North Ufiga, Addus.
Late at night in the nation of Addus, the capital city of Yadith had entered the deep hours of the night. The entire city—now in a phase of restoration—had fallen into a lull.
With streetlamps extinguished and household lights turned off, the streets of Yadith were plunged into darkness. Only a few key facilities still emitted light, and among them was the general’s residence.
Inside the heavily guarded and brightly lit estate, the general of the Addus Revolutionary Army, Shadi, was still buried in his office, working tirelessly at his desk. The massive table in front of him was stacked high with piles of documents.
Supporting his forehead with one hand, Shadi used the other to flip through and approve one administrative file after another—reports from all across Addus. His movements were swift and efficient; in no time, most of the backlog had been dealt with. But when he reached a report concerning the borders of Addus, he couldn’t help but furrow his brow.
“A new update on the Withering Plague from Busalet… the situation’s worsened again. Several newly established refugee camps reached full capacity in under three days. And it’s not just that… the pressure from border-crossers is rising sharply. Quite a few undocumented entries have already succeeded. At least nine towns have reported Withering Plague outbreaks—the situation might be spiraling out of control.”
Reading the report, Shadi murmured with a furrowed brow. Not long after he spoke, a hoarse, aged voice echoed into the room out of thin air.
“I told you before—this plague is no ordinary thing. Your standard countermeasures are useless. Now that things are falling apart… what are you going to do?”
Behind Shadi, a semi-transparent undead figure slowly materialized. Draped in gold trinkets and skeletal in form, the undead known as Setut appeared and mocked Shadi coldly.
“It’s not that I want to rely on standard methods. But aside from those so-called standard approaches, what else can I do? The border’s long, there’s no wall. If we don’t build refugee camps to contain the majority of people, they’ll sneak across in even larger numbers. We’re already seeing outbreaks in numerous towns… We don’t have the financial or material resources like the mainland empires do.”
Shadi snapped, glancing at Setut with irritation.
Setut chuckled dryly.
“No other method? That’s nonsense. I already gave you a hint earlier: increase troop presence along the border. Offer those tormented, infected migrants a merciful release—terminate their suffering in advance. That way, you don’t need to maintain so many refugee camps. You can redirect those resources to secure border towns. And as a bonus, it’ll scare off others thinking of crossing over.
“Easing their pain… that’s something your army’s quite capable of, isn’t it? Or are you so naïve and softhearted that you actually think you can save them all?”
Shadi waved his hand.
“Naïve? No… it’s not about that. Sure, massacring the infected might be ‘efficient.’ But have you considered the consequences? Addus was only recently recognized by the Church, and that recognition took long, difficult negotiations to secure. Even now, many nations within the Church—especially on the mainland—still oppose us. They’re just waiting for a misstep.
“A mass slaughter of refugees? That won’t stay hidden. Once word gets out, they’ll pounce on it. Addus’ entire political situation will instantly deteriorate. The diplomatic fallout will be enormous.”
Shadi’s tone was heavy. Setut scoffed.
“So what? If you don’t take drastic action now, once this plague spreads across the entire nation, it’ll be too late. You’re out of time, Shadi. You can’t afford to hesitate. Or are you hoping that this ‘ghost plague’ will vanish overnight and everyone will suddenly be cured? Even I wouldn’t dream of something so ridiculous!”
Setut’s tone turned harsh. Shadi fell silent for a moment, then let out a helpless smile.
“Sometimes, I really do wish I could sleep forever—just to escape this mountain of headaches. Dreams are nice… you can have anything you want. But speaking of which… can you even dream, Setut?”
“Undead don’t dream. I haven’t dreamed in thousands of years. All I’ve ever known is cold, hard reality. That’s why I keep reminding you—don’t cling to foolish fantasies.”
Setut spoke gravely. Shadi asked again.
“If you could dream, Setut… what would you dream of?”
“Me?”
Setut paused, falling into a long silence. After what felt like forever, he finally replied.
“If I could dream… I suppose I’d dream of the past. Of old friends… old places…”
“Old friends… and old places, huh…”
Shadi echoed thoughtfully.
But just as he was about to continue, he noticed something strange—Setut had fallen completely silent and stood frozen in place, staring out the window, unmoving. It was a behavior Shadi had never seen before.
“What’s wrong, Setut? What’s going on?”
Frowning, Shadi questioned him. Setut slowly turned his head.
“I have something I must attend to. Don’t know when I’ll be back. Handle whatever comes on your own.”
And with that, Setut floated upward and left alone. Shadi shouted after him.
“At least tell me what’s going on!”
But Setut ignored Shadi’s confusion, phasing through the ceiling and onto the rooftop. There, he gazed into the distant night sky—seemingly waiting for something.
Two seconds later, a complex array of Silence suddenly lit up beneath him. In that radiant formation, Setut’s spirit vanished without a trace.
