Chapter 91 Subversion of What Lurks

Amidst the dense fog, it was completely silent as he watched the platinum-eyes, shaggy-haired man step outside into it, being swallowed in the mist within just a few paces.

He could only stand there and watch the fog anxiously after Vandread had disappeared into its hold.

Am I really supposed to just sit here and wait…? He questioned.

After a couple dreadful, slowly-crawling minutes, he had enough: the gnawing silence and the sway of the thick, impenetrable fog got to him. Even against his better judgment, he decided to step out of the carriage.

You’re crazy if you think I’m going to just be a sitting duck…He thought.

He kept his staff held tightly in his right hand, and had his other ready by his sheathed blade as he left the carriage. The bottom of his boots met firmly on the moist, but not muddy soil; he looked around, but there was hardly any merit in doing so as he couldn’t see past two meters around him.

“…Vandread?” He quietly called.

It felt like his voice was immediately siphoned away in the mist like a flame being snuffed out; it was vastly empty yet densely-packed with a dreadful atmosphere.

Squelch.

Beneath his step, something wet was felt against the sole of his boot, splashing slightly with an audible sound.

“Huh?”

As he looked down, he found a puddle of blood beneath his boots, coming from what looked like the mutilated corpse of a man in full-armor; a knight of some kind.

Though from the rugged look of the armor and the situation he was in, he realized who that being likely was:

One from the Hunting Party?…Wait, is Vandread winning, then? He thought.

However, what struck him as odd was how torn up the body was–severe gashes were left over the body, its armor split, and limbs chopped off completely.

The fallen knights were definitely not human–they had massive bodies, towering at the smallest two meters, and at the tallest–four meters. Beyond that, the steed of the Hunting Party were slain as well, varying from horned mare to scaled beasts.

This sight made his stomach churn, but he covered his mouth and nose with his cape, continuing to move forward anyway.

As he moved forward, he saw more corpses of knights, though they became more grotesque and mutilated as he walked forward–finding himself having to restrain himself from heaving at the sight of the mincemeat of bodies.

…Vandread didn’t do this, right? He questioned.

Alas, he found a figure in the fog, a familiar shape that was relieving to his eyes.

“…Vandread!”

–He was correct; it was the man he was traveling with. However, as Vandread heard his voice, the man looked back at him with horrified eyes.

“Emilio…? What’re you doing here?!” Vandread said desperately.

“I–”

“I told you to stay in the carriage!” Vandread shouted.

He didn’t understand why the man sounded so upset, and it was definitely a shift from his usual quiet, brooding self. It struck him particularly weirdly as it looked like the Hunting Party was obliterated.

“You won, right? What’s the problem–?” He asked, confused.

Vandread huffed, breathing heavily as he looked at him, “…I didn’t do a damn thing! I wasn’t the one who slayed them!”

“Huh…?”

It was only just then that he made out another figure within the swirl of fog; a lanky entity that stood amidst the highest density of corpses.

Who is that…? He thought.

“…Heads or tails? This is my last time asking. If you don’t answer…I’ll decide for you.”

It was a voice devoid of emotion, exempt from humanity; it was masculine, but empty, sounding as if bored.

Vandread looked forward in fear before looking back, “Emilio, you have to get out of here…!”

“I don’t understand!” He replied.

Just then, the sound of a coin being flipped up filled his ears in the silent fog. He watched as the shadow within the fog flicked a coin upward before it landed on the figure’s hand.

Vandread and himself watched anxiously before the fog-hidden figure checked the coin slowly before slowly looking up.

“…Heads. You lose…”

Those words were laced with such thick bloodlust that it could be tasted like iron.

Vandread looked back, yelling out to him, “Emilio, run–”

Before the words could even be finished, they were stifled completely. The figure in the fog had disappeared–the very instance he did, Vandread had frozen.

“Huh…?”

Into a dozen pieces, the man who served as his escort was sliced; falling onto the ground into mincemeat before the figure reappeared, now standing directly in front of him.

“…Huh?” He repeated.

He was engulfed in shock, having just watched the man he relied on completely be eviscerated brutally in such an inhumane way.

The figure was now clear, as they stood directly in front of him: they were a lanky man, standing in an improper form with their shoulders slumped.

It was difficult to make out the man’s features clearly as he was covered in paint; the left side of his body was as black as the abyss, and the right side was as white as snow. The left eye had a silver iris, and the right a black one.

“It seems the Two-Faced God hungers on this day. I’ve flipped this coin many times, and many times it has deemed those in front of me to die. How curious,” the mysterious man said.

What happened…? Vandread…died? No…that’s not right. It doesn’t make any sense. Who is this? Why did he do this? He questioned.

The mysterious man wore his hair in mix-colored dreadlocks that matched his half-and-half painted skin, though it was flipped.

In his left hand, the man held an all-black greatsword, and at his right hip, there was a white sheath.

What stood out most was the tattoo that was etched onto the back of the man’s hand, a sigil that invoked utmost dread into the bowels of his being:

It was a two-faced man with seven stars hovering around him.

Seven stars…? A Hero-rank swordsman? That’s the highest there is. That’s an entire two higher than Father–that symbol…I’ve seen it in books: the “Two-Faced God Style Swordplay”–one of the Ten Divine Styles. Why? It doesn’t make sense…He realized.