Barnard walked slowly, his breathing still heavy after the battle. The surroundings were no longer the same—the village had vanished, replaced by a vast, silent plain beneath a dull gray sky. He glanced upward and noticed that the moon, once a deep crimson, had turned pale again, as if everything that had just happened was nothing more than a nightmare.
"What the hell…? Weren't we just in the middle of the village? Don't tell me… all of that was just an illusion?" he muttered, his eyes sweeping the horizon cautiously.
His steps halted when he spotted a figure in the distance—Hiori, standing still with a hollow stare, as if her soul was still trapped in the events that had just unfolded. Without hesitation, Barnard sprinted toward her.
"Hiori!" he shouted. "Are you alright?! Where's Yhera?!"
Hiori slowly turned to face him. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, and her hands were still coated in blood. Her voice came out hoarse as she replied, "Yhera… they took her… the cult did."
Barnard's jaw tightened as he stared at her. "The cult? So it's not just one group? I fought one of their priests too… Did they attack you as well?"
Hiori lowered her gaze, her fingers gripping the trembling hilt of her sword. "Yeah… they came out of the shadows. I… didn't have time to save her."
Barnard clenched his fist, his eyes narrowing. "Then… we're not dealing with some small cult. This is an organized network. And they lured us into that illusion… just to separate us."
"I-I…" Hiori's voice trembled, hoarse as if something unseen was tightening around her throat. She collapsed to her knees, the cold, wet ground splashing mud across her clothes. Her right hand clawed at the earth, her trembling fingers digging into the dirt.
"Why… does it always end like this…" her voice nearly faded into a whisper, yet every syllable throbbed with restrained rage. Her breath was ragged, uneven, her chest rising and falling as though a boulder were crushing her.
"I… am too weak…" Her vacant gaze dropped to the ground, as though the world around her had dimmed into nothingness. "I failed… again… to protect someone. Just like before…"
Her hand clenched so tightly that blood began to seep from her palm. The wind drifted by softly, carrying the scent of wet earth and a faint trace of blood—every breath felt suffocating.
"Twice… twice I've watched someone taken right in front of me. I'm… just a burden. No talent, not strong enough, unworthy to even call myself a fighter. Everyone who trusts me… only ends up shattered."
Hiori bit her lip hard enough to taste the salt and iron of her own blood. Her eyes glimmered faintly with unshed tears, but it wasn't just grief that lingered there—it was a simmering, caged fury laced with despair.
"If this keeps happening… what's the point of me fighting? What's the point of every wound, every drop of blood I've swallowed? If every step I take… only leads others to their deaths?"
The rain had ceased, leaving only a thin mist blanketing the forest around them. Hiori stood with her head bowed, gripping her sword, still caked with mud and dried blood. Before her, the cult's footprints had already faded, swallowed by the cold night wind.
Barnard watched her for a long moment before speaking in a heavy voice.
"Hiori… you need to face the truth. Yhera might already be gone."
Hiori's head snapped up, her eyes burning with a mix of fury and despair.
"Don't say that. I won't just give up! There's still a chance—"
Barnard's sharp gaze cut through her words.
"You know how that cult operates. They don't take prisoners… they make sacrifices. Yhera may already… be part of their ritual."
The words hit harder than any blade. Hiori's breath caught in her chest. For a fleeting second, she saw Yhera's faint smile back at the tavern flash in her mind—
a smile she might never see again.
Barnard stepped closer and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
"I know how you feel… I've lost more people than I can count. But you need to understand this: we can't save everyone. If you chase after them now, your Nexus will shatter… and you'll die for nothing."
Hiori stayed silent. Her hands trembled, and her sword nearly slipped from her grasp. Slowly, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep, shaking breath.
"I… I hate this. I hate what it feels like to just leave someone behind…" her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "…but I know if I die now… Yhera would only hate me for it."
Barnard gave a slow nod.
"We're not truly leaving her. We'll come back—one day. But when we do, we need to be strong enough to tear that cult down… root and all."
Hiori lifted her gaze to the sky. The moon, no longer crimson, felt cold and distant to her eyes. Slowly, she sheathed her sword, clenching her fist tight.
"Alright… Yhera. I'm sorry… but for now, I have to let you go. But for everything you entrusted to me… I swear I'll come back. And when that day comes…"
Her voice lowered to a razor-edged whisper, dripping with resolve.
"…not a single one of them will be left laughing in this world."
Barnard glanced toward the winding path leading out of the forest.
"Come on. We've got a long road ahead… and a lot of strength to gather before that day comes."