…
In the Nether Realm, Setut’s spirit raced through a high-speed spiritual conduit. Partway through, another spiritual pathway merged with his. At the moment of merging, Setut felt a familiar presence enter his conduit. His incorporeal spirit body began to condense, becoming solid and opaque.
“She’s even brought my remains out of the tomb just to summon me… Shepsuna, what are you planning?”
Setut muttered in confusion, watching his body transform. But his questioning didn’t last long—the spirit conduit soon reached its end. Under a faint light, Setut reappeared in the material world.
And then—he froze in shock at the sight before him.
Beneath the moonlit night sky, the crimson flesh-forged earth churned and surged. The grotesque eyes and mouths embedded in it opened and closed in rhythm with the pulsing muscle, while malformed human limbs grew tall like trees. The branching arms swayed gently, and the leaf-like fingers fluttered in the wind.
To Setut, this place felt bizarre and unfamiliar. Yet from another angle, it also felt strangely familiar. He was startled—why did something so familiar now feel so foreign?
“The Record Vault… Why has it become like this?! Shepsuna!”
Now possessing a physical body upon exiting the Nether Realm, Setut stared at the scene before him, stunned. Then he immediately looked around, searching for familiar figures. What he saw were three.
“Blasphemy! Defilement! Corruption! This filthy crimson dares defile the Holy Domain! Setut, Taharka… I’ll set aside my grievances with you for now! First, destroy this blasphemer completely!”
At the far edge of the field, Hafdar—draped in rotted robes and tattered cloth—swung his staff in fury, his withered figure trembling with rage.
“Such horrifying power of Chalice… Is this one of the Mother of Chalice’s chosen? This degenerate form… far worse than the Tree King of old. The fall is unimaginable…”
On Hafdar’s other side, another undead named Taharka stood. His entire form was shrouded in a robe inscribed with countless runes, face hidden under a shadowed hood, only bony hands visible. He gazed upon the scene with a sigh of lament.
“It’s been a long time, all of you… I foresaw this moment in the river of fate and summoned you all here. You’ve seen the situation—we don’t have the luxury to quarrel over old grievances. Let us unite our strength again… and once more defend the Holy Domain together.”
Floating midair, veiled and robed in regal garments, Shepsuna addressed the three undead she had summoned. Setut now more or less understood the situation.
“To think the four of us would gather again for the same purpose… Is this what they call fate?”
Setut sighed. Seeing the overflowing fleshscape around him, he couldn’t help but recall how, not long ago, he had leaked a tiny bit of information about the Record Vault to that so-called Heaven’s Arbiter Sect. And now it was already in crisis. Could it be related?
While Setut wrestled with that thought, not far from the "barrier" formed by the interlocked, snarling red wolf heads, Unina—still crimson, faceless, and eyeless—remained standing. One hand continued to penetrate the space distortion, maintaining her erosion of the pseudo-history world, while the other “watched” the battlefield.
“Rotting corpses from the grave… more of them crawling out, huh…”
As she spoke, the red wolf heads surrounding the four undead—initially locked in mutual slaughter—suddenly ceased their infighting. The spirits possessing them had been assimilated into flesh by the overwhelming power of Chalice. The wolves, now restored to order, let out synchronized roars toward the four ancient undead.
The howls, layered and terrifying, formed powerful spiritual shockwaves that surged toward the pharaohs.
Spiritual beings, due to their floating and unstable nature, were especially vulnerable to wave-based attacks. Such attacks could disrupt or even disperse soul projections—as had happened to Hafdar earlier. Lesser spirits could be shattered entirely by such an onslaught.
But this time, the four undead remained completely unmoved. Their spirits were now anchored in their mummified corpses, allowing them not only to access greater strength, but also to neutralize the instability that plagued normal spiritual forms. The red wolves' howls had no effect.
Realizing their roars had failed, the wolves snarled furiously. Their bodies tore free from the fleshland, sprouting full limbs—arms, legs, and torsos—becoming towering ten-meter-tall red beasts.
Now fully formed, the crimson wolves dropped to all fours and charged at the four undead. In response, Hafdar raised his hand, and the wolves immediately began to shrivel and emaciate. They slowed down drastically; some collapsed altogether, as if struck by a fatal disease.
Though weakened by Hafdar’s powerful curse, the wolves were sustained by the near-limitless life force of the fleshland and Unina. After a moment’s delay, they resumed their charge despite their weakened states. Even with Hafdar’s physical form boosting his curse powers, it was clear he couldn’t outmatch Unina’s boundless vitality.
“Shepsuna… the tomb…”
Seeing this, Hafdar called out. Shepsuna nodded slightly and replied quietly.
“Understood.”
She raised her arms and softly murmured.
