The ground shook with every step of his horse.
Evening light carved crimson blades between the trees.
The wind howled through the branches, but Guts heard only his own breath—and the hissing of his brand, raw and burning.
Something was approaching. He had no time.
He drove his heels into his mount's flanks. The beast obeyed, panting.
The trees flew past. One last turn. Then—
A rustle to the left. Too close.
Two figures burst from a bush, their faces twisted by dark marks, grinning madly.
Cultists.
One raised a rusted blade, the other a shapeless spell.
Guts didn't slow down.
He lifted the Dragon Slayer with one hand—the blade drew an arc of iron.
The first was cleanly sliced at the torso.
The second had just enough time to scream before his head smashed against a tree, launched by the sheer force of the blow.
Without a word, Guts rode on, his arm dripping with blood.
The manor gates appeared between the trees, darkened by the dying light.
Beyond them, the garden was heavy with silence, soaked in sunset red.
Guts yanked the reins. The horse stopped with a nervous whinny, stomping the ground.
He dismounted without hesitation. The Dragon Slayer scraped against his back with a metallic grind.
His eyes swept the area—every tree, every hedge, every shadow.
And then… they came.
Silently.
A dozen figures slid out from the bushes, from behind hedges, from behind trees.
All wore the same uniform: a wide, hooded robe, deep purple bordering on black.
No skin visible. No faces.
Only that coarse, concealing cloth stretched over a human void.
The only identifiable thing: the Witch's Mark, printed in red across their chest—wide, alive, almost shifting.
They moved in a circle. Slowly. Without a word.
No screams. No chants. Not even a breath.
Only the sound of feet brushing through grass, like a funeral procession.
Guts stood still.
The wind picked up, cold, and dust whirled around him.
The brand on his neck burned softly—an omen.
The next moment, they rushed him. All at once.
They threw themselves at him like a silent tide.
No war cries. No visible rage.
Just empty bodies, driven by a foreign will.
Guts turned. The Dragon Slayer roared through the air.
The first body was split in two, violently, spraying blood and black cloth.
But the others did not hesitate.
They leaped, flanked, closed the gaps, hunting for an opening.
One tried to stab him from behind—Guts spun and crushed the skull with a brutal backhand.
The blow cracked the purple mask like an empty shell. Nothing underneath. Just a formless black void.
Guts: Tch…
Another came from the left. He dodged it, drove his sword into the thing's soft chest.
It didn't scream. Barely bled. It collapsed without a word.
A hand grabbed his arm. Another his leg.
Guts growled, muscles taut, and swung his blade wide.
Three figures flew apart, torn limb from limb.
But more kept coming. Always.
Like a swarm. Like a nightmare.
They didn't retreat. They didn't fear.
Their goal wasn't to win—just to overwhelm.
His brand glowed dark red on his neck.
He felt it—something larger. A shadow behind the shadows.
He clenched his teeth. Raised his sword. Breath heavy, eyes black.
Guts: You want to dance? Then come.
A whistle split the air.
A violent gust swept across the garden.
The bushes quivered. Lantern flames flickered.
The cultists were thrown back like broken dolls.
Ram: Get out of the way.
Ram stood on the stone wall, upright, still in her nightgown, hand outstretched toward the intruders.
Her eyes shone with a sharp pink glow. Her voice was cold. Steady.
Ram: Guts. I'll take the left.
Guts: …
He gave a simple nod—and charged right.
The wind surged again, sharp as a blade.
One cultist was lifted into the air, then fell in pieces.
Ram advanced, graceful and relentless, drawing patterns in the air with her thin fingers.
Guts, meanwhile, brought his sword down in a steady rhythm.
One decapitation. A torn leg. A shattered torso.
Blood sprayed, but no one screamed. Still that morbid silence.
In less than two minutes, only a handful remained.
And suddenly… they stopped.
All at once.
As if frozen by an unseen command.
The wind fell.
Ram stopped moving, wary. Guts held still, both feet grounded.
A chill ran down his spine.
He looked at them… but he knew.
Guts (low): They're not here to fight. Not yet.
Ram: They're waiting?
Guts: Not them.
He lifted his eyes to the darkness over the estate, to the trees trembling without cause.
Guts: Him.
A crack echoed in the garden. Sharp. Inhuman.
The foliage parted—barely. A figure stepped forward, slowly.
He wore the same violet cultist robe—long coat, hooded, dark gloves, thick fabric.
