Freddy Krueger.
A dreamwalker.
A killer who could manipulate nightmares and make injuries in dreams manifest in the real world.
He could even forcibly drag people from a waking state into sleep.
It was because of these terrifying powers that people in the supernatural world called him the Nightmare King, feared and hated in equal measure.
Though he often got his ass handed to him on Elm Street, Freddy had been a dominant figure in the horror game for decades.
But today…
Today, he'd met both a personal and professional crisis.
His control over the dream realm—his core ability.
Had somehow been overridden…
By Orsaga.
He didn't know how Orsaga had done it,
Only that he was now a nightmare without the ability to control nightmares.
Which, in Freddy's professional opinion, was very bad.
Flashbacks of past victims and their gruesome ends filled his mind. And for the first time in a long while, Freddy—a seasoned, psychotic killer.
Thought maybe it was time to try reason.
Because you don't quit.
You don't give up.
You negotiate.
Maybe—just maybe—he could use his years of experience to talk Orsaga down.
He opened his mouth, ready to unleash that famously twisted charisma—
Snap!
Chains coiled around his ankles, yanking him upside down and hanging him in the air.
Below, a large bonfire had already been lit.
And next to it?
A whole setup of grilling tools, spices, oils, skewers…
Freddy's face went pale—well, as pale as a charred face could go.
He flailed, panicked.
"Hey! Buddy! Handsome! Big bro! Let's talk!
It was just a joke, okay? I swear it wasn't that serious!!"
Orsaga calmly cranked the bellows, sending the flames roaring higher.
Feeling the wave of heat blow past his face, he nodded in satisfaction.
"Perfect. You're fresh, full of energy—excellent meat quality. Don't worry, I'm a professional. My grilling skills are top-tier. You won't go to waste."
His true self had often feasted on monsters.
But this puppet body wasn't nearly as strong—
If he ate the wrong thing, he'd get food poisoning.
It was one of the downsides of having a fragile vessel.
But now
Inside a dream?
Food poisoning didn't exist.
Which made this the perfect opportunity to test out his long-lost BBQ technique.
"Where there's a fire pit, there's a feast," Orsaga murmured, grabbing a skinning knife and a meat hook.
"We'll skip washing. Not eating the skin anyway.
First, we peel it off—then debone—
Relax. My technique is flawless.
No one's ever given me a bad review.
And don't worry, it won't kill you."
Freddy's terror spiked.
The glint of the knives was like a cold needle stabbing into his brain.
"Wait, wait, wait! We're both civilized men here!
Can't we just… talk?!"
But it was no use.
Orsaga took food prep very seriously.
Once something was designated as "ingredients," negotiations were over.
"I'm sorry! Mommy! Help me!!"
Freddy's blood-curdling screams echoed through the dream realm.
The Nightmare King was now enduring a nightmare of his own. A dream within a dream.
---
In the real world—
After more than ten minutes of painful struggle, Jason—now regrown his limbs—finally pushed the police car off himself.
Wobbling to his feet, he stumbled toward Orsaga, whose consciousness was still trapped in the dream world.
Just as Jason raised his machete, about to claim the first kill from Orsaga's avatar body—
Reality warped. A strange energy pulse rippled outward And something was launched from the dreamscape.
It hit Jason square in the chest, knocking him back a step.
In that moment, Orsaga's consciousness returned to his body.
"Burp~"
He let out a satisfied hiccup and muttered,
"Not exactly full… but good enough."
Jason blinked, then glanced at what had just slammed into him.
It was a... thing.
Strangely shaped.
Its outer layers had been peeled off. It looked oddly abstract—Jason couldn't tell what it was.
Then — The object spoke in a rasping, broken voice:
"...Ja…son… my… hero… my superman… s-save… me…"
Time moved differently in the dream realm.
And in those few minutes of real-world time, Freddy had lived through hours of agony.
From humanoid form to… whatever that was.
At this point, Freddy didn't care about killing anymore.
All he wanted was for God or Satan to take Orsaga away.
All he wanted was peace.
His dreams were now very simple.
Orsaga's "cooking lesson" had been so traumatic, it had redefined Freddy's life goals.
"…?"
Jason, meanwhile, was completely thrown off.
That thing could talk?
What kind of monster was this?
Was it even worth chopping?
As a proud "Hundred-Kill Teen," Jason hesitated.
He didn't know if this target was even worth the effort.
