering dread at the figure of Archbishop Fang, who stood motionless and serene.
He was simply too fast. Even with a body built for speed, even after enhancing himself twice over with his potential, he had barely escaped Fang's merciless assault. If not for his last-minute outburst of fighting spirit, the consequences could have been devastating.
"So this is the power of the God of Light? It's unbelievable. You do have the strength to fight beside the two of us. I'm Gallier. You're the first being I've met who can match my speed."
Gallier fixed his gaze on Father Fang. Even as a legendary knight, he felt immense pressure radiating from the man before him.
He couldn't sense the priest's strength directly, but judging from his performance, even without divine power, Fang's physical prowess alone was on par with a legend's.
And with the might of the God of Light, his speed and destructive potential would surpass both of theirs.
"This power is far too unfair," Rod murmured, narrowing his eyes, a trace of bitter irony in his voice. "If mere belief in a deity could grant such strength, what's the point of us fighting tooth and nail to reach the realm of legends?"
"I, too, was once a legendary knight—before I ever bore the title of Archbishop," Fang said evenly. "The God of Light is generous. So long as you acknowledge Him, and so long as your actions are just, then His power will be yours."
Having forced Gallier back, Fang made no move to attack again. His tone remained calm and unwavering.
"Hmph. How easy you make it sound." Gallier sneered. "You call your actions just, when you're helping Aleisterre bring about the downfall of Selwyn? And now you're trying to eliminate the two of us—what a joke."
"Do not forget," Fang replied steadily, "it was Selwyn who instigated this war. Even if Aleisterre should triumph, Selwyn will not fall—not while I draw breath, and not while the other kingdoms still stand. And I am here not to kill you, but only to delay."
Gallier's derision did not shake the pastor's calm resolve in the slightest.
"Do you really not know why we started this war?" Gallier's voice rose in fury. "Do you not know what Aleisterre has done to us in secret all these years? They cut off our trade, sabotaged our magical development. What else could we do—fade into ruin in silence? Would that have been more righteous in your eyes?!"
"You made the wrong choice," Fang answered. "You could've taken your grievances public or spread the truth via the Abyssal Gate. You have the means—you've stirred trouble even in our capital. Don't pretend you couldn't have done the same.
"Instead, you chose war. I don't know why, but if I had to guess, I'd say it was for your so-called Selwynian pride.
"I may not be from Selwyn myself, but I know it wasn't the right decision. You fight for honor... But what of the people? What of the common folk of Selwyn, caught up in your crusade? They suffer because of your choices. Did they agree to this? Who will bear their pain?
"Bringing this war to an end—that is the right thing to do."
Even in the face of Gallier's impassioned rebuke, Fang remained unshaken. His purpose was clear, his conviction rooted in faith.
Roderick fell silent for a few seconds, then asked, "And what about you? Are your actions truly born of justice alone?"
"No," Fang replied. "I, too, am selfish. But to borrow the words of a friend, my heart and path are clear as polished glass. I favor Aleisterre, my homeland, but I see nothing wrong with that."
"And you have the gall to call that justice?!" Gallier roared once more, unable to hold back.
"I merely borrowed the word ‘justice' to describe the convictions in my heart," Fang replied coolly. "What I do, I do because I believe it to be right. I do not intend to debate the definition of justice with you. But I will say this: I am certain that what I do is right."
Then, a faint smile touched the corner of his lips.
"And besides... the old God of Light isn't so pedantic. He never said His followers couldn't have desires of their own."
"..."
"..."
At that final remark, both legends fell silent. Indeed, the Church of Light's faith was a strange one.
Though those of the Church of Light performed acts of righteousness, they rarely claimed to be righteous themselves. They simply followed, with unwavering belief, what they each deemed to be right.
"You are a worthy opponent," Roderick said at last. "We don't want to twist your sense of justice against you. Our king has made mistakes, and we've seen the pain suffered by our people. But we cannot bring ourselves to defy the king's will. That is Selwyn's tradition."
The bitterness in his voice had been replaced by quiet respect.
"Fine," Gallier said, his veneer of rage and madness having receded. "Strike at us with your full strength, Archbishop. Spare nothing. We are here to delay you—and the war between Selwyn and Aleisterre is far from over. I hope you understand."
