The hooves crunched on the shattered gravel of the path.
Wilhelm dismounted without a word, his eyes immediately locked on the scene unfolding just a few meters ahead.
Before them, the manor's garden had become a battlefield.
Guts — massive and dark — stood alone, facing the Bishop.
The monster in the violet robe, his bare face twisted by madness, attacked without rest, unleashing a storm of invisible hands that tore at the ground, the trees, and sometimes even the air itself.
But Guts held his ground.
Every strike was deflected, broken, absorbed by the raw power of his sword.
His steps were heavy, his muscles taut, but his gaze — that gaze of death returned from hell — never wavered.
He advanced. Again. Always.
Farther away, Ram was fighting alone against a tide of cultists — hooded figures, masked, voiceless, faceless.
Her breath was short, but her magic sliced through the air like a controlled hurricane.
Every move cut. Every gesture killed.
Julius: "...By the gods..." he whispered, frozen.
Rem closed her eyes for a moment, heart tight.
Rem: "I… I can feel my sister. She's alive. But… something's wrong.
Something unnatural… something dark."
Wilhelm watched a moment longer, silent.
The cultists kept coming — none fled. None spoke.
They obeyed, mechanical, to the mad rhythm of a leader who screamed like the damned and struck like a god.
Wilhelm: "The battle here is far from over," he finally said.
His breath was short.
His eyes fixed.
And the mark… was bleeding.
Guts swung, struck, stepped back, struck again.
The giant blade tore through the invisible hands, slashed the air, bit into the earth. Every impact rang like a death knell.
Before him, the Bishop — a grotesque, twitching puppet — laughed, howled, twisted.
But Guts didn't listen.
He heard nothing.
The world had narrowed.
No more garden. No more manor. No witnesses.
Only the monster.
And himself.
Him… and his rage.
A step. A dodge. Another hand severed.
Then — silence.
The monster stopped. Cold.
No more howls. No more strikes.
He stood motionless.
Guts gripped the hilt of his sword. He didn't trust it.
And he was right.
Footsteps.
Figures burst from the mist.
Hooded servants. Silent. Jaw clenched.
Shadows with empty faces.
They charged him.
No weapons. No screams.
Only flesh hurled at the beast.
Guts didn't hesitate.
His blade roared.
The first body was cleanly cut.
The second crushed under steel.
The third impaled without a glance.
They fell. He advanced.
He killed them all. He had to get through.
Because nothing — not even the damned of this cult — would hold him back.
And at the center of it all… Betelgeuse had his back turned.
The Bishop… was reading.
He held an old, worn book, covered in darkened symbols.
The Gospel.
His fingers trembled as he flipped the pages. His lips moved, voiceless.
Betelgeuse: "Impossible..." he stammered.
"It's not written… It's not here… Why is it not here?!"
He was unraveling. Slowly. Irrevocably.
Unaware that Death — clad in black armor — was drawing near.
Betelgeuse kept flipping pages.
His fingers trembled. His breath faltered.
Betelgeuse: "No… I'm not supposed to die here… No, no…
The Witch has never been wrong… never…"
His shoulders started shaking. He shoved a finger into his mouth, bit into his palm, twisted his back like a puppet without strings.
Betelgeuse: "How is this possible?!" he roared.
And then, slowly, he turned around.
Eyes wild. The book clutched to his chest.
But it was too late.
Guts' blade had already pierced his chest.
A crack of bone. A strangled gasp.
Betelgeuse looked down. The steel was lodged deep in his heart.
He smiled.
A twisted smile, glued to his face like a curse.
Betelgeuse: "This… is only the beginning… So many Worthies remain…
The village… will fall. At any moment…"
Guts didn't move.
His lone eye — dark and steady — didn't blink.
Then he spoke, voice low, almost tired:
Guts: "You're wrong.
It's over.
The others are back.
You've lost."
Betelgeuse tried to reply.
But Guts pulled out his sword… and drove his iron fist into the Bishop's mouth, down to the throat.