Seeing that Jason's brain was starting to overheat from overthinking, Orsaga decided to do him a favor.
He raised his hand and threw a flying dagger.
One clean hit.
Freddy's soul finally departed.
After all, Orsaga wasn't about to let some random monster steal his hard-earned kill.
The XP belonged to him.
And with the current problem resolved, Jason's thoughts re-centered.
He looked at Orsaga again.
The new threat was gone—
But the old one remained.
This guy had sliced off his arms and legs.
Jason never forgot a grudge.
Low IQ? Sure.
But memory? Top-tier.
He once swam from America to Myanmar just to get revenge.
How many monsters can say that?
Jason's blade rose again.
He was ready for round two.
But before he could strike—
A barrage of gunfire rang out from behind.
Dozens of bullets pelted Jason from every direction, turning him into Swiss cheese.
Even his machete was blasted out of his hands.
The reinforcements had finally arrived.
Although their captain was dead and growing cold in a dreamworld grave, the officers he called had made it to the scene.
Jason, riddled with bullets, still tried to move forward.
Unfazed.
Unstoppable.
Orsaga let out a small laugh and casually flicked another throwing blade.
Shhhk—
Jason's head separated from his shoulders.
Just like that, his towering frame collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
After motioning for the officers to cease fire, Orsaga walked over and kicked Jason's body over.
Then, in full view of everyone, he took out his dagger and carved open Jason's chest.
The stench was revolting—rotted meat and festering sludge.
But Orsaga ignored it all.
He began to inscribe holy scripture—line by line—into Jason's ribcage and spine.
As the holy text took form, dark mist began to swirl, and haunting, ethereal wails echoed all around them.
The nearby officers—who had just been inching forward to ask what the hell was going on—froze, then instinctively took two full steps back.
Whatever this was—
It definitely wasn't normal.
If someone told them a demon was about to rise from the underworld, they'd believe it in a heartbeat.
A few minutes later.
As Orsaga's sacred scripture neared completion, amid a cacophony of ghostly wails and howls, streams of pitch-black mist began to seep slowly from Jason's body, eventually condensing into a grotesque, large-headed boy.
The moment the figure materialized, the surrounding officers felt the air temperature around them plummet.
An eerie, inexplicable sense of dread crept into everyone's hearts.
Instinctively, one officer chambered a round in his gun and raised it, training his sights on the dark figure, ready to fire at a moment's notice.
The rest of the police, influenced by the tension, followed suit—nervously watching as the situation unfolded.
Yet at the center of it all, Orsaga showed no concern.
He remained focused on carving the scripture into Jason's chest, unfazed by the standoff.
As the sacred text neared its end, more black mist surged from Jason's body.
The mutated, oversized-headed boy locked eyes with Orsaga for a long moment—then silently burst into a puff of black smoke.
The infamous killer of a hundred—Jason—was officially dead.
But the black mist didn't disperse.
Instead, it began to reform.
Eventually, a floating book emerged in midair, shrouded in black fog, with a twisted human face embedded on its cover. Its very presence exuded ominous dread.
Orsaga's eyes lit up with a faint trace of interest.
He casually put away his dagger, stood up, and reached out his hand.
Under the intense gaze of the nearby officers, he calmly caught the strange book.
The moment his fingers touched it, without needing any explanation, Orsaga instinctively understood its name.
The Book of Death.
A strange, distorted voice echoed in his mind—twisted, ancient, and dreamlike.
"New wielder… submit to me. In return, you shall receive…"
It was the ancient malevolence bound to the Book of Death.
Even someone with an iron will could be subtly warped over time—until they became nothing more than a puppet of the book.
But after whispering to Orsaga for a while, the will bound to the book began to sense that something was... off.
In the past, even the most strong-willed individuals who resisted its corruption would feel at least a twinge of discomfort.
But Orsaga was different.
His will was like a constantly spinning vortex—he offered no resistance to the book's whispers.
Which should have been good news. Yet strangely… the book was getting nothing in return.
It felt like tossing bait into the gaping maw of a great beast—only to be met with silence.
"???"
The ancient evil residing within the Book of Death couldn't help but mutter, "Can you at least react a little?"
Then, it sensed something shifting in Orsaga's soul.
Immediately, the Book of Death assumed its influence was finally taking hold.
Yes! Its whispers weren't in vain!
It eagerly intensified its efforts.
But seconds later… it noticed something even more wrong.