Father Fang was taken aback for a moment—and then he nodded. A radiant burst of divine light flared around him once more. The ceasefire was over. Three great forces clashed wildly within that secluded realm, a battle of faith, pride, and truth.
Meanwhile, in Selwyn's conquered capital, Kevan marched forward with Aleisterre's army as it pressed deeper into the city.
"What a miserable capital," he murmured. "What did the Selwynians give up for this war? Was it worth it...?"
As the troops marched toward the inner palace, Kevan took in the city's desolation.
A stale air of ruin hung heavy over the streets, an atmosphere that couldn't have been caused by the recent battle alone.The cracked ground, the crumbling buildings—these were the scars of years, not days. Selwyn's capital had begun to decay long ago, perhaps ever since the war had begun.
"What a disaster. War brings nothing good. Never has, never will."
He whispered to himself as he watched tragic scenes unfold—Selwynian civilians either fleeing in panic or hurling themselves, weapons in hand, at Aleisterre's soldiers, only to be struck down without mercy.
Kevan turned his head, unable to watch. Despair hung like stormclouds above the city, heavy, colorless, and dead silent, blotting out every other hue of emotion.
He could hardly breathe. The city was suffocating in quiet ruin, just like that border sanatorium hosting the Nightblades. It was outwardly peaceful, but someone who dug within would only expose the rot at its core.
Shaking his head, he cast his thoughts aside and turned his mind to something else.
"Strange... Didn't Mr. Garcia say Selwyn was much better than us at harnessing divine power? And don't they worship multiple deities? So why haven't they used any divine spells in this war?"
Kevan frowned. The resistance had been fierce, yes—two legends nearly broke Aleisterre's forces. But throughout the entire conflict, the Selwynians had used none of the divine magic they were known for.
"Captain Kevan, something's off! There's no one in the royal palace—no one alive. The ministers have taken their own lives, and the king's nowhere to be found. He might've fled!"
A soldier's shout snapped Kevan from his thoughts. The army had already reached the royal palace and begun searching its halls.
"Is that so? Keep looking, but don't worry about the king. Our mission isn't slaughter, but to ensure Selwyn poses no threat. The rest can wait."
Unfazed by the chaos in the palace, Kevan remained clear-headed. He had never forgotten what they were truly fighting for.
"Understood!" The soldier saluted crisply, then hurried to continue the investigation.
Kevan watched him go, then muttered to himself, "Is there really a need for suicide? What good would that even do?" He didn't see much value in it—he never had. But he also didn't care how others chose to meet their end.
Suddenly, strange noises drew Kevan's attention. Faint mutterings drifted from the roadside. Turning his head, he saw a Selwynian civilian crouched on the ground, clutching his head, trembling uncontrollably, mumbling something under his breath.
Kevan frowned and approached, curiosity piqued. What was this man whispering?
"...of the gods... the Lady of the Night, Eunice... the Source of Life, Erphine... the Ever-Hungry, Kaip... the Eternal Despair, Sidney... I remember them now. When did I forget so many of the gods' names? How could I? If I had remembered earlier—if I had their power—how could Selwyn have fallen so easily... ah..."
"What?!"
Kevan staggered back in shock. The man's ramblings were laden with terrifying implications. The gods had been forgotten...? And the Lady of the Night—what was that supposed to mean?
"No, no, there's still time—I can feel it! They were always one... they were always meant to be one. I... I remember now! My Lord... the Sovereign of Fear... Descend, I ask of thee! Our king shall be your vessel upon the earth. Let your divine kingdom manifest—grant me a place within it!"
Kevan's pupils contracted. The man's words had grown increasingly deranged—there was something deeply wrong happening, something that had to be stopped.
Without hesitation, Kevan dashed forward—but he was too late. Mid-stride, he saw the man's body suddenly collapse to the ground, stiff and lifeless. Dead.
"What was that?!"
"A trace of the void? It's not strong, but it's spreading... and there's something else entirely!"
"Is this Selwyn's final gambit?"
"Look! In the sky—what is that vortex?!"
