The Night that (14): The sky gained a star.
I delayed this by almost a week. The reason: politics — or something like that.
I think the news about what's happening in my country is already known worldwide. It’s had quite an impact around here — prices and everything else. I had to rush through some things at work and deal with a few issues now to avoid even bigger ones later.
Things have settled down for now. I managed to write this chapter and part of the next one. Well, the next chapter will be released on August 7th.
That said, have a good night and enjoy the read!
(P)(A)(T)/CalleumArtori
[...]---[...]
POV: Third person.
In an instant, the oppressive atmosphere created by the storm of the Gray Clouds vanished completely. For a brief moment, everything seemed to fall silent. The rain, the winds, the red thunder, the animals, the people, the world…
Then, crimson stained the night sky, like living, oily ink.
The gray clouds quickly turned into a vivid red, darker than the sky itself, like crimson smears on a scarlet canvas. The rain falling from them became thick and sticky, clinging to everything it touched—earth, wood, or skin. The rivers ran red.
The winds grew more violent, carrying maddened whispers that seemed to descend from the heights of the Bloodied Clouds.
Everything was blood…
Among the whispers, a particular sound stood out.
Even with the oppressive surroundings—whether it was the blood falling from the sky in great volume and speed or the wails that seemed to seek the world's descent into madness—one sound remained unmistakable…
'Drip… drop…'
…The sound of falling tears.
It echoed from afar, a distant resonance at the edge of perception.
Always constant…
All who heard the sound and could still think rationally shared the same realization:
"How did I not notice before?… The sound has always been there!"
…Ever present.
Without hesitation, in a mere instant, the barrier surrounding the entire kingdom rose swiftly. Like a protective sphere that penetrated the earth and soared into the heavens, the barrier shone with the same vibrant green as a healthy leaf in spring.
The presence of pure nature within the barrier largely prevented the whispers, the madness, the blood, and the sound of tears from affecting those inside.
Protected, as if embraced by a gentle mother…
…But one was left outside.
The Bloodied Clouds were completely prevented from covering the sky above the kingdom. They had begun to move slowly ever since the moonlight ceased to be white-silver.
Above, the full moon shone with a cruel crimson hue…
Then, everything and everyone felt it—an ominous presence watching the world.
'Drip… drop...'
[…]
Inside the throne room of the royal palace, a group of people could be seen. All bore distressed expressions, as if in pain. Some clutched their ears or eyes, while others tensed their muscles or experienced small spasms.
One, in particular, reacted more violently: a woman. She crouched, kneeling, arms wrapped around her trembling head. Behind her, two floating eggs—one a crystal-clear blue the size of a watermelon, the other with a sandy texture, roughly the size of an ostrich egg.
The crystal-blue egg trembled erratically, as if the being inside was terrified.
“No, no, no. Not again, not again… Not all over again…” The raw terror in her voice could not be hidden.
Her murmurs were as rapid as the shifting colors in her hair, alternating between a natural green like spring grass, a pure white like winter snow, a vivid red like a blooming summer flower, and a reddish-brown like fallen autumn leaves.
The length of her hair grew and shrank with each word, as did the thickness of its strands.
Flowers and fruits occasionally bloomed, only to wither and fall the next moment, absorbed by the ground, which had turned to soil, sprouting grass and trembling roots.
Her skin also changed in hue and tone, fluctuating between pale white, deep brown, healthy fair, and sun-kissed bronze—sometimes blending all shades together, even taking on a pure green tint. Her height subtly shifted, growing or shrinking by a few centimeters.
"Everyone died. It’s the same aura. The same gaze. The same presence. The same being. That thing. Everyone will die again. I’ll be alone again..."
"I’m the only one who can fight now. There’s no one else. I don’t want to fight. Everyone will die. Weak. A sprout. Everyone died. Alone. Mother. Friends. Family. I will die too. There’s no escape…"
"Everyone will die… Including me."
Alalia’s murmurs quickened. Her voice carried no insanity or madness—the moon did not affect her—only raw fear, born from an ancient trauma she had mistakenly thought she had overcome or at least suppressed.
Her connection to the planet did not help. She could feel nature suffering under the presence of the Blood Moon and 'The Eye', the animals perishing, transforming into monsters.
Where before her senses had been dulled to the storm’s happenings, now she could perceive everything in excruciating detail.
The world was in pain. Attacked by something that had already struck it millennia ago.
Alalia was afraid, terrified of a presence that had once haunted her childhood.
Without warning, the dryad stilled. Her laments ceased. Her dress, woven from leaves that swayed randomly with an invisible wind, mirroring her hair’s shifting hues, froze.
The color of the leaves matched her hair—a blend of green, brown, red, and white. As if all seasons had frozen together in a singular, inescapable state upon the dryad’s body.
"He said he would save me, didn’t he?..." Her eyes turned crystalline with the memory of her conversation with the human. The chaotic colors in them faded back to the soft lavender they usually held.
"Then I just have to protect everyone. I’ll help him. He will handle the rest."
She then lifted her hands and intertwined her fingers. Still kneeling, Alalia pressed her knees to the ground, bringing her hands into a prayer below her lips, which held a smile both desperate and hopeful, sorrowful and joyful.
“…My hero.”
As Alalia’s final words echoed through the hall, the ground beneath her trembled. The marble cracked, while the earth beneath, untouched by stone, pulsed with vitality.
From it, grasses flourished, and a magnificent lotus flower emerged—its petals tinted with shades of pink, white, and orange—blooming beneath her feet. The flower grew until it enveloped the entirety of the dryad’s body, along with the two floating eggs behind her, then sealed shut.
When the petals of the great lotus closed, the air itself seemed to ripple along with the land and the world’s mana. Then, for a brief moment, all fell silent—the whispers of the Blood Moon vanished.
Above, in the barrier encompassing the kingdom, small green leaves began to fall like a gentle drizzle, swirling in the wind with seemingly random patterns.
The leaves passed through all solid objects, living or not. Their color shifted from vibrant green to a soft, ghostly hue upon contact, before sinking into the ground and vanishing without a trace.