"This guy's... flavor is off. He doesn't taste like a human at all…"
Before it could dwell on the realization—
The true form of Orsaga, hidden deep within the Abyss, suddenly lit up with billions of glowing runes.
Their power automatically triggered a formidable spell.
A small, crimson vortex spun into existence beside Orsaga's avatar, linking directly to his true self across time and space.
In the next instant, before the Book of Death could even react—
It was forcefully sucked in and teleported into the Abyss.
Just like that, Orsaga sent it as a long-distance express delivery to himself.
At that exact moment—
The world where Orsaga's avatar resided quaked inexplicably.
A muffled roar echoed across the entire planet, reverberating inside the minds of every living creature.
Panic and fear surged in their hearts.
But Orsaga (the avatar) merely patted his head and returned to normal.
He could sense it clearly: the roar, though intense, faded just as quickly as it had come.
The creature behind it likely wasn't even physically present in this world.
In fact, this world seemed to have some kind of internal force that blocked the being's arrival entirely.
So apart from screaming angrily from afar, the being had no way to do anything.
This realization made Orsaga chuckle lightly—he had briefly worried that his avatar might be destroyed.
Looking at the scattered officers who had been knocked over by the roar, he thought with amusement:
"Looks like this world still hides many secrets… It's not as simple as I thought."
Meanwhile, deep in the Abyss—
Orsaga's true form received the "zero-cost delivery."
Though the Book of Death was but a speck of dust in the hands of his seventy-meter-tall body, that didn't lessen his interest in it.
When the book tried to corrupt his avatar, Orsaga's precognitive instincts had immediately warned him: this thing might be useful.
That alone was reason enough for him to personally seize it.
As for the ancient malevolence inside the Book of Death, it was completely stunned by the current situation.
A moment ago, it had been in the human world.
Now, it was somewhere utterly unfamiliar.
'What the hell just happened?'
Even worse, it had lost all connection to its creator—the Beast of Apocalypse.
From its perspective, the foreign laws of this world were like potent sulfuric acid, constantly corroding and dissolving its power.
If no one intervened, it would soon be completely disintegrated by this world's natural laws.
This was the inevitable rejection caused by clashing rules between different planes of existence.
That was exactly why Orsaga wasn't at all concerned about whether the Book of Death's original owner would come looking for him.
No matter how strong a native being was, they were still bound by their universe.
Unless they had a proper method—or enough power to brute-force their way through the barriers between realms—they were no different from beasts trapped in cages.
No matter how loud they roared, they posed no real threat.
And according to the hints provided by his precognition, the Book of Death's original master didn't possess that kind of power.
Now, as the book found itself being scrutinized by a massive, unknown demonic god, it mustered its courage and shouted:
"I don't care who you are or how strong you think you are—put me back where I came from! Or else, my creator, the great Beast of Apocalypse, will tear you to shreds!"
Toward the end, its tone turned desperate.
It could feel it—if it didn't escape soon, it was finished.
But thoughts are just thoughts. Hopes are just hopes.
Once Orsaga noticed that its strength was rapidly dissolving under the Abyss's laws, he simply tossed it into his mouth.
No hesitation. No interest in what it had to say.
He'd get all the answers he needed once it was digested.
No need to waste time listening.
In a certain world, in an unimaginably distant past...
The sky and the land were still vast and barren.
The sea was a deep, blood-red color—like an ocean of thick crimson blood.
As for living beings?
There were only a few dozen scattered across the world.
They were immortal, powerful, savage, brutal, and primitive—but also incredibly bored.
They spent their days wandering aimlessly or fighting each other for amusement.
Years passed like this—year after empty year.
Eventually, one ancient being grew so bored he began to reflect on his existence. He concluded that life was truly so boring it hurt.
In that unbearable boredom, he decided to find something—anything—to do.
After some thought, he had a sudden, ridiculous inspiration: He would create a unique treasure of his own.
And so, after countless years of trial and error, he succeeded in crafting a special kind of paper that could resist the erosion of time.
He then used the blood-red sea water as ink and began recording his thoughts and knowledge upon the pages.
Things like how best to pummel an enemy, which side to drink from a cup, or which leg to step with first...
Periodically, he would add new entries and remove old, useless ones—even those he admitted were complete nonsense.
Meanwhile, the world continued to slowly change.
The climate grew milder. Plants began to grow. More life forms began to emerge.
These new creatures, though more numerous and diverse than the original beings, were incomparably weaker.