“Tomb of Resting Souls…”
At her words, her arms opened wide, and all around them, countless phantasmal constructs materialized.
Lamps with spectral flame lit up in midair. Towering obelisks appeared in neat rows. Statues with arms folded across their chests stood solemnly. Heavy stone coffins were arranged on grand platforms. Carved columns bore ancient inscriptions and frescoes.
This was a massive inner chamber of an ancient royal mausoleum, now projected transparently over the fleshland—Shepsuna had summoned a spiritual projection of the pharaohs’ burial grounds.
These Second Epoch pharaohs, though possessing Gold-rank power, were incomplete beings. As undead lingering in the world for over 7,000 years, they could only exert their full power within their tombs, and when anchored to their preserved mummified remains.
Outside that context, their power would be heavily diminished, whether projected through curses or traveling in spirit form.
Shepsuna had summoned not just their souls, but their mummies as anchors. Yet since their tombs were colossal physical structures, she could not summon them in full. Instead, she brought forth a spiritual projection—turning the area into an extremely high-grade spiritual domain.
Even so, this tomb projection was enough to significantly empower the pharaohs—allowing them to nearly return to their full, perfected states.
With the tomb projection in place, Hafdar felt his strength rise another level. He glared at the wolves charging toward him from all sides, and with only a glance to gather intent, unleashed a curse.
“Die.”
His bony hands spread wide, glowing with malevolent runes. Between his palms appeared ghostly images of the wolves' heads.
The soulflame in his eyes blazed, and he crushed the spectral wolf heads between his hands. Instantly, the charging wolves’ heads exploded simultaneously—blood, brain matter, and chunks of flesh were flung through the air in a massive spray.
In one breath, all of the red wolves were slain by the curse.
Yet, before their bodies could even fall, new heads rapidly grew from their necks. These reconstituted wolves let out even fiercer roars—sharper, faster, louder than before—now approaching Gold-rank speed as they lunged once more toward the pharaohs.
“Weak!”
With another wave of his hand, Hafdar unleashed a fresh wave of weakness curses. The red wolves’ explosive power was instantly quelled. Their speed plummeted, movements sluggish, completely incapable of launching an effective strike.
As the giant wolves slowed, Hafdar glared at them, then opened his hands again. Within his palms, the images of their heads condensed once more.
“Die again.”
As he crushed the new images, the dozen or so wolves who had just regrown their heads exploded once more. Blood and gore filled the air, and this time, their headless bodies collapsed and did not rise again.
Beneath the moonlit sky, the crimson fleshland showed no signs of retreat. As it writhed and churned, numerous arms grew forth and reached for the headless corpses of the red wolves, dragging them back to be reabsorbed. At the same time, more wolf heads began sprouting from the fleshland, baring their fangs at the pharaohs. And beyond the red wolves, other horrors were gestating within the fleshland.
Just as one giant red wolf after another began to take shape again, massive tumors behind them suddenly burst open, releasing clouds of tiny flies and insects that buzzed furiously as they took to the air. Meanwhile, countless thick, soft, worm-like tubes grew from the fleshland, twisting erratically before orienting themselves toward the pharaohs.
When the newly reborn wolves charged once again, the swarming insects surged alongside them like a tidal wave. At the same time, those worm-tubes began to vomit thick, gray-green gas in massive, heaving bursts, unleashing clouds of pestilential fog toward the defenders.
There was no need to guess—these gases were infectious miasma capable of corroding spiritual entities. The swarming insects also carried the same deadly pathogens. Their numbers were so immense that the dark mass they formed completely obscured the charging red wolves beneath them.
In an instant, the wolves’ forms were completely concealed by the insects. The chaotic spiritual fluctuations radiating from the swarm severely interfered with Hafdar’s perception, preventing him from gathering the spiritual information he needed to cast targeted curses. He could still curse the insect swarm itself—but what use was that?
As the plague miasma, red wolves, and swarming flies advanced in unison to form a terrifying coalition, the sky above them changed as well. Unseen until now, thick black storm clouds had rolled in, blanketing the heavens and snuffing out the stars and moonlight. Amid the deafening thunder, a torrential desert rain began to fall, drenching the fleshland below and further reducing visibility and sensory clarity on the battlefield.
From amidst the clouds, eight giant serpents composed entirely of water extended their heads, gazing down upon the battlefield. One by one, they opened their mouths and launched massive jets of water like spears, raining them down with terrifying force.
Water-serpent spears from the sky, savage red wolves, deadly plague fog and insect swarms—so many forms of attack converged on the pharaohs at once. Hafdar alone could not hold them back—but fortunately, the other pharaohs had already made preparations.
While crimson powers churned in the sky, birthing insects and wolves upon the fleshland, the undead pharaoh known as Taharka quietly pulled out a small papyrus scroll from his sleeve. He unfurled it, muttered two incantations, and a spell array flared to life on the parchment. From it, a ghostly soulflame emerged.