A metallic click.
A blast of air.
And the trigger.
The explosion shook the ground.
Betelgeuse's head vanished in a spray of flesh and blood.
Guts stood still for a moment. Breathless. Eye unblinking.
Then slowly withdrew his arm, and turned away without a word.
The Bishop's body lay broken on the ground. Headless.
A dark pool spread across the stone tiles. The air was thick with blood and scorched flesh.
Guts didn't move.
His iron arm hung at his side. His massive sword, soaked, was buried in the earth at his feet.
His broad, dark back turned to the world.
He looked at no one. He barely breathed.
Like a beast frozen after the kill.
Soft footsteps. Hesitant.
Rem was the first to approach. She stopped two meters from him.
Her eyes moved from the corpse, to the warrior's back, to Ram standing not far, drenched in sweat but still upright.
She clenched her teeth. The mark on Guts' neck… was still bleeding.
Rem: "Guts…" she whispered.
He said nothing.
Wilhelm came just behind her, followed by Julius and Felix.
The old swordsman observed in silence. His gaze lingered on the Bishop's corpse, then slowly rose to the man who had struck him down.
He said nothing. He bowed, just slightly, out of respect.
Julius, however, recoiled as Guts finally turned.
There was no more rage.
Only a void. An inhuman hollow in his single eye.
Guts: "It's over."
His voice was hoarse. Deep. As if it came from another world.
No one answered.
Even Felix, usually quick with a joke, was silent.
The garden was still. But the silence brought no peace.
Guts stepped back, took his sword, and walked toward the manor without a word.
As if what he had just done… meant nothing.
The manor doors creaked open. Emilia stepped hesitantly onto the porch, Puck floating beside her, silent.
The air was heavy. Cold. Tinged with a metallic tang.
She instinctively raised a hand to her mouth.
Before her, the garden was now a field of death.
The cultists' bodies — all dressed in the same violet garb — littered the ground, scattered, mutilated.
Their hoods torn, their faces empty.
And at the center of it all… Guts.
Standing. Weapon in hand. Face unreadable.
Blood stained his armor, his arms, his cheek.
Too much to be his own.
Wilhelm and the others stood back. No one dared speak.
Emilia descended the steps, heart tight. She saw Ram — firm, wounded but standing.
She saw Rem, trembling.
But it was Guts she couldn't look away from.
The man she had left just a few days ago no longer existed.
This one wasn't a knight.
Wasn't a savior.
He was a storm. A living blade.
Emilia: "Puck…" she whispered.
Puck: "I know," the spirit murmured.
"This isn't a dream."
Ram: "Guts!" she called, breathless but standing, her crimson eyes locked on the Bishop's corpse.
"Something's wrong…"
Guts didn't reply, but his shoulders tensed.
The air around Betelgeuse's corpse shimmered, distorted — like heat waves on bloodied grass.
Then… a breath.
A black mist seeped from the dead man's mouth, crept along the ground, snaking through blood-stained grass.
Ram stepped back.
Ram: "What is…?"
Too late.
The mist rose — swift as a viper — and lunged at her.
Ram gasped, her eyes widened. She tried to scream — no sound came.
Her fingers trembled. Her legs buckled.
Then her body snapped upright. Stiff. Unnaturally straight.
Rem: "Ram!" she screamed, hands reaching, frozen with horror.
But it wasn't her anymore.
Ram's head tilted. Her pupils shrank.
A grotesque grin twisted her delicate features.
Her voice, when it came, was no longer hers.
It carried madness… and something older. Darker.
Ram (possessed): "I am Betelgeuse Romanée-Conti. Sin Archbishop. In charge of Sloth…
Pleasure to meet you."
She burst into a jagged, discordant laugh — echoing through the blood-soaked garden.
Guts didn't move.
His grip on the Dragon Slayer whitened his knuckles.
This was no longer a battle.
It was an abomination.
And Ram…
Ram was nothing more than a vessel.
A shell.
For a will not her own.