Even their lifespans were laughably short.
To the ancient beings, the newcomers were nothing more than pets—creatures to be occasionally crushed or occasionally helped, much like humans might feed stray cats or dogs.
The later generations feared these capricious ancients, yet they also revered them.
They feared their erratic moods. They revered their overwhelming power.
Gradually, the new lifeforms began to refer to them as gods.
Time moved on.
As their numbers grew, the younger species began to form civilizations of their own.
They invented concepts like good and evil—ideas that hadn't existed before—and these began to soften some of their more barbaric tendencies.
Meanwhile, the ancient being still focused on his goal of crafting a treasure.
It wasn't really due to perseverance—he wasn't that patient.
But as his creation neared completion, he noticed something strange:
His previously stagnant power had begun to grow again.
That was all the motivation he needed.
More time passed.
The new civilizations evolved rapidly—from primitive tribes to organized city-states.
And with growing awareness, they began to categorize the ancients into two opposing factions:
Gods of Good and Gods of Evil.
People began worshipping them according to their own values and ideals.
As these worshippers began to communicate and organize, they formed factions and sects—
And thus, the early prototypes of pantheon cults were born.
It was during this time that the ancient gods, previously bored out of their minds and casually toying with mortal lives, made an unexpected discovery.
At first, it was just faint, irritating noise in their ears. Then, with time, a strange energy began to surround them.
That energy—like a divine nutrient—passively nourished them and increased their power.
Faith.
And so, driven by the rewards, the gods began to fight among themselves.
Through long and brutal war, they gradually explored the deeper uses of this power of faith.
Meanwhile, the god who had been recording his thoughts for eons finally completed his treasure—
The Book of Death.
He continued upgrading and refining it over time.
Eventually, it served three core functions:
1. Corrupt and manipulate minds, eroding everything around it.
2. Bind magical contracts, granting strange powers to those who signed—Freddy and Jason being notable examples.
3. Distort reality, allowing limited reality-warping by expending energy.
As the wars between gods wound down—
Perhaps due to the more appealing values of the Good Gods, their worshippers generated stronger and purer faith.
The creator of the Book of Death—known as the Beast of Apocalypse—belonged to the Evil God faction, which ultimately lost by a narrow margin.
Defeated, they were exiled from their world, forced into a long journey of cosmic exile...
Wandering endlessly across the crystalline barriers of the multiverse, through countless worlds.
Eventually, luck was on their side—they discovered a newborn world teeming with life.
But there was a problem.
Life in that world had only just begun to develop.
It would take tens of millions of years before it could become useful.
Still, with no other choice, they waited.
Then the Beast of Apocalypse made a surprising discovery:
Right next door to their current world, there was another world—far more vibrant, filled with life.
Even better, its inhabitants were pathetically weak.
He was overjoyed. His paradise was right next door!
But there was a catch...
That world was surrounded by a strange energy barrier, actively repelling the presence of evil gods.
Faced with this obstacle, and after much painful deliberation, the Beast of Apocalypse decided to take a gamble:
He threw his divine artifact, the Book of Death, into that world.
The plan?
To corrupt the natives from within and have them use the book—opening a dimensional rift and summoning him into their realm.
And that's when things started to go very, very wrong.
Every single time the Book of Death was about to open the portal. Some hero would appear out of nowhere and derail everything in the most ridiculous way imaginable.
And not just once—this happened over thirty times!
There was the village girl taught by a wandering mage—turned out to be a genius. Mastered magic in a year. Slaughtered the book's wielder in two.
There was a beggar chewing on dry bread who stumbled across a knight training with a sword—miraculously awakened divine swordsmanship, and a few days later casually beheaded the Book of Death's user just as the portal was about to open.
From ancient eras to modern times, time after time, these heroic interruptions ruined everything.
Each time, the Book of Death got so close to opening the gate—only to be snuffed out in the most cliché, over-the-top "chosen one" fashion.
Understandably, the Beast of Apocalypse was livid.
He was so angry he could practically feel his rage exploding.
It was beyond infuriating.
He swore again and again:
"If I ever get my revenge—I will paint all seven continents and four oceans in blood!"
...But that never happened.
Meanwhile, Orsaga's avatar, lazing about in the Matrix Purgatory, encountered the Book of Death.
He felt the artifact's dark allure—and, on a whim, began his zero-dollar acquisition campaign.