Hiori gave a single, silent nod. Together, they stepped away from the mist, carrying with them their wounds, their rage, and a promise of vengeance burning deep in their chests.
In a place far, far away—beyond the reach of sound and light, surrounded only by moss-covered stone walls and torches burning with crimson flames—Yhera was being dragged roughly by two members of the Carnavita cult.
Iron chains bound her neck and wrists, clinking with each pull, the metal biting into her skin until it bled. The air reeked of rot, thick with the stench of spoiled meat and piles of bones deliberately stacked in the corners like grotesque decorations.
"W-Where… am I?! Let me go!" Yhera screamed, her voice hoarse and laced with panic. Her eyes darted wildly, scanning the cathedral around her—this was no ordinary structure. The walls seemed to pulse faintly, as if veins of living flesh throbbed beneath the stone, and from the floor, soft whispers echoed, as though something beneath the earth itself was murmuring to her.
Behind her, Uluccia walked in silence, holding the chain with one hand. Each step she took was slow, deliberate, yet carried an oppressive weight. With a sharp tug, she yanked Yhera forward, sending her stumbling to her knees. Then, with a sadistic grin, Uluccia effortlessly hoisted Yhera up and threw her onto a black altar at the center of the chamber.
The altar's surface was cold, slick, and smeared with fresh blood that had yet to dry. Etched deep into its center was the sigil of the Carnavita cult—three intertwined rings of flesh, faintly pulsating as if alive.
"Ugh… You… you monsters!" Yhera groaned, her body heavy from the chains and her wounds. She tried to push herself up, but her knees buckled beneath her.
Uluccia crouched close, her face mere inches from Yhera's, her eyes glinting with feral delight.
"Monsters? No, little girl… we are servants of perfection. You should feel honored to be part of tonight's offering. Your flesh… and your soul… will feed something far greater than you."
Her low, guttural laugh echoed through the chamber, but it was cut short by the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps emerging from the darkness.
Thud… Thud… Thud…
These were not mere footsteps—each impact seemed to make the air itself shudder. The torches lining the walls flickered and dimmed, and a biting chill swept through the entire hall. The gathered cultists fell silent instantly.
Uluccia's expression faltered; her eyes widened. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees, bowing her head low. The rest of the cultists followed, prostrating themselves upon the cold stone floor. A whisper rose among them, hushed and trembling:
"The Apostle… The Apostle has arrived…"
From the darkness emerged a towering figure draped in a long, flowing black cloak. The fabric seemed to devour the light around it. From beneath its hood, two faintly glowing red eyes pierced the air, fixing on Yhera as she lay helpless atop the altar. Each slow, deliberate step carried an almost crushing weight, thickening the air until every breath felt like swallowing stones.
No one dared to speak. Even Yhera, despite the storm of fear and defiance raging within her, could only swallow hard, her body trembling involuntarily.
Finally, the Apostle spoke. His voice was deep, cold, and unnervingly calm—yet every word carried a weight that made the skin crawl.
"Rise. The ritual cannot wait. This child… she is a fitting vessel for tonight's offering. Her flesh will open the way… and her soul shall serve as the key."
Uluccia pressed her head even lower, her voice quivering with a mixture of reverence and fear.
"As You command, Apostle. We shall prepare her… and begin summoning Lord Deus Carnis."
Yhera clenched her teeth, despite her weakened body and the chains biting into her skin. Her eyes locked on the looming, shadowed figure.
"Who… are you? Why… why me…?"
The Apostle moved closer, his looming shadow enveloping Yhera completely. From beneath his cloak, the faint glow of a symbol emerged—three rings of flesh, spinning slowly as if alive, burning with a dull red light. The air around him grew so heavy it felt like Yhera's lungs might collapse.
He lowered his head slightly, and when he spoke, it was like a whisper rising from the deepest abyss.
"You… will know soon enough. Your body is merely the beginning. Your soul… will become the gate."
At once, the cultists began to chant in an ancient, guttural tongue, their voices layering into a droning hum, like a swarm of insects intertwined with demonic whispers. The torches along the walls sputtered, shadows writhed across the cathedral, and beneath Yhera, the black altar began to tremble… as if something beneath was awakening.
In the silent underground hall, the air hung heavy, as though wrapped in an unseen fog of blood. The torches along the walls flickered nervously, as if they feared what was about to manifest. Slowly, a massive shadow crept across the walls—its shape a horned monstrosity, its form layered with pulsating flesh, horns branching like the roots of a rotting tree, and a pair of crimson eyes burning through the dark like embers of the abyss.