The voices from behind froze Kevan in his tracks. He looked upward—and froze. A massive black vortex had unfurled above them, swirling slowly, expanding with dreadful inevitability. It was deep and bottomless.
A subtle, dreadful shift was taking place. The very air thickened with an indescribable aura... was it despair? No, deeper still—fear, distilled into something near-tangible.
Kevan felt it acutely. He had once been tainted by that viscous, black essence, his soul scarred by the corruption of fear. He knew this stench.
It came from the hearts of the Selwynians: from their despair, their confusion, their dread. All of it now fed into the spinning vortex above, drawn upward like incense toward some unseen altar, merging, coalescing, deepening the swirl of darkness in the sky.
"This... is a ritual." Kevan's mind raced. The signs were undeniable—this was no random phenomenon. This had been prepared long ago. A contingency, a sacrament!
And the dying man's final words... had they not revealed the ritual's true purpose? The descent of a god, the god of terror. But how? That god had fallen—had died. How could he return?
And the vessel... the king? But Selwyn's king had vanished. Where was he now?
"No—!" Kevan's heartbeat spiked. A single, dreadful possibility flashed through his mind. He fumbled for his communicator. He had to warn the capital immediately.
But it was already too late. The vortex above, now engorged on fear, trembled once before it collapsed inward. In a heartbeat, it became a pinprick of blackness, a sphere smaller than the eye could trace—and then it vanished.
"No..." Kevan's voice was a hollow whisper. Why was it always like this?
Why could he only ever watch on helplessly?
Back in Aleisterre's capital, a silver-haired youth stood upon the ceremonial stage, looking out over the gathered nobles. A gentle smile graced his lips.
"I believe all present here today are worthy of basking eternally in the divine gift of terror, within our Lord's sacred kingdom."
His words were drowned beneath the general noise of the square. Only a few nobles nearby heard his strange declaration, and they looked to one another in confusion.
"Who's that boy? What family is he from, spouting nonsense like that? One of Ryder's brats? That wild one—Charles?"
"Don't think so. Hair color's off."
"Eh, who cares. Let the kid ramble. It's just ceremony, anyway."
"Fair enough."
No one paid him much mind. He seemed like a harmless eccentric.
"Perhaps you don't yet know the extent of Aleisterre's secret acts against Selwyn. We never sought war—but your empire left us no choice. Even now, we do not covet mortal lands.
"But you... you believe you've won. That's fine. You'll soon see our Lord's kingdom descend upon the earth. It is the continuation of Selwyn, our final answer. We shall not allow our dignity to be trampled. We would rather perish than kneel!"
His voice rose; his features twisted. And with him, the air around the stage began to change. Something dark, something cold, began to seep outward.
Fear.
The nobles stirred. Something wasn't right. They gestured for guards to seize him, to pull the boy down. Watching from the high platform, Wang Yu frowned. He couldn't hear what was going on from this distance, but the nobles' reactions were clearly abnormal. What had that boy said?
Suddenly, his communicator crackled. A voice, urgent and strained: "Wang Yu! That boy on the stage—he's the King of Selwyn! Divine descent! Stop him, now!"
The words hit like a bolt of lightning. The king? A divine descent?! It was absurd—utterly beyond expectation.
Charles, down below, seemed equally stupefied. The moment he saw the boy on stage, he felt his head pounding. Memories that had been buried deep flooded to the fore. A hidden plan, his premonitions, One...
Before he could digest any of what he'd uncovered, his body kicked in. He sent a transmission to Wang Yu.
Even as Wang Yu stood stunned, his hands moved. His rifle shifted, barrel tracking. He found the boy's head and squeezed the trigger.
A thunderous bang echoed across the square. The alchemic sniper's muzzle flared. A massive round tore through the air, blazing toward the silver-haired boy.
"The divine kingdom shall descend, and it shall be the new Sel—"
The boy's skull burst like an overripe melon. Blood and bone sprayed across the platform. His last, zealous words were swallowed by death.
A bullet about 20 mm in size, and enchanted thrice over—no mortal flesh could ever hope to withstand it.
Three more rounds followed in rapid succession. Wang Yu obliterated the corpse until not even a recognizable piece remained.
Chaos exploded. Nobles screamed. Citizens panicked. Blood, fear, and confusion...