One thing led to another, and the book got "express delivered" straight to Orsaga's main body.
And just like that.
The Book of Death, after millennia of failed manipulation, ended up serving Orsaga for free.
After absorbing all the knowledge hidden within the Book of Death, Orsaga was left with one clear thought:
The Beast of Apocalypse has truly lived a rough life.
As a fellow member of the villainous camp, he couldn't help but shake his head and sigh:
"Brother Beast of Apocalypse. Don't blame me for not acting like a proper demon. It was the Book of Death that seduced me first! As a demon of the Abyss—how could I possibly resist temptation?"
And then, with great satisfaction...
He let out a mighty burp.
Based on the information Orsaga had absorbed, the Beast of Apocalypse, at the height of its power, might have even surpassed him in strength.
Naturally, the divine artifact it spent billions of years creating—the Book of Death—was anything but weak.
Its abilities were not only powerful, but also perfectly aligned with Orsaga's areas of expertise. He could easily extract the essence of its power to fill in the few gaps in his own arsenal.
Corrupting Matter meshed seamlessly with Orsaga's talents in infection, decay, and viral transmission.
Magical Contracts were practically second nature to any demon.
And Reality Distortion allowed his will to exert direct influence over the physical world.
"How convenient…"
Murmuring to himself, Orsaga stepped down from a mountain made of charred corpses, tucked away in a corner of the Lava Wastelands, savoring the surge of power that had just flowed into him.
Due to the differing flow of time between planes.
Though his avatar had only spent about a hundred days in the Matrix Purgatory, Orsaga's true body had already passed over four hundred days.
In his pursuit of evolution points and raw energy, even excluding the time spent soaking in the heart of stars, he had already spent over two hundred days slaughtering across every corner of the Lava Wastelands.
By now, he had long since lost track of how many beings he'd killed.
After leaving the main city of the Wastelands—Ashkarath, the only place with anything resembling law—he had opened a spatial gate, teleporting himself a great distance away.
From that moment forward, Orsaga began an indiscriminate slaughter.
Regardless of species, if a lifeform's strength was weaker than his own, it would be killed on sight.
Once he had exterminated all targets of value within a region—sometimes spanning millions of kilometers—he would simply move on.
And so, the Slaughter Tour continued.
By now, he had already jumped to sixteen different regions.
The one he was in now was nearly empty—only a handful of troublesome or worthless beings remained.
At that moment, his senses detected something new.
Shifting his gaze slightly, Orsaga's crimson eyes spotted, tens of thousands of kilometers away, a massive metallic sphere several kilometers in diameter speeding through the air.
Inside, he sensed the presence of tens of thousands of lifeforms.
With a casual flick of his tail, a spatial gate opened behind him.
Then, with fluid precision, his tail pierced through it—emerging directly beside the giant metal sphere.
In an instant, it broke through the hull and defensive enchantments, penetrating deep into the core of the vessel.
Within mere seconds—
His tail extended like an infinite chain whip, stretching for dozens of kilometers, systematically slaughtering every single lifeform it encountered inside the sphere, absorbing all available energy and usable matter.
Inside the core chamber of the sphere, several humanoid beings had been discussing their return trip.
At that moment, their advanced perception—enhanced by innate talents and high rank demon-class power—warned them of a cataclysmic threat heading their way.
Without hesitation, they activated specialized spatial artifacts in a desperate attempt to teleport out.
Ripples of spatial energy began to shimmer around them.
Just as the transfer process neared completion, glowing red runes along Orsaga's tail—the marks of death itself—flared to life.
A surge of invisible power slammed into the surrounding space, transforming into a powerful dimensional anchor that locked everything in place.
The teleportation ripples fizzled out instantly.
The humanoids' faces twisted from relief to horror.
They had no time to react.
In the next instant, Orsaga's tail had already finished annihilating every lifeform on the ship's outer layers and now broke into the core.
In a flash—so fast it defied perception—
Each of them was pierced clean through, bypassing all defensive mechanisms, their bodies and souls impaled before they even realized what was happening.
The team's leader, the strongest among them, barely had time to blink before his chest and spirit were both skewered, nailing him to the ship's command console.
"S-spare me—"
He began to plead instinctively, voice trembling with fear.
But in the very next instant, he was completely devoured.
From beginning to end, despite possessing power close to a High rank demon, he had no chance to resist.
No time to fight back.
Not even a chance to see what had killed him.