Every living being within the kingdom’s barrier—without exception—was touched by one or more of these green leaves.
Slowly, they drifted into a semi-dreamlike state. Their eyes grew heavy, their gazes distant.
Instinctively, Alalia placed them all into a beautiful, peaceful dream.
A dream that could be dreamed while awake.
A dream that could be mistaken for a delirious hallucination.
Their senses sharpened, as if the veil over their perception had been lifted.
And in this state, drawing upon the experience she had gained from Jinn, the dryad instinctively repelled and purified the influence of the Blood Moon and 'The Eye'.
A moment later, everyone's drowsiness vanished. It barely lasted twenty, maybe thirty seconds. No more than a minute. The kingdom’s inhabitants—whether men or women, old or young, civilians or contractors, guards—looked around in confusion.
Fear and tension still lingered, but the maddening whispers, the strange urge to look at the moon, and the hunger for flesh, along with the mild itching in their eyes, had disappeared.
The kingdom's pure green barrier couldn’t completely hide the crimson moonlight that bathed the surroundings, casting the dim glow of streetlights and torches into an ominous shade of red. Their shadows seemed distorted, as if waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on the nearest person.
The animals, in particular, had fallen into a deep sleep. Their minds were more affected by the Blood Moon above, with only a few rare exceptions.
Their wild mana was easily distorted; the fur of many had begun to grow abnormally—sharper, with a purplish or reddish hue. Their teeth and claws had grown sharper. To prevent them from turning into monsters, Alalia pulled them into the realm of dreams.
Around the closed lotus, the first to recover was a man whose appearance wasn’t exactly elegant or model-worthy, but clearly above average.
His hair was light brown, with white roots—the same color his eyes should have been, but now they glowed in a sapphire-blue hue.
He wore silver armor adorned with Mystic Symbols and a few runes. He wore neither a helmet nor glasses.
"This is worse than expected… and we were already expecting the worst." Dylan grunted, narrowing his eyes, one hand on his head, his brow furrowed.
The guide looked around, assessing the others' condition: they were recovering quickly. But he, to begin with, hadn’t been so affected by the Blood Moon. Its presence was unnerving, and the whispers induced headaches and madness, but he had endured.
My innate magic?… Maybe. I resisted the Deerclops too, just like Alalia. The presence of the moon and that gaze are horrible, but my thoughts are clear. The whispers barely affected me, and they practically disappeared when those leaves started to fall.
Dylan quickly organized his thoughts. Finishing his scan of the room, his gaze locked onto the large, closed lotus in the center of the throne hall—where Alalia was.
His already furrowed brow tightened even more. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, from which blue light flickered, darker than before.
She’s not going to fight? Why?… Her murmurs and whispers earlier… She said she had felt this presence and aura before. A childhood trauma, maybe? Do dryads even have childhoods? Can they have traumas?…
As the guide’s thoughts raced, the others had fully recovered.
The second to rise after Dylan was Jinn.
Her blue skin contrasted with the crimson moonlight mixed with shades of green pouring through the window.
She wore a full suit of silver-gold metal armor, matching her golden accessories: two earrings, a necklace, and two chains attached to her wrists.
The armor bore several Mystic Symbols, as well as a few runes.
Jinn cast a brief glance at the lotus encasing Alalia before her eyes widened, suddenly snapping toward a specific direction in the distance. The movement made her long black hair whip through the air.
Without hesitation, she swiftly pulled a phone from within the Relic of Knowledge, fastened to the right side of her waist, and accessed the live transmission. Ignoring the incoming comments in the (CHAT), she focused on the human.
He was kneeling on the ground, both palms pressed against his eyes, his body trembling.
Blood trickled from what seemed to be a vertical cut in the center of his forehead. Bloodied tears slipped beneath his hands, but Jinn couldn’t tell if they were from a wound on them or if his very eyes were bleeding.
Maybe it was even the blood falling from the sky, drenching him.
He’s not healing. The MoonBite… or is it something else? Why was he so affected? What happened to his title? Ozma isn’t saying anything in the (CHAT) either. The mental microphone icon and the small screen showing the Spiritual Realm are both off…
Her thoughts raced wildly.
Jinn tried using the connection she had with the human through the black palm mark with an orange eye on her thigh. The connection was there, but it felt both distant and strange—yet, at the same time, close.
The moment Jinn channeled her nightmare energy into the mark, thousands—maybe tens of thousands or even millions—of voices attacked her thoughts.
Insane and formless, the cacophony of voices came in all tones and volumes. From the ceiling and the shadows. From inside and outside. From everywhere and nowhere.
There were whispers and screams… Some sounded like desperate cries for help from human or Terrarian voices, others resembled howls or growls of some monstrous canine creature.
The voices made Jinn’s mind ache—something rare, considering that, since her creation, she had been used to processing immense amounts of information.
She resisted, trying to reach the human, to speak to him, but her voice became just another among the millions, drowned in that sea of madness.
With a frustrated huff, Jinn severed the connection and turned around. The others were already on their feet—the entire attempt had lasted barely two or three seconds.
I was more affected than I expected. I could fight, but I didn’t think the presence of the moon and ‘'The Eye' would be this intense… It reminds me of the Dark Brother. But it’s different at the same time… The younger brother never felt like this—this… evil. Purely evil.
Jinn was certain that, just before the barrier covering the kingdom rose, she had sensed divinity. 'The Eye' carried divinity within it—a lot of it. She couldn’t tell how it compared to the Brother Gods of Remnant—having no real certainty of either side’s power—but the amount was great enough that she could feel it, even through the raised barrier.
“… Is it really just an eye?” she murmured to herself, her gaze turning momentarily dull.
“I don’t know. But if you told me it was a Great Spirit or even a God, I’d believe it. I haven’t felt like this since I was twelve…” Helena replied.
The Oakwood matriarch spoke in a slightly breathless and tense tone. She wore a full suit of bronze-blue armor, also completely adorned with her own Mystic Symbols and runes.