Gazing intently into the flame, Taharka chanted in an ancient tongue.
“Barrier of the Shadowlands… Hero of the People of Darkness… Chosen of the Lord of Night, Baibokah… Aedandevin, awaken through the ages by my power…”
As he spoke, the soulflame was engulfed in a dark red glow. The glow expanded explosively and, when it faded, the flame had vanished—replaced by a humanoid figure.
A strange, humanoid being—about 190 cm tall—with dark, obsidian skin stood there. Clearly male, his limbs were long and sinewy, his features sharp and defined. Yellow slit-pupiled eyes glowed under braided gray-white hair that fell down his back. He wore a tight, exotic leather armor marked with arcane runes of unknown meaning.
“As per our pact…”
Taharka murmured upon seeing the figure—Aedandevin—and nodded solemnly. Then he turned to face the coming onslaught.
Aedandevin raised his hand. The runic stones embedded in his armor lit up, and a violent cyclone erupted around the pharaohs, spiraling outward at intense speed. In an instant, the entire swarm of insects was swept away. The dark green plague fog was likewise blown apart and dispersed by the wind. Hidden within the storm were countless micro-blades of wind that shredded every insect caught inside into fragments.
The storm revealed the hidden red wolves beneath the insects and fog. Those same blades of wind tore into their bodies, cutting deep wounds and releasing showers of blood. The red wolves were staggered and slowed by the sheer number of cuts.
Now fully exposed, the wolves were once again visible to Hafdar. Without hesitation, he cast his curse anew. The wolves’ heads exploded one after another in a geyser of blood. When their bodies rose again, he cursed them a second time, destroying them completely. Blood mist filled the battlefield.
As the battle raged on across the fleshland, the sky spears launched by the water serpents closed in on the pharaohs’ position. Setut raised his gaze, soulflame dancing in his hollow eyes. The temperature around the water jets plummeted, instantly freezing them into solid ice spears that plummeted to the ground and shattered upon impact with the fleshland.
Seeing their attack thwarted, the eight massive serpents let out simultaneous roars and lunged downward. In response, Setut continued channeling cold energy to freeze them—but the serpents were too massive, continuously sustained by water from the clouds. Though the outer layers froze, their inner cores remained fluid. The serpents twisted and broke free from their icy shells, continuing their assault.
Realizing ordinary cold wouldn’t work, Setut raised his hand toward the sky. At his fingertip, a beam of pale freezing light shot upward, slicing through the heavens.
With a sweep of his arm, the beam slashed across all eight water serpents. Upon contact, each one froze completely—inside and out—in less than a second. With no time or space to resist, they were immobilized mid-air, instantly turned into enormous ice sculptures. One by one, they shattered and plummeted to the earth below with thunderous crashes.
Setut then directed the freezing beam upward again, expanding its radius. The air temperature over the entire battlefield dropped drastically. The raindrops from the torrential storm solidified into sharp, needle-like shards of ice that pierced downward and embedded into the fleshland below.
As the ice needles struck, they spread frost into the fleshland’s circulatory systems, freezing its internal blood flow.
The entire bloodsoaked earth let out a pained moan. Bursts of blood erupted as it convulsed violently, but the blood froze soon after hitting the ground. Large swaths of the fleshland began to stiffen and slow. Its ability to reclaim red wolf corpses, hatch new insects, or birth more horrors was suddenly impaired.
Setut’s hailstorm of ice needles signaled the start of the pharaohs’ counterattack.
Hafdar’s eyes turned to targets beyond just the red wolves. Taharka, meanwhile, retrieved two more papyrus scrolls and summoned two new spirits.
Far off, bathed in crimson light, Unina continued her erosion of the pseudo-history world while watching the battle unfold.
“All these rotting things dead for thousands of years… and they still wield such power… Looks like ordinary methods won’t be enough to deal with them…”
She muttered to herself and began gradually drawing back some of the Mother of Chalice’s divine power that had been used to corrode the pseudo-history world. She knew that if she wanted to break the pharaohs’ defense, she’d need to resort to something far more unconventional than typical methods used in the real world.
Elsewhere, hovering at the pharaohs’ camp, Shepsuna remained suspended in the air between her three comrades. She was using all her strength to maintain the projection of the tomb and had no energy to join the battle. Nor was she truly watching it unfold.
Behind her veil, her eyes gazed not at the storm-wracked sky—but beyond it. She was no longer looking at the world itself.
Her vision had pierced through the barrier of the material world. She now saw into something deeper—something that included the pseudo-history world still being eroded by the Mother of Chalice’s divinity.
“The path to the Holy Domain has begun to show itself… The pilgrims are still searching for the right direction…
“After seven thousand years… someone has finally arrived… Just as the Oracle foretold…”