Once every worthwhile target inside was exterminated—
Orsaga's tail, which had grown over a hundred kilometers long and wrapped around the sphere more than a dozen times, began to retract.
The barbs along its surface now acted like microscopic saw blades—shredding as it withdrew.
The metallic hull, once tough enough to withstand a Tsar Bomba at point-blank range, felt like soft foam before Orsaga's tail.
Within a second, as the tail retracted to a critical threshold, the entire sphere was dismantled like dough, torn into countless fragments.
Debris rained down.
Then came a colossal explosion that rippled across thousands of kilometers.
A towering column of fire pierced the sky, forming a vast burning canopy that expanded outward.
Watching the scene unfold, Orsaga sighed in admiration:
"Slaughter and fire… truly a beautiful sight."
Only then did his tail shrink back to its normal size, slipping quietly through the spatial gate.
'This region's been cleared out too. Even though I've already gathered enough energy to evolve into a Archdemon, it's better to be safe. Might as well slaughter another three trillion, just to be sure…'
With that thought, his form faded from sight, heading toward a distant region billions of kilometers away.
His hunt would continue.
And as he vanished, the other lifeforms in the area immediately relaxed, returning to their usual routines.
Every creature in the Abyss understood what that sharp, unstable energy fluctuation around Orsaga meant.
He was close to evolution.
And slaughter was the fuel for that transformation.
This kind of thing happened constantly throughout the Abyss—especially here in the Lava Wastelands.
The only difference was in scale.
Some demons would kill off a few square kilometers.
Others—like Orsaga—would wipe out regions spanning millions or even tens of millions of kilometers.
In such circumstances, weaker creatures instinctively fled.
Those with power rivaling Orsaga's preferred to avoid provoking a powder keg.
That's why even the most fearsome creatures, those capable of matching Orsaga in strength, simply let him continue his slaughter unimpeded.
After all, once everything was dead, new life would fill the void soon enough.
So long as he didn't step into their territory, they didn't care how many he killed.
As for the weaklings in their own domains?
If they died, so be it.
Becoming food for someone's evolution… was an honor in itself.
Countless creatures stared at the towering fire pillar, their hearts filled with awe—and envy.
And as many began fighting for scraps of land and resources left in Orsaga's wake, brutal skirmishes broke out anew.
Where Orsaga had gone, or whether he'd keep killing?
No one cared.
It was just slaughter.
Whether one died—
Or a billion—
Or a trillion—
In the Abyss, such events were no more than routine. Nothing worth fussing over.
Unless you were directly affected, no one paid attention.
Everything carried on.
Just like it always had, through the endless ages.
Scene change—
Orsaga (Clone).
At the moment, he was basking in the enthusiastic praise of the residents of Elm Street.
Even the town mayor had come personally by car to shake Orsaga's hand, his face filled with emotion as he said,
"Thank you for putting your life on the line to eliminate Freddy, the vengeful spirit that's haunted us for decades!"
Orsaga smiled modestly and nodded,
"Oh, it was nothing. Just doing my part…"
The other townsfolk swarmed around him like fanatical fans, showering him with sycophantic praise, shameless in their flattery.
In their eyes, the man who had finally destroyed Freddy was nothing short of divine. A God-sent savior. An angel descended from the heavens.
He had delivered them from a living nightmare.
Clearly, the people had long suffered under the torment of Freddy—the Nightmare Chaplin—and their gratitude toward Orsaga was overflowing.
A righteous demon who punished evil and protected the innocent.
Orsaga was the people's hero.
At least, as long as he didn't try to rob them—or kill them for no reason.
Listening to the adulation around him, Orsaga puffed up his chest with pride, thoroughly enjoying himself.
'Yes… praise me more… I can take it…'
Back when he'd founded the Crimson Hour Church in the Harry Potter world, it wasn't just for harvesting faith energy.
He genuinely enjoyed being worshipped.
Unaware that he was still reveling in praise, the mayor took a small box from his assistant and opened it in front of the crowd.
Inside was a golden badge, emblazoned with Orsaga's face.
"Here, Mr. Orsaga! This is a joint Hero's Medal, awarded by our town and nearby Grandi Town. You will forever be our friend!"
Yes, after learning that Orsaga had been granted the title of Small-Town Hero for saving another community from a vengeful spirit, the towns of Freddy and Jason put their heads together.
And came up with a plan:
A combined Hero Medal—plus a $20 million check.