Helena helped the princess steady herself. Charlotte was already standing but hunched over, her gaze vacant. Her knees trembled slightly.
Unlike almost everyone in the room, Charlotte didn’t wear armor but a long pink dress. The Mystic Symbols on the fabric shimmered faintly like glitter. The pink scepter at her waist pulsed with magic, emanating a calming aura that spread through the hall.
The crystal jewel in her silver tiara, nestled between her long strawberry-blonde hair, reflected the crimson moonlight.
“… Is it?” she asked after a moment, grimacing. “Is it really a God?”
Jinn shook her head.
“No. It’s just an eye.”
She hadn’t seen it, but she trusted the human’s words and the live transmission’s description.
The dark blue-skinned woman’s response didn’t seem to please Helena. On the contrary, the duchess’s expression only darkened. Dylan, beside her, stopped staring at the lotus and turned his attention to the conversation, also looking displeased.
He glanced at Jinn’s hand, where the phone rested. To him, it was just a slab of metal. The guide chose to remain silent for now.
“Just the mere presence of an eye did this?…” Charlotte spoke for the first time since the moonlight turned crimson. Her voice was slightly shaky and distant, her gaze fixed on the floor as if afraid to lift her head. “Then… how strong is the thing that owns that eye?”
Everyone felt the urge to look at the moon above. No one answered.
“Hirael didn’t send any guards to warn us. No one must have attacked the central matrix,” Helena said after a few seconds of silence.
“That, or the guards didn’t make it to us. Are the EchoMirrors still working?” Dylan asked, bringing a hand to his ear and tapping twice on the earring he wore.
A second later, a female voice echoed from the small mirror.
“I’m alive. Everything’s a mess, there are riots, and everyone’s in a state of shock and panic, but I’m alive. Darnell and the guys from Shahrabad are fine too,” Melissa, the guide’s older sister, promptly reported. “How are things over there?”
She, like Darnell, Selina, and the Pebble team, had been sent to strategic locations to serve as command in their respective regions.
Melissa, Darnell, and the Pebble team had gone to the guild headquarters, accompanied by guards—from both the Oakwoods and the crown. It was one of the places most likely to harbor traitors and, at the same time, one of the key points that required someone to lead.
The responsibility fell on the Oakwood heir.
As for Selina, she was in charge of the Steamhord and Oakwood family squadron. The two families were allies, so leaving Selina in command of the latter’s guards wasn’t impossible.
Dylan would have been responsible for the last one, but he chose to stay in the castle, where Jinn and Proto-A were. If the ship took off, he would go with it.
Hearing some shouting in the background, along with his sister’s voice barking orders at someone, Dylan waited a moment before responding. When Melissa fell silent, he said:
“We’re intact. The barrier helped soften the moon’s presence and its gaze. The rain of leaves is Alalia’s doing, in case that wasn’t obvious. Any signs of invasion on your end? Any monsters or people acting suspiciously?”
The guide cast a glance at the lotus where Alalia was and decided not to tell his sister that the dryad had closed herself off and, from the looks of it, had no intention of fighting.
“None. Aside from some fights caused by panic, nothing has happened. No monsters, flying eyes, or zombies, as Devas put it. But I ordered everyone to stay alert for any abnormalities and not to look up. Whatever is outside the kingdom… hasn’t entered yet.”
The “yet” was implied.
Before Dylan could respond to Melissa, Jinn spoke up, warning:
“We’re surrounded on all sides. I don’t know exactly how many enemies there are, but there are a lot. Goblin armies as well—one from the east, another from the west—and sea creatures whose strength I can’t quite gauge.”
“Can you give me an estimate of how many?” the guide asked, turning to her.
The spirit of the Relic of Knowledge lowered her gaze back to the phone in her hands, her eyes focusing on the minimap in the corner of the screen.
“Hundreds of thousands… No, maybe a million, or more. Probably more. Too many to count. The sky above is likely filled with eyes.”
No one was pleased with that answer.
Helena didn’t interrupt her son or meddle in the conversation. The duchess cast one last look at everyone in the room and, with a serious, furrowed expression, moved quickly to the throne room’s main doors, which were closed. She opened them with a touch on the matrix beside the right door.
Then, she stepped out, leaving the doors open, spoke briefly with some stationed guards, and disappeared down the corridor, heading somewhere else. Around her, her mana flickered, creating faint Mystic Symbols in the air.
Charlotte hesitated but didn’t follow her. Instead, she chose to sit on the throne that had once belonged to her mother, trying to think and calm herself.
Jinn continued watching the live transmission. Her gaze occasionally drifted to the throne room’s balcony, from where the entire kingdom could be seen. She was waiting for something. Proto-A remained secured within the Relic of Knowledge, but Jinn knew something was about to happen—she just didn’t know what.
“Come on, Devas… react…”
The whisper was drowned out by the Oakwood siblings’ conversation, as well as the shouting from Melissa’s side and the hurried footsteps of guards outside the throne room.
All this time, no one there dared to tilt their head upward.
The Blood Moon shone high in the starless sky.
The feeling of being watched never left anyone in the entire kingdom.
[…]
'Drip… drop…'
Far beyond the kingdom’s outskirts, in an isolated part of the forest.
The human knelt on the ground, hunched forward. Both hands pressed against his eyes with force. Two streaks of blood ran down from beneath them. In the center of his forehead, a vertical cut could be seen, gushing blood that dripped down his nose and off its tip, landing on the ground—already soaked in red.
His body suffered from random spasms. The blood falling from the sky stained his skin, clothes, hair, and beard. The wind and cold barely affected him, but the maddened whispers from the Blood Moon above did.
He could feel the Shadowflame screaming. Desperate at the presence of an ancient enemy.
He could feel his nightmare energy trembling. A memory of a being long dead.
He could feel his blood pulsing abnormally, heating up. His humanity growling in fury.
His head throbbed unbearably—not just from the voices, whispers, and screams that came and went randomly, but also from the sensation on his forehead, which felt as if it were cracking more and more—as if something were trying to force its way out.
