Guts was about to force fate. Again.
His eyes fixed on the horizon, he felt his breath slow down, his instincts screaming.
The silence wasn't natural.
Something was coming.
Maybe the Cult was expecting a counterattack.
Maybe they had already figured it out.
But he couldn't wait. Not here. Not now.
He turned one last time to face the men — frozen faces, fear carved into every line, but weapons still in hand.
They had held the line so far.
Rem stood beside him. Her morningstar already raised. She was ready too.
Guts:
"Stay here."
"Hold the first barricades. If they get through, you'll be the wall. You can do it."
There was no hesitation in his voice.
Only certainty.
Rem didn't reply. She nodded slowly. A silent promise.
Guts:
"I'm going ahead. We have to make them move. Force them to attack. I don't want them to flank us, or go straight for the mansion. If I can draw them here, now, we keep the initiative."
He turned without another word.
The red glow of the setting sun slid along the dents in his armor.
With every step, the earth trembled faintly under his weight.
He drew the Dragonslayer.
And in the distance, a trumpet blared.
Shrill. Off-key.
A guttural, inhuman scream.
The herald of the first assault.
The village was about to be tested.
And Guts, a vanguard of the apocalypse, charged straight into the enemy.
The wind had stopped.
The dust no longer rose. Even the trees seemed still.
Guts walked, alone, in front. Sword in hand, eyes fixed on the dark shapes slowly forming in the mist.
Ten… twenty… then dozens more, faceless, voiceless. Their filthy, uniformed robes masked any humanity left — if any remained.
They did not scream.
They did not run.
They marched like men walking to their own graves.
He needed no warcry. His sword spoke for him.
He cleaved the first body clean.
An arm flew. A jet of blood splashed his black chestplate.
But no one reacted.
The cultists kept advancing — slowly, mindlessly.
He struck again.
A second. A third. He didn't stop.
His blade drew circles, crosses, arcs of death in the heavy silence.
Bones cracked, skulls shattered, entrails spilled.
And yet…
Nothing. No screams. No retreat. No retaliation.
Guts frowned. He didn't understand.
This wasn't an assault.
It was an offering.
His neck burned.
He winced. The Brand of Sacrifice was bleeding.
This wasn't a normal squad.
This wasn't the main attack.
It was a test. A distraction.
He lifted his head, breath short, one eye sharp.
Then he saw it.
Something was coming.
No — someone.
Behind the corpses, a figure emerged.
A man. At least, in appearance.
He wore the same black robe, stained with mud and dried blood. The same painted symbol on his chest. The same silence.
But his face was exposed.
Pale skin. Bloodshot eyes. Twisted mouth.
He trembled.
Every move was twitchy, convulsive. Like a puppet pulled too tight on its strings.
??? (rambling, unstable):
"Ah… Ahahah… The trial… the trial begins…"
He spoke to no one. Loud, then soft.
Sometimes he scratched his scalp until it bled.
Then he smiled. Then he cried.
His voice… Guts had heard it before.
That madness. Those broken words. That sick joy.
Betelgeuse.
It wasn't him. But it felt like him.
A vessel.
A fragment.
Guts froze.
Around the possessed man, the air rippled.
He saw them — invisible hands.
Five. Six. Seven already.
Arms of shadow.
Blades without form.
No time to think.
??? (whispers):
"Come…"
The hands shot toward him.
The air cracked, split. An invisible force tried to rip his arm, his neck, his leg.
But Guts held firm.
He barely moved.
He dodged by instinct, by habit. By rage.
His one eye tracked the unseen.
He could see them.
He could feel them.
His Brand was burning.
And he understood, in his own way, what no one else could:
There was nothing divine here.
Nothing sacred.
Only a monster.
Guts:
"RAAH!"
He lunged.
The cultist shrieked, staggered back, launched the shadow arms.
One tried to grip his throat.
Too slow.
His Dragonslayer tore through air and flesh.
The shadow vanished.
The twisted man stumbled, stunned.
??? (bleeding, trembling):
"You… you can… you can see them…?!"
Blood spilled from his mouth.
He trembled harder. He laughed.
??? (screaming):
"Haha… My master… my master is coming… You… you're nothing! Nothing but a sacrifice!"
Guts didn't reply.
His sword came down a second time.
This time, there was nothing left to say.
Only blood.
And shattered bone.
The heart of the village was on fire.
Not the houses. Not yet.
But the air itself.
Thick with the scent of iron, sharp screams, and a haze not only of dust.
Guts moved forward.
Behind the front lines, the bodies were piling up.
Soldiers. Cultists.
Sometimes impossible to tell which was which.
All twisted. Torn apart.
This was war.
He turned a corner — and saw Ricardo and his troops, surrounded.
The mercenary shouted orders, wielding his axe like a shield.
At his side, Mimi cast spells, flinging cultists away in bursts of magic.
Without a word, Guts charged.
His blade cut through one body. Then another. And a third.
He broke through the line—alone.
His armor clanged with each step. The cultists backed away—too late.
A body crashed against a wall with a dull thud.
Guts turned his head. He had reached Ricardo's flank—where the fighting had been fiercest.
The cultists were retreating. Not in panic. In silence.
It looked more like a tactical withdrawal than a rout.
Ricardo looked up, panting, arms covered in black blood.
Mimi and Hetaro flanked him, weapons lowered but ready.
Ricardo (gruff, breathless):
"Guts... they're pulling back. But they're not scared."
Guts studied the fleeing silhouettes, then looked at his own men. All exhausted. Some pale. But alive.
Guts (quietly):
"Did you see anything strange? Any cultists that were... different?"
Ricardo shrugged.
Ricardo:
"One or two were laughing, screaming for no reason. Mad gestures. But that's all."