But he didn't hide his face.
His eyes were bulging, ringed in black.
His mouth trembled—stretched in a twisted expression somewhere between ecstasy and pain.
He advanced without a sound, almost gracefully, until he came to a halt a few steps from Guts and Ram.
Then, with a sudden movement, he bowed—almost ceremoniously.
Betelgeuse: I am the Sin Archbishop of the Witch's Cult… in charge of Sloth… Betelgeuse Romanee-Conti… a pleasure.
He slowly raised his head, eyes locked onto Guts.
Betelgeuse: Tell me… do you know who I am?
Guts didn't answer right away. He observed the man—no, the disjointed puppet with a burning gaze.
Guts: …Yeah. We've met before.
Betelgeuse's smile faltered. His body froze.
Then, without warning, he stepped back—his body wracked by a violent spasm.
Betelgeuse: Met… before…?
He lifted his hands to his face. Began gnawing at his own fingers.
His joints cracked. His spine bent like a dry branch.
Betelgeuse: It's not written… it's not written… IT'S NOT WRITTEN!
He screamed, eyes darting, lost in another world.
Betelgeuse: He's not supposed to be here! The trial begins today—TODAY! NOT YESTERDAY! NOT TOMORROW!
He nearly tore a lock of hair from his scalp, hands trembling, knees buckling.
Then suddenly—he stopped again. Rose with chilling slowness.
Betelgeuse: No… it doesn't matter. No no no no. The Witch's love transcends anomalies. He… he too is worthy of judgment.
His eyes settled on Guts—this time like a sacred relic.
Betelgeuse: Then… let's begin. Let it commence.
Without warning, Betelgeuse raised his arms.
No chant. No signal.
The wind did not move. The earth did not tremble.
And yet—he attacked.
Ram's eyes widened.
An invisible tear split the air straight toward her. Too fast. Too quiet. Too bizarre.
She leapt back—barely dodging a crushing force.
Ram: What… was that?!
But Guts didn't move.
He had seen it. Or sensed it.
The space. The void. That pressure without name.
A breath. Then impact.
He raised his sword—and the steel bit the air.
CLANG.
An invisible spray burst, like shattering glass no one could see.
The Dragon Slayer had just cut something that shouldn't have been there. A hand? A claw? A mass?
It bled.
Betelgeuse staggered, mouth agape in disbelief.
Betelgeuse: No… no no no no no no no!
He folded in two, wracked with a manic laugh.
Betelgeuse: You can see them?! You can cut them?! No… no no no, not now!
He was crawling on the ground, tearing his nails down to the bone.
Betelgeuse: I'm blessed! I'm blessed! Why isn't it working?!
Guts gave no reply.
He was moving. Slowly.
The sword still steaming in his grip. Eyes locked.
Ram, still stunned, had never seen tension like this.
This wasn't a duel.
It was a butcher against an invisible beast.
And this time—he would strike first.
Betelgeuse's voice broke into a guttural rasp.
He kept twitching, deforming, biting his fingers.
His back cracked at an unnatural angle.
Betelgeuse: It's not possible… it's not written… why are you here?!
Betelgeuse: The trial was supposed to… start… TODAY!
He flailed his arms like a marionette with broken strings, staring at Guts in stunned ecstasy.
But Guts said nothing.
He leapt.
One step. Two. Then a charge.
The earth exploded beneath his feet.
His eyes were black. Hollow.
He charged straight at the fanatic, his blade rising over his shoulder.
Ram, frozen, could only turn her head at the last moment.
The Dragon Slayer ripped through the air in a titanic arc.
SHRAK.
An invisible hand was severed.
And in the same stroke—Betelgeuse's right arm was cut clean off.
A geyser of blood erupted.
The fanatic's body buckled, his eyes flaring wide.
Betelgeuse: AAAAAAAAAH!
He screamed like a pig being slaughtered, writhing on the ground in furious convulsions.
Betelgeuse: IMPURE! IMPURE! SIN! YOU BEAR THE SIN!
He slammed the ground with his feet, his head, his wrists. Pain turned to frenzy.
Blood soaked his robe, defiling the sacred purple of the Cult.
Guts didn't finish the swing.
He stepped back once, boots heavy with dirt, the sword still warm with blood.
Guts: What the hell is this lunatic…?
But already—the ground was warping. The air cracking.
Betelgeuse was foaming, rising again in a spasm of rage.