Time seemed to slow down.
For him, every second stretched to the extreme—some into minutes, others into hours, even days. The world around him made no sense to his senses.
The ground and sky sometimes seemed inverted. Gravity ceased to exist as usual. The rain didn’t fall from above but from the sides—sometimes from below—sometimes it vanished altogether. The voices came from everywhere, from within and without.
It was hard to breathe. The air was blood. The rain was blood. The ground was blood. Everything was blood…
The only immutable thing was the Blood Moon, shining above—arrogant and regal…
The malicious, divine gaze that looked down on him had always been there…
“I… refuse…”
His body trembled. Like a glitch in a game.
And then, time resumed its normal flow—as if it had never been considered important in the first place.
Time… it was never necessary.
His senses stabilized—to some extent. The rain fell correctly again. Gravity made sense once more.
The blood was still there, as were the voices, but nothing strong enough to stop him.
The human was used to eyes upon him. He was used to whispers around him and inside his head.
“Not here… I won’t lose to this thing…”
His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn’t spoken in weeks or months. Insane and lucid at the same time.
Arrogance couldn’t be hidden amidst insanity. Pride couldn’t be concealed amidst lucidity.
He knew that if he wanted, everything tormenting his mind could disappear. His title guaranteed it. He only had to pull it toward himself and activate it at full power, and the whispers would cease. Everything would return to normal.
But he didn’t want that.
Not here. Not now.
It was the same as in Jille. He knew that if he backed down—if he used the stream’s help and his title to resist the presence of the Blood Moon and 'The Eye'—he would lose something important within himself—something that wouldn’t be easily regained… or maybe never could be.
He also knew that his title would have activated on its own if it were something he truly couldn’t endure. If that choice had been forced upon him by something beyond his own will.
It wasn’t 'The Eye'.
It wasn’t the moon.
It was him.
The human who didn’t want help.
“Craaaaaack!”
Under the crimson moonlight, thunder echoed, and the human’s body stopped trembling. Slowly, he stood up, pulling his hands away from his blood-soaked face as the rain from the Bloody Clouds above continued to fall.
His eyes bled, the veins in the sclera bulging and throbbing, just like the ones around them. The blood within was such a deep red that it seemed almost black.
His right eye illuminated the surrounding darkness with an orange glow.
His left eye reflected the crimson moonlight with a neon-green radiance.
Without lifting his gaze, the human raised his hands beside his body, palms facing upward. The blood falling from the starless sky mixed with the blood trickling from the two horizontal cuts—one on each palm—slowly dripping to the ground.
Then, with a crooked smile and a serene voice, he whispered something that was swallowed by the rain:
“I am human, nothing human is foreign to me.”
“Everything that is foreign to me is, in the end, not human.”
With those words, the blood around him began to move in an unnatural way. The rain of blood seemed to respond to the flow on the ground, following the path of the liquid dripping from his hands and forehead as if guided by him.
The blood flowed like living serpents, slithering around his body and forming two concentric circles: one three meters away, the other one meter away, both centered around him.
Unlike the blood falling from the Bloodied Clouds, the human’s blood bubbled slightly, as if boiling. Inside the bubbles, tiny eyes—some milky white, others an insane red—emerged in grotesque shapes, a side effect of his nightmare energy infused into the red liquid.
Then, in an instant, the circles closed.
In the space between the larger and smaller circles, strange symbols emerged, filling every inch in a seemingly chaotic manner. The blood markings shifted ceaselessly, changing shape as if they were alive.
Inside the inner circle, the blood flowed and arranged itself, tracing a six-pointed star.
The human's lowered head pointed toward the front-most tip of the star, while his arms stretched toward the lateral points.
Behind him, his shadow—obscured by the darkness—moved on its own. It no longer reflected his position according to the light but acted like a distorted mirror. The shadow took an inverted posture, its head turned toward the opposite tip of the star, its arms reaching the rear ends.
Then, both—human and shadow—took a step forward and separated.
'Drip… drop…'
[…]
Inside the Spiritual Realm
Ozma wielded his cane, The Long Memory, as he fought in front of the beach house. His movements were fluid, carrying the mastery only someone with millennia of experience could possess.
From above, the rain fell. Unlike in the real world, it was still water—at least for now. Slowly, it grew thicker and darker, taking on a crimson hue.
The dense, oppressive clouds covered the entire sky above the island and the surrounding sea, like a living, shadowy fabric woven across a vast black canvas. Occasionally, lightning slithered between them, tearing through the darkness with vibrant flashes, their colors shifting between orange and red.
Around him, floating in midair without any support, hundreds of eyes watched him. They varied in size—some as large as a fist, others as big as a human head. None smaller or larger than that.
Their pupils fluctuated between various colors—blue, green, brown, red—some almost imperceptible. Their sclerae were white, but their veins pulsed on the surface, swollen with brownish-red blood. The optic nerves dangled in the air like tentacles, moving in a fluid yet grotesque manner.
The eyes did not seem entirely physical. They had a ghostly, illusory appearance, as if they could vanish at any moment.
Gripping his cane in his right hand, Ozma struck three upward blows, each at a different angle. His feet moved skillfully over the wet sand. Each attack pierced through a demon eye, impaling it on the tip of his cane and making it explode in a rain of illusory blood that dissipated into the air.
Before the last drops had even vanished, Ozma lowered his left hand, clenched his fingers into the empty space, then lifted them with force.
Following his movement, the sand around him erupted upwards, propelled with brutal speed. The wet grains shot through the air like bullets, tearing apart the eyes hovering nearby.
I'm still far from my peak, even while recovering in Devas' Spiritual Realm... But still, it's much better than before. I had almost forgotten how much I missed using my magic like this.
Thinking calmly, Ozma kept moving, his eyes scanning the surroundings without pause as he struck at the enemies descending from above.
He wasn’t alone. Further away, on the rooftop of the beach house, Tyrian was also fighting the demon eyes. The Nightmare Faunus growled in rage with each kill—whether by his own hands or his tail—furious at the invaders of his lord’s realm.