A voice—deep, resounding, and coming from all directions—rolled through the chamber, forcing every cultist to kneel, their bodies trembling violently:
"Thou hast summon'd Us… and thou bring'st forth an off'ring unto Our hunger. Speak, Mine Apostle."
The Apostle, a man cloaked in black, knelt low before the altar, pressing his forehead against the cold, blood-streaked stone. His voice shook, though he forced it steady:
"My Lord Deus Carnis… as You commanded, I have brought a girl. Her flesh… her scent is unlike any mortal. Her aura… feels different. I believe she will make a worthy feast for You."
Deus Carnis did not answer at once. Their glowing crimson eyes shifted slowly toward Yhera, bound upon the altar. Their gaze was piercing, suffocating, as if to strip away her very soul. Yhera struggled against her chains, breath ragged, cold sweat on her brow, yet she forced herself to meet that abyssal stare despite the dread gnawing inside her.
The sound of wet, throbbing flesh grew louder, filling the silence, before Deus Carnis spoke again, their voice dropping into a heavier, colder tone:
"Verily… but wherefore art Mine other Apostles? Why dost thou stand alone afore Us this night?"
The Apostle swallowed hard, cold sweat trailing down his cheek.
"They… were delayed, my Lord. A greater ritual is being prepared in the west. Only I could bring this offering to You."
The torches dimmed, as if all light in the chamber were being devoured by the shadow of Deus Carnis. Their vast form expanded, filling every corner, and an unseen pressure bore down on the cultists until they could scarcely breathe.
"Pitieth Us… only one Apostle hast crept unto Our feet. Should this off'ring prove unworthy, thou know'st well what fate thy carcass shall meet…"
The voice slithered like a thousand worms whispering within every ear, raising every hair on every neck. The Apostle bowed deeper, teeth clenched.
"My Lord… I swear, she will not disappoint You. Even if You do not consume her, perhaps… there is another way to make use of her."
The glowing eyes of Deus Carnis returned to Yhera, their gaze intensifying, as though probing something deep within her. Yhera trembled, feeling something unseen invade her body, crawling through every vein and bone.
"Thou art… not of common mortal stock," Deus Carnis whispered, their voice now a secret thread only Yhera could hear. "Within thee stirreth a scent… a force… that even We comprehendeth not in full."
The cultists exchanged uneasy glances. Uluccia, standing beside the altar, bit her lip, her face twisting with a mixture of curiosity and envy.
Then Deus Carnis' voice rose, echoing against the stone, shaking the walls themselves:
"This one… suiteth not as mere sacrificial meat."
Shock rippled through the chamber. Whispered disbelief spread among the cultists. Even Yhera, despite her fear, blinked in confusion at those words.
The Apostle slowly lifted his head, voice trembling:
"Not… suitable? My Lord, why? Has something about her caught Your attention? Wait—don't tell me…"
The massive shadow of Deus Carnis lowered, their twisted horns nearly brushing the altar, and a low, rasping laugh—like rotting wood cracking—echoed from every wall, making the torches flare wildly.
"Aye… not for consumption. Her flesh… her soul… may yet be molded. We shall test her. She may prove worthy of more than a victim's lot. Mayhap… a new Apostle."
The chamber fell into dead silence. Only Yhera's heartbeat thundered in her own ears. The Apostle bowed his head deeper, whispering in disbelief:
"A… new Apostle…?"
Deus Carnis' eyes locked on Yhera once more. The air in the chamber grew frigid, as though all warmth were stolen away.
"Prepare her. Should flesh and spirit endure… rebirth shall be hers. Should thy falter… then truly shall she be made Ours—as feast."
The ceiling of the underground ritual chamber throbbed, as though blood itself coursed through the very walls. The dark-crimson torches burned with an unnatural flame, casting long, writhing shadows that seemed alive. At the center of the altar, Yhera knelt, bound by chains that pulsed like living veins, her body forced into a bow.
But her eyes, though trembling, still burned with fury.
"WHAT!? I will never submit! You think I'll be your pawn!? You disgusting abominations! All of you are insane!"
Her scream shattered the suffocating stillness, echoing off the blood-soaked walls. Every Carnavita cultist kneeling in the chamber turned in horror. Even Uluccia, who always wore her sly grin, froze, her eyes widening. No one—no one ever—had dared raise their voice to Deus Carnis… and lived to tell of it.