Wang Yu's brow furrowed, breath sharp. "Was it enough...?" He didn't know. Charles' warning had been cryptic, but he sounded more serious than Wang Yu had ever seen him.
He had done what he could.
"Damn it!" The answer came, swift and merciless—he had been too late.
Where the boy's body had been, a black sphere formed. It rose up into the sky, too fast for any of them to react.
There, it unfurled into a vortex identical to the one Kevan had seen over Selwyn.
And then, seven chains burst forth from the heart of the storm. Each shot forth with impossible speed, vanishing into unknown corners of the world.
The first pierced deep into the prison in the Abyssal Depths, where the Warlord the Nightblades had caught was entombed.
The second tore into Stevenson Academy of Magic, ripping through void and veil where Wang Yu had sent the Source of Life deep into the void.
The third, the fourth, the fifth—each chain sought a name, a memory, a god once forsaken by Selwyn, now remembered in death.
Their targets were unknowing devotees of Aleisterre, those who had one day begun praying to gods they did not understand.
Their minds had been touched, warped... primed, just as Wang Yu had once been, when he first met the Lady of the Night, via a strange metallic spike and emblem.
The seventh chain shot straight toward the capital's shadow, toward the Church of Nightfall. There, at the alchemical workshop's door, the Lady of the Night sat upon her usual rocking chair.
She opened her eyes. A moment later, the chain struck. It pierced her chest, dragging her toward the vortex. The force behind it was irresistible, and she did not resist. Her gaze softened. She had always known this day would come.
"So in the end... I still want to be myself. I am Darkness, no one else..."
Her voice was calm, resigned, and tinged with a trace of regret.
But just as she began to rise, dozens of smaller chains burst forth, latching onto her limbs, her frame, her soul.
One chain, especially strange, struck like a nail, anchoring her to the earth. The black chain from the vortex drew taut.
These chains came from her followers, those Wang Yu had gathered in her name, human and non-human alike, from the capital's shadow and from the Nightblades.
To them, the Lady of the Night was not a monster, not a mask. She was a goddess of mercy and kindness. And their belief was built entirely on the gospel Wang Yu had written—completely fabricated, but utterly believed by one and all.
The Lady of the Night was none other than herself—she was Darkness, not Eunice.
The black chains tugged at the Lady of the Night persistently, but they could do nothing against that nail-like link embedded within her. At last, a shadowy form was torn from her body. As the chains recoiled, what remained was the Lady of the Night herself, staring upward.
"Ah... thank you."
She looked down at her hands. The version of herself that had once lived without freedom had now been fully excised. She had been reborn, utterly and completely. A deity unshackled.
"To all followers who can hear my voice, I ask that..."
It was a divine message from none other than the Lady of the Night herself.
The seven chains pulled their respective targets back with sudden, irreversible force. It all happened in an instant. Human souls held power, especially in the grip of extreme emotion—and despair was especially potent.
The colossal, black vortex in the heavens was driven by that very despair, that of every commoner across the kingdom of Selwyn. This immense power fueled a ritual that had been set into motion long before the war even began. Prepared in secret and executed in silence, it had now reached its culmination and was unstoppable.
By the time anyone noticed, the ritual had already begun... and finished.
The vortex above the sky began to churn. The seven chains reassembled what they had drawn in, reconstructing the whole into a singular incarnation, just as the demon "One" had once told Wang Yu.
It had no fixed shape, no true body. It was the essence of terror itself. And now, all the fear born from the despair of Selwyn's people, their souls twisted and broken, was converted into its strength.
The sky turned to shadow. From the vortex poured a thick, oozing darkness. This was the God of Terror: the Formless Hunger, the Dread that Walks in Shadows. As long as fear existed, so would it, omnipresent and undying.
"I don't understand. What the hell was the royal family doing? How did Selwyn's king manage to sneak this through?!"
Wang Yu scowled in anger, disbelief, and fear. Before his eyes, the God of Terror descended upon the royal capital of Aleisterre.
Black ichor engulfed everything within a vast radius, drowning all who were caught inside in bottomless terror, dragging their very souls into its realm.
This was the divine kingdom of the God of Terror...