Across the sky and land surrounding the main island of the Spiritual Realm, the human’s Nightmares clashed against the demon eyes. The numbers were vast on both sides, turning the entire landscape into an immense battlefield.
Curiously, the sea was empty and eerily calm. No creatures in sight.
Dancing between the Nightmares and the demon eyes, Ozma moved nonstop. He struck with precision using the copy of The Long Memory created by the human or manipulated the grains of sand like thousands of high-speed projectiles.
He didn’t bother avoiding the random Nightmares that crossed the air. Except for Tyrian and Nero—the cat assisting the Nightmare Faunus in defending the beach house—all the others were mere disposable soldiers.
Seeing that the situation wasn’t improving, Ozma furrowed his brow. Then, gripping the cane with both hands, he positioned them at its center and began spinning it clockwise. At the same time, his torso rotated in the opposite direction, and his circular steps marked the sand in a synchronized rhythm.
The triple movement altered the wind flow around him, making it fierce. Gusts clashed against one another, forming invisible blades that flew chaotically, slicing through everything in their path.
A few seconds later, as a small tornado began to form around him, Ozma reversed all the rotations—what was clockwise became counterclockwise, and vice versa. Then, he swiftly struck the tip of The Long Memory against the sand, channeling his mana into the winds around him.
The very moment the cane touched the ground, the small hurricane exploded. The impact created thousands of air blades, tearing through the surroundings, flinging sand into the air, and shredding both demon eyes and Nightmares.
As the rain resumed falling on his body—dispersed by the wind—Ozma thought in silence:
It’s much simpler to perform this attack with mana assistance… If I could control the rainwater or the sea, I could easily turn every drop into a bullet. But something is preventing me…
And I really hope it’s not that thing…
Letting out a sigh, he shifted his gaze to the eerily calm ocean and straightened his back. Then, without taking his eyes off the sea, he raised his voice in a shout:
“Tyrian! Did you manage to contact Devas?!”
His voice cut through the rain, empowered by mana.
Ozma had already tried to reach out before, to no avail. Ever since the real world’s moonlight had turned crimson, the Spiritual Realm felt like an isolated domain, severed from the rest of existence.
“Show some respect to my lord! Your voice will be heard only when he wills it!” Tyrian roared in response, tearing a demon eye apart with his bare hands.
“So, that’s a no.” Ozma shook his head, exasperated.
Lifting his head, Ozma stared at the sky.
The gray clouds loomed overhead, heavy and impenetrable. Lightning occasionally slashed through the darkness, casting fleeting flashes over the churning waters. In the distance, the Mini-Pylon hovered faintly, its colossal structure unaffected by the relentless rain. Further still, at what Ozma presumed to be the sea’s center—or some place of great significance—vague rays of silvery-white moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the waters.
Beneath the ocean, under the silver light, a massive black shadow writhed restlessly beneath the waves.
Frowning, Ozma felt something stirring in the sea. His fingers tightened around the cane just below the grip as he took a deep breath. The air around him crackled with green sparks, and at the edge of his vision, ghostly green flames flickered, undisturbed by the falling rain.
He ignored the battle around him and prepared himself.
A manifestation of Devas’ fear, taking the form of that colossal, neon-green-eyed corpse… It shouldn’t have the power of a god, but it’s probably strong. I don’t think I can win, but stalling it until Devas reacts shouldn’t be too difficult.
Besides, I’m not alone. I have the Nightmare army, Tyrian… and the very existence of the Spiritual Realm should be antagonistic to this being. The illusory demon eyes aren’t much of a problem either. My real fear is if the color of this moonlight starts to change…
His thoughts were interrupted as a cold shiver ran down his spine.
Ozma felt it.
He was being watched—by something beyond the demon eyes.
The gaze was insane and predatory, like a lurking monster waiting for the perfect moment to strike its prey…
But what truly made him hold his breath was realizing that gaze didn’t come from a single point.
Two beings were watching him.
Something was watching from the sea.
Something was watching from the beach house.
And as those unseen eyes bore into him, Ozma nearly cursed aloud when he saw the moonlight over the sea darken—the silver-white hue rapidly tainted by a deep, blood-red.
The gray clouds grew even darker as they parted, their orange and red streaks losing intensity. A hole opened in the sky, revealing a full crimson moon—bright and cruel, glaring down at the Spiritual Realm with malice.
Beneath it, the sea now bathed in the moon’s red glow, something began to rise.
Like a giant or an ancient god awakening, a colossal, legless corpse broke through the surface, ascending slowly.
It was easily over a hundred meters tall. Its ribs and spine were exposed where its lower half was missing. Its skin was a dull green, with chunks of flesh missing. The pale-gray bones bore no signs of decay, as if made of a material untouched by time.
At the center of its chest, a heart pulsed beneath a green carapace.
Its arms hung lifelessly at its sides, palms facing forward—each one bearing a wide-open eye, staring skyward. Its head tilted slightly upward, while its beard, made of octopus-like tentacles, swayed gently in an eerily calm motion.
Its eyes—all five of them—glowed with a pulsing neon green. The one on its forehead reflected the crimson moonlight like a mirror. And all of them, without exception, stared at the blood moon with a mix of malice and aversion.
Inside the beach house, a picture frame that had been facedown trembled.
Then, slowly, it began to float.
The photo showed an older man embracing two people— a woman on his right arm and another man on his left.
All of them were blonde and strikingly distinct in appearance.
The older man had a military haircut, a long beard, and blue eyes. He wore casual beach clothes, printed with tropical flowers, and had a warm smile.
The younger man, clean-shaven with neatly styled hair, had light green eyes and a delicate, model-like beauty. He too wore casual clothes and smiled happily.
The woman had long golden hair cascading over her shoulders like a shimmering waterfall. Her eyes were a clear blue, and her smile was dazzling. She wore a delicate white dress adorned with soft pink flowers.
For a brief moment, the photo remained unchanged.
Then, beside the beautiful golden-haired woman, something burned into the paper.