The Apostle, standing beneath the towering horned shadow cast upon the walls, stepped forward. His black cloak drifted as though caught in a phantom wind, a breeze belonging only to realms unseen. His eyes locked on Yhera, reptilian pupils narrowing like blades.
"You… pitiful creature, you dare raise your voice before the Great God?" His words were quiet, yet sharp—each syllable striking like a dagger to the chest. "You think you can DEFY Their will? Before Deus Carnis, you are nothing. This… is not a choice."
A deep, layered voice—countless tones speaking as one—rolled from every direction, making the very air quiver. Deus Carnis finally spoke.
"Silence, Apostle."
The horned shadow lowered, twin crimson orbs—burning like twin suns of blood—fixed upon Yhera.
"She… is unlike the rest. Even midst dread, the savour of her soul… doth not wither. Intriguing."
The air thickened, every breath a labor. The blood-lined walls pulsed faster, and the floor beneath them began to tremble. The shadow of Deus Carnis swelled, and from the darkness, a suffocating aura seeped forth—black fractures split the air like shattered glass.
"Thou art… no mere victim. But mark me well…" The voice now echoed like a thousand murmurs layered as one.
"MY WILL… IS ABSOLUTE."
Suddenly, an immense pressure slammed down upon Yhera. The chamber around her began to fracture—stone pillars bent and groaned, and the blood dripping from the altar rose, swirling into a crimson vortex.
Yhera's eyes went wide. She fought to cling to consciousness, her body trembling against the crushing weight, but the force was so overwhelming that every joint felt as though it were breaking apart.
The massive shadow of Deus Carnis drew closer, its voice slithering like ice into her ear:
"Sleep, child. When thine eyes awaken… this world and thy flesh shall be no longer thine own. Thou shalt be Mine blade… or but flesh upon this altar."
With a single eruption of aura, the space and time around Yhera shattered, her vision went white, her body went limp, and at last, she collapsed into unconsciousness.
The cultists kept their heads bowed, none daring to lift their gaze. The Apostle looked toward Deus Carnis, his voice trembling:
"Will… will she become a new Apostle, my Lord?"
The horned shadow slowly faded, leaving only a voice echoing through the chamber:
"Make ready the rite. Should her flesh and soul endure… she shall rise as Mine blade. Should she falter… feast upon her meat. For I hunger."
Yhera's consciousness drifted through an endless void.
There was no ground beneath her feet, no sound save the slow, heavy thrum of her own heart—thud… thud… thud…
All around, only swirling layers of black mist, as though she floated within the belly of some colossal beast. Her breath caught in her throat; every gulp of air bit like ice, piercing to the marrow. She knew then—this was no longer the world of the living.
Her eyes cracked open, half-lidded, gazing into the vast emptiness where only the faint silhouette of a horned shadow twisted and loomed in the distance. Her trembling voice broke the silence:
"Hiori… Barnard… everyone… forgive me…"
Her hand reached for her chest, but the touch felt alien—black veins crawled beneath her skin, writhing as though alive, serpents slithering through her flesh. Her body no longer felt wholly her own.
"I… I might become something else. Something… that is no longer me."
Tears welled and drifted from her cheeks, suspended weightless in the dark.
The vague shadow of Deus Carnis emerged within the mist, Their voice seeping not into her ears, but straight into her mind:
"Fear not, child. Thou shalt be made mighty. Mightier than any mortal… if thou yield thyself unto flesh and Mine will."
Yhera clenched her teeth, her whisper frayed by despair:
"But if I yield… I won't be me anymore. I'll just be… another monster, one of your thralls…"
She stared down at her hands—darkening, veins of crimson light glowing beneath the skin as her fingers elongated, curling into clawlike shapes. Her body moved without her command, slowly, as if swaying to the unseen hymn of Deus Carnis.
"Hiori… Barnard… if I… change… if one day I stand before you as your enemy…"
Her voice faltered, shaking.
"Please… don't hesitate to end me. I'd rather die as myself… than live as this devil's puppet."
The black mist coiled tighter, blotting out her sight. Her breath hitched, her thoughts unraveled, and only the echo of Deus Carnis remained, whispering through the void:
"Thy 'self' is no more, little one. Naught remaineth but flesh… and Mine will."
Yhera's vision faded into darkness—
as if the world itself had devoured every trace of light.
No sound, no sensation, only a crushing emptiness pressing in like an endless ocean.
She awoke, her body shivering though there was no wind, and slowly opened her eyes.
Before her, three towering figures stood in a circle.
