Chapter 187
Above, enormous, billowing clouds drifted across the night sky like tattered fragments of cotton, meandering slowly as if carried by a gentle, unseen hand.
The moon, hanging low and radiant, filtered its pale light through the rippling wisps, casting an ethereal glow on two figures standing in silent vigil atop the wall of Orario city.
The first figure was a towering enigma—an imposing man well over two meters in height whose face lay hidden beneath a heavy, dark cloak.
Even shrouded in mystery, every inch of him radiated a dangerous, feral demeanour, as though he were a wild beast prowling in human skin.
His massive form seemed almost paradoxical as the cloak and hood strained to contain his intimidating bulk.
Yet anyone witnessing him would be wise to remain wary, for the enormous great-sword thrust beside him into the worn flagstones remained slick with the crimson evidence of his recent victims.
In stark contrast, the second man was smaller, standing at roughly 1.7 meters, with a lean and lithe build that moved with a calm, almost predatory precision.
His presence carried a chill so profound it suggested death itself might be his companion.
Draped in a thin, elegantly tailored cloak, his body hinted at an almost inhuman perfection, all while concealing strange beauty beneath its delicate layers.
Etched along his back was an eerie emblem—a stylized skull of a dragon—adding a touch of grisly grandeur.
Although concealed, his face offered fleeting glimpses of flawless, almost luminescent skin and strands of golden hair that peeked through narrow openings in his attire.
In his steady grasp, a finely crafted silver spear—its surface darkened by fresh slashes of blood—underscored the lethal promise of his presence.
For a long, suspended moment, the two men locked eyes in a charged, silent standoff, their mutual tension palpable enough to stir the very night air.
That stillness was abruptly shattered when an unfamiliar voice, resonant yet cutting, broke into the charged silence.
Both men shifted their gaze toward the source of the interruption, only to quickly resume their intense scrutiny of one another.
From the shifting shadows cast by the interplay of clouds and moonlight, a new figure emerged—a man with silver hair that dulled like tarnished metal.
There was something deeply unsettling about his demeanour; his presence radiated a concoction of sadism, instability, and fanatic zeal that betrayed any claim to honest virtue.
A single glance was all it took to understand that he was far removed from any notion of an upstanding character.
Without delay, the hulking, man spoke, his voice as measured as it was devoid of emotion.
“I am looking…” he began, pausing thoughtfully before adding as if stating the obvious, “at a rather unpleasant individual.” His tone lacked passion or anger—it was merely a blunt declaration of fact, as if discussing the weather rather than a matter of life and death.
In response, the lean man’s laughter, tinged with a bitter irony, broke the silence.
“Hahaha, that’s quite a flattering remark coming from a man who’s clearly nearing his demise,” he retorted coolly, his gaze unmoving.
His words seemed to irritate the silver-haired interloper, whose expression darkened with disapproval.
“Now, pray tell, who exactly are you?” the lean man queried, momentarily diverting his attention from his hulking counterpart to the interloper.
With an air of brazen self-importance, the silver-haired man announced, “I am Olivas , apostle of chaos, evilus commander, and now—your compatriot!” His introduction dripped with arrogance, as if the title itself carried the weight of supreme authority.
The lean man’s face tightened into a scowl, his features betraying his disdain for Olivas’s pompous declaration.
Meanwhile, the hulking man appeared unfazed by the grandiose introduction altogether. Internally, the lean man mused wryly, ‘So much has changed in my absence. Even a lowly worm dares to act with such disrespect. I must restrain myself, or else habit will push me toward killing him on the spot—my liege would certainly disapprove, at least for the moment.’
Drawing the encounter to a close, the lean man addressed his more violent companion in a voice devoid of regret, “We shall settle this another time.” With that, he gracefully leapt from the wall, his silver spear flashing in the moonlight as it accompanied his rapid departure into the obsidian night.
In his thoughts, a twisted joy welled up: ‘A few souls must fall to ease this restless spirit, but before that…..’ his thoughts trailed
After his swift exit, the silence between Olivas and the hulking man lingered for a few breathless moments before being broken.
“Why did you allow those people to live? And why did Mors comply with your demand?” Olivas demanded sharply.
Mors, as it turned out, was the lean man who had just vanished, or so it was assumed.
“The factory was defended by adventurers of the second and third class— significant threats best eradicated at any chance. With the might that both of you command, the task should have been all too simple. So, why is it that you hesitated?” Olivas said, his tone rising ever so slightly, demanding clarity and accountability.