A black silhouette appeared, cut into the photograph like a living shadow.
It was as tall as the older man, but its expression was insane and predatory—a wide, crescent-shaped grin, like an upturned moon. Its left eye was a milky white, while the right one glowed with a blood-red light.
Watching from a distance, Ozma let out a quiet sigh of relief when he realized the colossal corpse’s gaze had shifted away from him.
But his muscles tensed again when he heard footsteps. Clear, distinct—despite the rain—against the wood behind him.
Before he could turn—his attention still fixed on the rising sea creature and the crimson moon—a voice echoed.
It was low and raspy, resonating through every raindrop like a distant growl in a dark forest.
Ozma recognized the voice.
"To be the specter in the photo I longed to be a part of for years… How cruel and ironic, yet not inaccurate."
“Devas?!” Ozma turned sharply.
Behind him, moving like a living shadow, a black silhouette held a picture frame in its hand. Male in appearance. Entirely dark, as if color itself had been drained from its existence. Its movements were unnerving.
“Not exactly, but yes.” The shadow answered, setting the picture frame down on the balcony railing.
The insane grin remained frozen on its face, unmoving, even as it spoke. Its voice made something crawl under Ozma’s skin—an instinctive shiver of warning. And when the shadow’s two-toned eyes locked onto him, the man tightened his grip on his cane—ghostly green flames flickering to life in his eyes.
Sensing Ozma’s hostility, the shadow halted its steps just after crossing the balcony and raised its hands. The rain passed straight through it, as if it didn’t exist.
“Don’t worry, Ozma. It’s me. It’s always been me. It will always be me.”
The voice took on a sincere, unmistakable tone, even amidst the madness.
Ozma wasn’t foolish enough to be swayed by mere words. He had fallen for too many tricks over his countless lives.
But something in that voice made him hesitate. It didn’t come only from the shadow in front of him—it echoed from “outside,” just like it always did when the human spoke to him.
Slowly, he eased his stance.
He was still tense, still on guard, but he no longer seemed moments away from striking at the shadow’s slightest suspicious move.
“What happened?” he asked bluntly.
“I did something foolish. Useful, functional… but foolish.” The shadow replied, offering no further details. “You and the others will yell at me later, but I have no regrets. A puppet was necessary for what I intend to do.”
He stepped closer and stopped beside Ozma. That insane grin remained on his face as he turned toward the sea, watching the colossal corpse—which, in turn, kept its eyes locked on the moon.
Ozma also looked back at the ocean, casting a brief glance at the shadow beside him.
Before either of them could speak, an aura of pure neon-green power converged in the forehead eye of the entity rising from the sea.
A second later, without warning, a beam of the same color shot from the eye, tearing through the air at the speed of light. The heat from its trajectory made the atmosphere vibrate. It cut across the sky, burning away the crimson moonlight, until it struck the blood moon itself.
There was no explosion.
No sound.
Only a flash.
Neon green, red, and white blended into an overwhelming light that engulfed the sky, and then, the storm clouds closed in once more.
“Funny… Even the monster under the bed defends the house when a bigger, nastier monster tries to invade.” The shadow murmured with amusement before turning to Ozma. “Get ready. I’ll need your help out there.”
Then, it vanished.
The full moon had turned white again.
All the demon eyes had disappeared from the Spiritual Realm.
[…]
In the real world, the rain was still blood. The Blood Moon loomed high in the sky.
The human let his arms fall at his sides. Behind him, his shadow had returned to its usual place—though it was lighter than it should have been.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. His face was serene, devoid of emotion.
Without hesitation, he raised his right hand and pulled out every Life and Mana Crystal he possessed.
One from his first mission outside his world. Another from Jille. Three from Winterhord. Five from Shahrabad.
Ten of each in total.
With a firm grip, the air around the crystals solidified—and one by one, they shattered into minuscule fragments, which flew toward him and sank into his skin.
Each crystal boosted his vitality and mana by 10%, stacking exponentially.
The effect was immediate.
His body surged with vitality. His mana thickened. His blood boiled in his veins, while cracks spread across his skin. The red liquid covering him began to vaporize—both the crimson rain falling from the sky and the blood dripping from his wounds.
The only exceptions were the wound on his forehead and his palms, where, strangely, the blood still flowed in liquid form.
His body was like an overfilled balloon, straining not to burst.
He endured the state for five… maybe ten seconds. His heart pounded faster and faster—until, finally, he exhaled slowly, in a controlled manner.
Then, he took a deep breath.
He circulated his spiritual energy throughout his body, merging it with his seething mana, forcing them to collide violently—activating [Fusion Mode (Fake)].
The crushing weight of the Blood Moon and 'The Eye' pressed his survival instincts to their limits. In response, a mark surfaced on his body.
At the center of his forehead, with the vertical cut as its core, the Demon Slayer Mark revealed itself.
It was an orange circle, like a sun, with twelve triangles arranged around it—spaced evenly, not touching the center, like solar rays. On either side, two wavy lines stretched to the edges of his forehead.
The human opened his eyes—his pupils, like two suns blazing in the bloodstained night.
Then, a scream echoed from nowhere.
His mouth remained straight. His face, expressionless. But the sound carried the same feeling the deer had expressed when it screamed for the first time upon awakening from its deep slumber.
▂▂▃▅▂▃▄▄▂▃▃▅▄▄▅
Strangely, the scream did not travel beyond a few meters, as if contained by some invisible force. It wouldn’t alert distant enemies, nor draw the attention of 'The Eye,' which he knew was roaming the Kingdom.
Quickly, the Hallucination Storm rose, engulfing the surroundings. The storm expanded at a frantic pace, covering nearly thirty kilometers with the human at its center.
In the distance, goblin armies halted their advance, and cultists who still possessed enough sanity turned their gazes toward it.
'The Eye' sensed the storm's birth. It gazed at it for a moment—but soon looked away, returning its focus to the Kingdom’s barrier. To Alalia.
The influence the Hallucination Storm had taken from the storm of bloodstained clouds wasn’t enough to catch its attention.