Their bodies were wrapped in long black robes that trailed across the cold stone floor,
and each wore a mask carved from bone, shaped like the skull of a savage beast, complete with curling horns.
From the hollow eye sockets of those masks, a faint crimson glow burned, staring straight into her.
The air trembled when one of them spoke.
The voice was deep and resonant, echoing as though it rose from a hollow chest rather than a throat:
"Your name… is no longer Yhera."
The sound bounced off every wall of the chamber, stabbing at her ears.
"From this moment forth… you shall be known as… Thalyss, the Blooded Hand of Carnavita."
The two other apostles bowed their heads, chanting a prayer in an ancient tongue, each syllable sounding like the howl of wild beasts mixed with the splintering of broken bones.
On the floor beneath them, a sigil shaped like a circle of flesh slowly turned, glowing with a deep crimson light that dripped like liquid blood.
Yhera—or Thalyss—tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.
Every time she tried to say, "I am Yhera!", it felt as though her throat was strangled by an invisible force.
Dark veins spread along her neck, locking away the remnants of her old identity.
The first apostle stepped forward.
"You have been chosen by Deus Carnis Themself. Not as a sacrifice… but as one of They hands. You shall carry forth the Will of Flesh into the mortal world."
He raised his hand, and from beneath his robe, long tendrils of flesh emerged, wrapping tightly around Yhera's wrists, suspending her in the air.
"From this day on… your blood, your veins, and even your thoughts… shall belong to Him."
Another voice followed, heavier, sharper, like a whisper that drilled directly into her skull:
"Resist, if you wish. But the more you resist, the more your flesh will tear, and your soul will dissolve in agony. Accept… or be destroyed."
Yhera stared at them with tear-filled eyes, fear and rage churning together in her chest.
She tried to move her fingers—but they were changing.
Her skin cracked, glowing veins of pulsing red light visible beneath, beating like a living heart.
"No… I am not a monster… I don't belong to you…" she thought desperately.
But the voice of Deus Carnis echoed from the shadows on the wall:
"There is no you anymore. There is only Thalyss, My eternal flesh. Rise… and obey."
The ground began to tremble as the circle of flesh beneath her slowly swallowed her body.
Blackened bones sprouted from her legs, forming an organic, armor-like shell.
Her breath grew heavier, and between her cries, another voice—not her own—rose from her throat, deep and resonant:
"I… am Thalyss… the Blooded Hand of Carnavita…"
In the center of the blood-soaked altar, the air was heavy, thick with the stench of iron and the rancid odor of rotting flesh.
The figure once known as Yhera now knelt, her body trembling violently.
Black veins crawled from the back of her neck down to the tips of her fingers, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat that no longer belonged to her.
She shut her eyes, gasping for breath.
From the darkness within her mind, a foreign voice—deep, layered, and unnatural—whispered, as though spoken by thousands of beings at once:
"Accept… thy new form. Cast away thy former name. Thou art not Yhera… Thou art but a vessel for Our will."
When her eyes opened, they glowed a searing crimson, slit pupils cutting through the darkness like blades.
The eerie red light dimmed the chamber even further, as if devouring what little illumination remained.
A thin, cold smile spread across her lips—a smile that was no longer Yhera's.
"I… am Thalyss. Grand Apostle of Deus Carnis…"
Her voice echoed, layered with countless other tones, as though unseen creatures were speaking alongside her.
Slowly, she raised her right hand.
Her skin cracked and peeled away, replaced by raw, crimson flesh.
Coiled, sinewed muscles wound tightly like living chains, pulsing faintly as waves of dark energy radiated from her, making the air itself quake.
From the walls of the altar chamber, a massive, horned silhouette—Deus Carnis—emerged, gazing with satisfaction from beyond the veil of dimensions.
The oppressive aura it exuded forced the bone-masked Apostles to bow low, their bodies trembling, unable to meet Its gaze.
"Let us… make the name of Deus Carnis echo…
Across dimensions.
Let the arrogant gods, the prideful demons, and the frail mortals—
All kneel… beneath the stench of flesh and blood."
With a single slam of her now entirely flesh-bound hand, the altar floor quaked violently.
Cracks spread outward like living veins, and the statues of forgotten gods shattered as tendrils of raw, writhing meat erupted, coiling through the chamber like grotesque vines.
The Apostles could do nothing but kneel, worshipping in reverence, as Thalyss stood tall, her blazing eyes burning like infernal embers.
"From this day forth… I am no longer human.
I am Thalyss, executor of Deus Carnis's will.
And this world… shall become His first feast."