Guts clenched his jaw.
Guts:
"If they come back... and you see one acting alone, moving unlike the rest—fall back.
Don't face it alone.
Regroup at the village center.
We'll kill it together. No other way."
He locked eyes with Ricardo, then the twins.
Guts:
"Understood?"
Ricardo (grunts):
"Yeah. We're with you."
Without another word, Guts turned away.
He moved through the fog like a beast through a field of ashes.
In the distance, the clashing metal had grown scarce.
Wilhelm's line had held.
He found the swordsman slightly apart from the rest, blade bloodied, still standing despite his age.
Around him, wounded soldiers sat or stood in silence. No complaints. Just weary eyes.
Wilhelm turned.
Wilhelm:
"Guts."
Guts:
"I ran into a different kind of cultist. He was alone. Bigger. Slower. But lasted longer than the others."
Wilhelm nodded slowly.
Wilhelm:
"Anomalies. Fragments of a whole. Did you kill him?"
Guts:
"Before he reached the barricades. He was testing our lines.
They're trying to wear us down."
Wilhelm methodically wiped his blade.
Wilhelm:
"One of Julius's men passed through here. Said they downed one too. Faster. But unstable. Julius finished him."
Guts raised his eyebrows. A sigh escaped his lips.
Guts:
"Hm. So far... we're holding."
He let his shoulders drop—just for a moment. His breath slowed. The tension eased slightly.
It wasn't over. But they weren't fighting alone anymore.
Guts:
"If another like him shows up, fall back to the center. We crush them there."
Wilhelm looked up, a dark gleam in his eyes.
Wilhelm:
"Very well."
Guts moved on.
Before he reached the center, something felt off.
A heavy silence hung in the air. Too dense. Too empty.
Where there should've been shouts, orders, footsteps… there was nothing.
He quickened his pace.
And then Felix appeared.
Running. Alone.
His face was frozen. Cold. Deformed by the shadow of what he'd just lived.
Guts:
"Felix?"
The cat-knight stopped before him, panting.
Felix:
"Traitors, Guts… I should've known. Spies. But I didn't think there'd be so many..."
Guts said nothing. He waited.
Then came the blow.
Felix:
"A cultist slipped among the villagers. He waited… and when we let our guard down, he struck. Slaughtered nearly all my men. I couldn't stop it."
A pause. Then:
Felix:
"And then more came... like they rose from the ground. Dozens. Cultists. They fell on us.
Now they're killing our wounded.
Slaughtering them like livestock."
Guts clenched his jaw. His fists cracked.
Felix:
"One brave soul gave his life so I could warn you.
If we don't act now, it'll be too late."
A breath. Then Guts's raspy voice:
Guts:
"I'll save what's left.
You—go get Julius and Wilhelm.
We end this now or we get surrounded."
Felix nodded and ran off.
Guts, meanwhile, bolted.
His boots slammed against the stones. Every step brought him closer to carnage.
The ground bore the marks of ruin.
Blood streaked across the pavement. Flames wept from shattered rooftops.
When he arrived, it was already too late.
The post had fallen.
No more soldiers. No lines.
Only a few wounded, crawling, cornered, executed one by one.
The cultists killed them on their knees. Without hatred. Without haste.
With the slow devotion that only fanaticism breeds.
Guts roared.
And lunged.
His sword came down like a divine cleaver.
One. Two. Three.
Each strike shattered a cultist in black. No time to scream. No time to pray.
But at the center… someone else stood.
He didn't flee.
But he didn't fight either.
He had invisible arms. Guts saw them. Felt them.
But something was off.
This vessel… wasn't attacking.
Each arm rose not to strike—but to deflect, repel, block.
He stepped back. Avoided.
Not a single attack.
Not a single counter.
Guts tried to close the distance. To break through.
But the arms shielded him with every step.
He couldn't reach him.
And the other… was smiling. Silent. Elusive.
Guts stopped.
Breathing hard.
Hand clenched around his blade. He understood.
This wasn't a warrior.
It was a witness.
A scout.
A diversion.
Guts (through clenched teeth):
"Tch…"
That's when Julius arrived—Wilhelm at his side.
Their boots rang out like salvation.
Julius:
"Guts! You alright?"
Guts:
"There's one, there." (nods)
"Different. Doesn't attack. He's waiting. For something. Or someone."
Wilhelm stepped forward.
His gaze hardened.
The assaults resumed.
Julius's spells rained down, shaking their lines.
Wilhelm carved bodies with surgical precision.
And Guts—brute of steel and rage—pressed forward, breaking through the invisible barrier with each swing of Dragonslayer.
The vessel's hands tried to block, repel, absorb.
But they were failing.
A subtle flicker of panic crept across the cultist's porcelain mask.
He had no allies left.
No plan.
Only his ghostly arms—and the fear of being touched.
Julius (low):
"He's cracking."
Wilhelm:
"Not yet. Not until he talks."
The vessel stepped back.
Then again.
His back hit a wall.
The three men closed in.
Guts raised his blade.
Blood was about to flow.
But the vessel spoke.
Vessel (trembling, too human):
"The battle… isn't here."
Guts:
"Whatever crap you're spewing won't change anything."
Vessel:
"It's too late... He's already gone. Your master let it happen.
You were useful.
Distracted."
He smiled slowly.
And lowered his arms.
The ghostly hands fell away.
Vessel:
"The Nightmare… has already begun elsewhere."
One sudden move.
Wilhelm was fastest.
His blade pierced the cultist's chest in a clean thrust.
Wilhelm:
"Too late for riddles."
The body collapsed.
Guts gritted his teeth.
It wasn't over.
A violent premonition clenched his gut.
He raised his eyes toward the horizon.
Instinct screaming.