“An illusion for all beyond the storm, outside that small ‘world.’ Like a shadow at the corner of vision, a strand of hair before the eyes…”
The human’s voice was serene.
A subtle smile formed at the corner of his lips as the temperature plummeted. The rain turned to snow—just as bloodstained as before, but slower, gradually becoming white.
Moving his nightmare energy, he forced the cold to deepen within the storm.
With a firm motion, he raised his left arm. The Ice Blade emerged in his hand, pulled from within the VoidBag.
The Remnant of the Deerclops spread across his body. The Bone Helm covered his head.
And the burning orange of his pupils shone, impossible to conceal.
“Das Klagen der Königin.”
The temperature fell.
“Das Klagen der Königin.”
It fell even further.
“Das Klagen der Königin.”
With each word, the Ice Blade’s durability waned—it did not shatter only because the human manipulated his mana with absolute precision, restoring the blade before it could crumble.
The Bone Helm glowed a deep purple, nearly black. The sword’s ice resonated with the bones.
With his left arm still raised, gripping the blade, his breath escaped in hot bursts.
Within the storm, only a single meter around him still held warmth. A subtle, purple glow vibrated in that area.
The rest of the world was frozen.
The air, cold enough to solidify. The snow ceased its descent. The blood on the ground hardened, turned to ice.
Nothing moved within the storm except the human and his purple flame.
Heat was movement. There was no heat. There was no movement.
Time had stopped.
Then, mirroring his left arm’s motion, he raised his right—this time, in front of his body, palm facing upward.
The blood from the horizontal cut dripped, falling slowly.
On his hand, two rings: on his index finger, the ring that bore his name; on his middle finger, the Ring of the Last Slime.
Swiftly, he pulled the Shadowflame above his right palm, shaping it into a flaming circle.
The first flame of the underworld spun. Then another. Another. And a final one.
Four rings of violet fire whirled—one vertical, one horizontal, two crossing in an ‘X.’
Within the rings, he forged a sphere.
Then, from the human’s right arm, a second arm emerged.
Like a distorted reflection, a blackened copy of his own limb stretched from his flesh, mirroring his movements like a puppet.
The two hands, overlapped, formed a cage of fingers—with the four rings of fire floating at its center.
Between the fingertips, a purple spark flickered.
And then, it spread.
The sparks grew like lightning, slithering through the empty space.
They moved throughout the Hallucination Storm, weaving an immense web of purple flames.
The human let go of the Ice Blade into the air.
Another left arm—of the Shadow Puppet—emerged from within his own, catching the sword in the next instant.
With his free hand, he pulled forth the Relic of Destruction, gripping it firmly. The moment he did, all air, mana, nightmare energy, and spiritual energy within the sphere encased by the four rings were annihilated.
The resulting vacuum remained sealed within the sphere by the Shadowflame, which also prevented any other energy or airflow from entering.
The human exhaled slowly.
Then, he activated the first ability of the Ring of the Last Slime.
A minuscule fraction of his mana began to be drained constantly, but in return, the resilience of that hand increased absurdly.
Without hesitation, he concentrated his mana within the space between the sphere of violet flames and the rings, shaping it as he had learned long ago when he had seen Salem in Remnant.
Gravity began to intensify.
It doubled. Then doubled again. And again.
Each new pressure accumulated upon the sphere of violet fire, crushing it with overwhelming force.
At the same time, the human manipulated the Shadowflame around it. The web’s inner sections began to move, functioning as a massive vortex of suction.
There, within the storm, only the web contained heat.
There, only the web held movement.
Between the fingertips of the human and his shadow, the Shadowflame pulsed, expelling random bursts of flickering flames. The embers flew toward the four rings of fire, which absorbed the energy and transferred it to the sphere at the center.
And with each transfer, the sphere attempted to expand, but was crushed by gravity. It became denser, more devastating.
The intensified gravity compressed it from all sides, forcing every particle to the brink of collapse.
The Shadowflame contained the extreme heat generated by the compression, but as the process dragged on, side effects began to manifest.
The human’s hand and the Shadow Puppet’s hand started to suffer damage.
The gravity was contained, but its proximity remained destructive.
The human’s hand endured thanks to the ring’s ability. The few wounds that formed healed almost instantly, either through his natural regeneration—enhanced by his heightened vitality—or through the effect of the other ring he wore.
The Shadow Puppet also withstood the pressure similarly. Its protection came from the eight hands of the Bone Helm, covering it like overlapping layers of gloves.
And whenever the shadow took damage, it absorbed nightmare energy, regenerating without hesitation.
This cycle continued for about half an hour before Shadow Puppet’s hand withdrew, and the human hurled the sphere—along with the four rings—upward. They floated toward the sky in an unnaturally slow manner.
Using his control over the Hallucination Storm, the human shrank the storm to about a meter around the purple sphere with the four rings, making it follow as it ascended.
Without hesitation, he moved the Minimap to the center of the realm and quickly located the point representing Jinn. Then, he pulled the Worm Hole Potion from within the VoidBag and drank it. The potion slid down his throat, cold and smooth in flavor.
He felt his body begin to be pulled—like the potion was asking for permission. The human realized he could resist if he wanted, but he allowed himself to be taken.
In the next moment, his surroundings had shifted from a frozen, dead forest to the royal palace of the realm.
The human glanced around briefly. It was his first time here, and his curiosity was piqued—but only slightly. His face remained emotionless, with only a faint smile at the corner of his lips as his gaze swept over the pillars, paintings on the walls, and decorations.
For a brief instant, his eyes lingered on the large lotus at the center of the room before he started walking. The grand red carpet was useless in muffling his already silent footsteps.
“Apologies for the delay. I ran into some issues, but they’ve been dealt with.” His voice was placid, unwavering in tone. “Did Alalia say anything before closing herself off?”
His gaze wandered to the green leaves drifting down from the ceiling. He moved his hand, catching one between two fingers before tossing it aside.