Simple. Brutal. Effective.
Who could complain with that kind of bonus?
With the award ceremony concluded, the once-unknown name "Orsaga" officially appeared on the International Exorcists Association's top-tier ranking list.
Countless groups tormented by vengeful spirits and monsters alike began to pay attention.
After all, anyone who could eliminate two targets ranked at "Red Threat Level"—
(Technically two and a half, since Mary Shaw only counted as a partial, being banished instead of destroyed)— had proven themselves capable beyond question.
There was no way it was just dumb luck.
Many began scrambling to contact Orsaga, hoping he could come save them next.
But there was just one issue:
Orsaga didn't even own a phone.
He was a freelance exorcist—completely at the mercy of fate.
Meanwhile, some far less friendly individuals had also taken note of him—
Namely: the Purgators.
Seeing his oddly out-of-place appearance on the forums, and reading the kill logs of red-tier threats, it wasn't hard to put two and two together.
Anyone with a functioning brain could tell he wasn't a native of this world.
In this kind of horror-themed world, Jason and Freddy were practically main characters.
Normal locals could maybe delay or fend them off for a while.
But to kill both in one go?
Impossible—unless you weren't from around here.
---
Japan.
"Damn it… he's already killed two of them…"
Staring at the screen, one Purgator was practically frothing with envy.
Especially considering his current situation—
Upon entering this world, he had somehow provoked Sadako,
and while fleeing, accidentally burned down Kayako's house.
How's that for bad luck?
And so began his endless escape saga.
Currently, he had already run halfway around Tokyo.
Behind him, the entire Saeki family—alongside Sadako—had chased him nonstop.
At this point, disaster followed him like a curse: cruise ships sinking, trains derailing, gas line explosions.
He'd unintentionally dragged thousands of innocent people into the chaos.
But what could he do?
If he stopped, they'd catch him—and it wouldn't end well.
As for the Japanese government?
Once they discovered that Kayako and Sadako were haunting Tokyo, they did some digging.
And like any good bureaucracy, when they couldn't solve the problem itself…
They decided to deal with the one who caused the problem.
They zeroed in on the Purgator.
Of course, the poor guy was completely unaware of this.
His real surprise hadn't even arrived yet:
Being hunted by both vengeful spirits and the Japanese government.
Double the thrill. Double the fun.
---
China – Deep Mountains.
"Ahh GIAO! Don't come any closer!!"
Another Purgator was running for his life.
Chasing him through the shadows was a thin, desiccated figure.
All he'd wanted was to find a few hopping zombies to farm for the main storyline—
So he casually unearthed an ancient tomb.
He thought it was just a lucky encounter…
But no. He ended up awakening a millennium-old zombie king dressed in Song Dynasty robes.
This guy was already halfway evolved into a flying night fiend!
Even with a few tricks up his sleeve, he was still just a human.
He silently cursed his parents for not giving him four legs instead of two.
He needed more speed.
---
Egypt – Somewhere in the Desert.
RATATATATATA—
A squad of gunmen was being relentlessly chased.
Behind them: thousands of mummy guardians in pursuit.
Even worse, dozens of priest-like mummies were chanting from afar, casting powerful spells.
A massive sandstorm loomed in the distance, ready to engulf everything.
The team's commander—yet another Purgator—was near breaking point.
"I just wanted to kill TEN mummies! And you gave me thousands!!"
He was 99% sure he wasn't making it out alive.
---
India.
"Oh, my God…"
Another Purgator was fleeing in blind panic.
Behind him, four eerie, leather-clad figures stalked him with terrifying calm.
He had heard rumors of strange happenings in the Mumbai slums.
Thinking it would be an easy side quest, he went to investigate a local bar.
That was his first—and last—mistake.
As soon as he stepped inside, he saw hundreds of human corpses being torn apart by chains and iron hooks.
What should've been a lively nightclub had become a nightmarish slaughterhouse.
Blood pooled on the dance floor like a shallow lake.
And standing atop the pile of corpses—
A tall figure, his head covered in symmetrical wounds, his skull nailed through with spikes.
Any horror movie buff would recognize him instantly:
The Hell Priest, also known as Pinhead, from the Hellraiser series.
And he wasn't alone. He'd brought three henchmen with him.
The full Hell F4 ensemble was present.
The Purgator stared in stunned silence before muttering bitterly:
"Matrix Purgatory, you bastard… I'm so screwedd