Olivas had been the mastermind behind sending both men to demolish the magic stone factory—a daring test that they had completed with resounding success.
Yet when he later learned that not a single person had been killed in the process, his shock was palpable.
Olivas, who knew of Mors by the word of his god, was well aware that Mors was notorious for never sparing a target.
The only logical conclusion was that someone else must have intervened.
In a tone devoid of emotion, the hulking man broke the silence with a question that was as abrupt as it was bewildering: “Have you ever eaten ants?” he asked.
The unexpected inquiry threw Olivas off balance.
“W-what do you mean?” Olivas stuttered, confusion etched on his face as he tried to process the odd question.
Without missing a beat, the hulking stranger continued, listing in a grim, methodical cadence: “Spiders, then wasps, centipedes, rats, people…” Each word fell heavy in the stillness between them.
Olivas stood mute, uncertain whether the hulking man’s ghastly query was literal or symbolic.
Then, shifting his gaze downward toward the sprawling city below, the hulking man posed another chilling inquiry: “Have you ever been forced to survive by feasting on the flesh of monsters, by quenching your thirst with their blood?” The words sank into Olivas, stirring a torrent of conflicting emotions.
He had come prepared to admonish this hulking man, only to find himself at a loss for words in the face of such raw brutality.
After a prolonged silence, the hulking man declared matter-of-factly, “I have eaten everything—save for the flesh of my brothers in arms.” Shock immediately contorted Olivas’s expression.
“Wh-what!!” he managed to exclaim, his voice trembling with disbelief as the horrifying truth began to dawn on him.
The hulking man pressed on, his voice calm and grim: “To me, eating and killing are almost synonymous. In both, we do what is necessary to extend our lives. Although the methods differ—some of us bathe in blood while others simply drink it—the end result is the same.” He continued, his words revealing a philosophy forged in countless brutal experiences.
With a casual, unsettling familiarity, he explained that in his eyes, when comrades died, they ceased to be allies and instead became nothing more than sustenance—a natural order dictated by survival.
A deep, primal dread crept over Olivas as he asked, “What are you trying to say?” His voice nearly a whisper, burdened with a foreboding sense of inevitability.
The hulking man answered without looking back: “It is my insatiable appetite that has brought me here. I firmly believe that I have the right to choose how I satisfy this hunger. In stark contrast, your palate is weak; you choose to feast only on weak women and children, shunning those who might be stronger than you. In doing so, you are content with consuming mere maggots like yourself.”
The cutting insult stung, and Olivas felt his jaw tense with rage.
He struggled to counter the accusation, unable to fathom that a man of his own rank—a level 3 adventurer and executive within the evilus organization—would be classified as nothing more than a lowly worm.
Desperate for some reassurances regarding his own worth, he asked, “And what about Mors? Is he as insignificant—a mere maggot—like me?”
For the first time, the hulking man’s face betrayed even a slight emotional reaction; his brow furrowed in thought.
After a moment, he replied, “No, Mors is not like you. He operates solely to fulfill the whims of his god. To his mind, killing is indiscriminate—no matter the strength of the victim. If he had not been commanded to cooperate, you would be dead by now.”
The intensity of Olivas’s mounting frustration was nearly palpable; he seemed ready to explode with rage, and yet, gradually, a wide, unsettling grin crept across his face.
“Hahahahahaha!” he burst into raucous laughter—a mix of terror and a begrudging admiration for the hulking man’s frankness.
In that violent moment of mirth, as sweat beaded on his brow and his heart pounded in his chest, Olivas muttered darkly to himself, “A maggot, me—a level 3, not even a beast.”
In his defiant mirth, Olivas recognized the grim potential of the two men, and why they needed to be recruited.
He envisioned the staggering heights to which they could elevate the evilus organization.
“Very well,” he declared with an undercurrent of excitement, “you leave the weaklings to us maggots for now. However, I expect nothing less than excellence when the moment of reckoning arrives.” With that, he strode away without another word.
Unbeknownst to him, a silent shadow flitted beneath the wall—a covert presence that belonged to Mors, who had been listening unnoticed like a stray whisper.
Mors was prepared to step in should the hulking man reveal too much about himself too Olivas.
Left alone once more, the hulking man turned his gaze back to the city.
The sprawling landscape seemed to weigh upon him as he mused softly, a trace of melancholy in his tone, “A thousand years of history perishing here… I only hope I can bear the weight of this disappointment.” His words hung in the air as a gentle wind stirred, slipping his hoodie aside to reveal a face marred by scars—each one a silent testament to the warrior he once was.