Chapter 78: Serpent's Vengeance
The night had settled like a suffocating shroud over the village and the surrounding wilds. The ruins of the Master's old house lay silent beneath a thick fog that seemed alive—whispering, shifting, carrying echoes of pain and loss. Time itself felt frozen, as if the world held its breath before an impending storm.
Within the chamber below the ruined walls, the shattered remains of the pot stirred faintly. A dull, pulsating light glowed from deep inside the largest fragment. A low hiss escaped the darkness, growing louder, twisting into a sound that resembled breathing—slow and steady, yet unnatural.
The air thickened.
From the broken shards, mist began to rise, swirling with purpose. Scales formed beneath the fog like dark armor, sinewy muscles coiled and tightened, and soon, a massive serpent emerged. Its seven heads raised high, eyes glowing with ancient fire. Each mouth flicked forked tongues tasting the air as it spoke with a voice both hypnotic and terrifying.
"I am Kharesh, of the serpent lineage. I shall avenge the death of my own. His death stains this earth, and I am the reckoning."
The serpent's gaze burned with vengeance as it slithered forward, a living nightmare born of magic and grief. Every inch of its massive body seemed infused with ancient sorrow and searing rage. As it slid into the shadows, the ground trembled faintly, and the fog followed in its wake.
Far from the ruins, in his hidden refuge, the Master sat slumped against the cold stone wall. His breaths were shallow, haunted eyes darting as a shadow loomed over him—twisting and writhing like smoke given shape. The shadow was no mere specter—it was a presence, a cruel force that consumed his sanity slowly, torturing him with visions and whispers only he could hear.
"You failed," the shadow hissed, its voice slithering into his mind like poison.
"I tried," the Master whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear.
"You failed me again," the shadow snarled. Dark tendrils coiled around him, biting into his skin, pulling at his thoughts. Visions flickered—Little 7's dying scream, Little 9's eyes pleading for mercy, the fire that consumed everything.
The Master convulsed, gasping as pain ripped through his body and soul. The shadow's torture was not just physical but mental—a relentless assault on his very being.
"Why do you cling to life?" the shadow taunted. "There is only suffering ahead."
"I…" the Master stammered, tears streaking down his face. "I cannot… I need more time…"
The shadow's grip tightened, crushing his breath, its coldness seeping into his bones. "Time is your enemy now. You are a puppet stripped of strings, a king with no throne, a father with no sons."
The Master reached for the dagger at his belt—his last escape. His hands trembled, vision swimming.
"Let me end this," he whispered.
But before the blade could touch his throat, the shadow lashed out, knocking it away and pinning him to the floor.
"No. Your torment is my pleasure. Death is too kind for traitors like you. You will suffer until your soul rots from the inside."
A piercing scream tore from the Master's lips as darkness twisted into his very marrow, memories tearing open like old wounds, each one relived in agonizing detail.
A sudden rapping at the hideout's door broke the dark trance. Percy entered cautiously, his expression grave.
"Master," Percy said quietly, stepping over splintered wood. "You cannot endure this alone."
The Master's eyes flickered with desperation. "They are coming—the shadow, the serpent, the ghosts. I am doomed."
"You're unraveling," Percy whispered. "You were once feared, respected… now you're just hunted."
The door creaked open further, and the serpent slithered in, its seven heads surveying the room with deadly calm.
The Master staggered, eyes wide. "What's this?"
"I am Kharesh from the serpent lineage," the creature replied, each voice layered atop the other like a chorus of doom. "You who called the shadows to serve, prepare yourself. You killed one of my own. I shall avenge him. Only death hunts you now."
The Master clutched his chest, his heart pounding like a war drum. Once, he had ruled with unchallenged power. Now, enemies gathered from all sides: the shadow, the serpent, and the ghosts of his lost sons. Despair overwhelmed him.
"What have I become?" he whispered bitterly. "A fallen prince haunted by the past."
The serpent's many eyes gleamed. "The reckoning comes. There is no escape."
The Master's knees buckled as he struggled to his feet. "You think me afraid? I was once a king."
"Kings fall," the serpent replied coldly. "You lost everything. Now you face the consequences."
Kharesh turned, its massive coils scraping against the stone, and slid into the night, leaving only silence and dread behind.
Desperate and broken, the Master stumbled into the forest, wounds both physical and unseen bleeding with every step. He sought the only ones who had once defied him with courage—Elara and Ariella. When he finally found them, their eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he fell to his knees before them.
"Please… kill me," he begged, voice trembling. "Spare me the vengeance that hunts me—the shadow, the serpent, the memories that will not rest."
Ariella's voice was firm. "Death would be too easy for you. You deserve to suffer for the pain you caused."
The Master's shoulders slumped, accepting her judgment. "Your words… they echo my father's. I once mocked him, but now I see the truth. It's too late for me."
Percy, watching from a distance, clenched his fists. "I believed in the Master's cause. I stood with him against my own blood. But now…" his voice broke. "It's too late to save him."
He turned away, pain etched into his every step. "I need to save myself before the darkness consumes us all."
Far beyond the village, in a swamp thick with mud and decay, something stirred. From the murky depths rose a figure unlike any mortal—a man whose skin shimmered with an otherworldly glow, eyes burning like coals in the dark. His presence brought an unnatural stillness to the marsh. Even the frogs dared not croak.
He laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the trees and sent shudders through the land. "Master," he spoke to a shadow veiled just beyond sight, "I will complete the task. Nothing will stand in our way."
The shadow that had haunted the Master now loomed behind this new threat, more solid than ever, its form vast and serpentine, yet indistinct.
"You were born for this," it whispered. "You are my vessel now. The era of weak kings and failed children is over."
Behind him, a pillar of dense black smoke twisted and writhed like a living entity. It wrapped around him, infusing his body with dark energy, bones crackling, veins pulsing with corruption. The man bowed low before the smoke, merging with its power.
"Then let the world crumble," he murmured.
At that moment, a darkness spread from the swamp like a sentient disease. The skies above the village turned grey, then black. No stars, no moon—only a suffocating darkness that blanketed the land. People whispered of nightmares taking shape, of screams echoing with no source.
And in the Master's hideout, wracked by agony, he felt the shift. The darkness had grown.
The shadow whispered once more, coiling beside him like a lover, voice dripping with malice. "This is just the beginning."
And the Master, for the first time in his life, truly wept—not for power, not for loss, but for the terror he had helped awaken.