“Whispers and desperate murmurs. She said everything would repeat, that everyone would die—including herself. She was afraid and said she didn’t want to fight, only to protect.” Jinn wasted no time summarizing.
She, along with Charlotte—who sat on the throne with a lost expression—was the only one in the room who could answer.
Dylan and Helena had left at some point.
“…Devas, what did you do?” Her voice carried concern, noting the clear abnormality in the human.
“Nothing as serious as it seems, nor irreversible.” The human’s serene orange eyes reflected Jinn’s worried gaze. Sensing that she had questions, he added, “When the moon loses its blood color and the sun rises, I’ll explain everything. Until then, we have much to do and much to kill.”
His gaze drifted back to the lotus at the center of the room.
“I expected this, to be honest. Power doesn’t mean knowing how to fight… or having the courage to do so. I suppose I deluded myself because of the overwhelming difference in strength.” His tone was neither accusatory nor irritated, stressed, or angry.
“What was that thing you created?” Jinn asked after a moment. Her voice carried a hint of doubt, as if she already knew the answer but didn’t want to believe it.
As if sensing that something important was about to begin, before the human could respond, the throne room doors swung open.
Four people entered: Dylan, Helena, Gilbert, and Robyn.
The first two bore identical furrowed expressions, making their mother-son resemblance undeniable.
The last two, however, looked nothing alike.
Gilbert, clad in silver armor inscribed with Mystical Symbols and some Runes, had a well-groomed beard and concerned eyes that flickered between the human and his daughter beside him.
Robyn, on the other hand, had changed drastically. The woman now stood nearly two meters tall, her body expanded by well-defined muscles. Her bust and thighs had grown, as had her overall frame.
Her entire body was covered in fiery red fur. Her face had elongated into a muzzle, her teeth had sharpened, and her ears—now atop her head—were longer and furrier.
Her eyes were among the few things that had changed little—still dark brown, but now slit-pupiled with an animalistic gleam, barely holding onto rationality.
Unlike the others, she wore casual clothes: a light green T-shirt, now stretched due to the growth of her chest, exposing part of her stomach; and gray shorts, shortened by her increased size.
She wore no shoes. Her feet had transformed into fox-like paws, with sharp claws replacing her toenails. Her hands had undergone partial changes as well, with pads on the palms and clawed fingertips.
Behind her, a single bushy tail swayed aggressively, its fur bristling and sharp.
“…Interesting.” The human murmured to himself.
The instant Robyn’s eyes met his, the fox-woman froze. Part of her sanity flickered and part resurfaced.
She remained still a few meters from the doors, silent. Her body trembled slightly, spasming, as if she wanted to move—either flee or attack—but was holding herself back.
“She’s never been affected this badly before… That damn moon activated the curse aggressively!” Gilbert exclaimed.
“We brought her here to stay close to Alalia. That should calm her down. Even in the prepared chamber, she was restless, aggressive, barely holding herself together despite the rain of green leaves. The tranquilizers didn’t work.” Dylan explained next, nodding toward the human as he approached. “Are you okay?”
“As much as I can be.” Was the response.
Helena remained silent. Her gaze briefly flickered toward Charlotte on the throne, her expression softening for a moment before returning to normal.
Without a word, the human began walking toward Robyn.
His steps were ordinary, but the movement of his arms and legs caught everyone’s attention. It was as if he had two of each limb: two left arms, two right legs. One of flesh and bone, the other of shadow and madness.
Robyn shrank back when he stopped in front of her. Her eyes narrowed, and a sharp growl—almost a meow—escaped her throat. Despite being taller than the human, her hunched posture made her seem minuscule.
Before anything could happen, the human raised his right hand and touched her forehead with his index finger.
As he withdrew, the arm of the Shadow Puppet lingered for a moment before following suit.
A tiara of shadows formed, fastening onto her head.
At its center, an eye opened, its pupil glowing orange for a second.
Robyn gasped, then took a deep breath, coughing afterward.
“…A tiara? Seriously?” She grumbled, rubbing her forehead. Then, in a quieter tone, added, “…Thanks. I almost lost myself there…”
“I needed a complete circle for my energy to absorb the madness infesting your mind. A tiara was the first thing that came to mind.” The human replied casually. “It was that or a collar. I didn’t think the latter would be appropriate.”
Without waiting, he crossed the room and stepped onto the balcony.
A collar? …That wouldn’t be so bad… Damn it! Not the time for this, Robyn!
Shaking her head to dispel those thoughts, a flustered Robyn was one of the first to move.
The others followed a moment later. A relieved Gilbert, a serious Helena, a determined Dylan, a worried Jinn. Charlotte hesitated before rising mechanically and following the others.
“A few more seconds, and it should pierce through the cloud cover and reach that strange place with the starless sky…” The human hummed to himself, his head swaying to an unseen rhythm.
With every movement, he seemed to create solid shadows.
He didn’t lean on the railing but stood a few centimeters away from it. His gaze roamed the kingdom for a moment before settling on something beyond the barrier.
The blood slowly trickled from his forehead, staining his face and dripping from his chin. The blood from his palms dripped onto the floor.
The human stared, and 'The Eye' stared back.
The faint smile on his lips widened slightly. He raised his right hand and snapped his middle finger against his thumb. Two snaps echoed instead of one.
And human said:
"Let there be light."
And there was light.
Above the starless sky, the purple fire sphere with four rings erupted into flames, rapidly expanding until it reached a twenty-kilometer radius, transforming into an artificial Sun of orange fire, with a purple core.
The artificial Sun incinerated an immense portion of the storm’s Bloodied Clouds. Its brilliance illuminated the night, driving away the crimson glow of the Blood Moon and significantly weakening its presence and effects.
The artificial Sun burned in the starless sky, rivaling the Blood Moon.
The human knew this stalemate wouldn’t last. He could feel the starless sky suppressing the artificial Sun, just as the Blood Moon’s presence repelled the false day he had created.
It would last briefly, perhaps an hour, likely less…
“You know, it’s not really a true Sun, but then again… your sky isn’t real either, is it?…”
…But for that hour, the sky would not be without stars.