Amidst the remaining ashes of the ruins, a figure walked in silence. He was cloaked head to toe in an old, dark robe, tattered and covered in scorched dust. Behind him, two humans—a man and a woman—were being dragged across the ground, their bodies unconscious but still breathing. He walked straight toward the massive hunk of flesh that Mira had once discovered, where a part of the ruins had been devoured by that grotesque form of life.
Near that fleshy mass, two figures were waiting.
One of them stood out strikingly: a tall, broad figure with skin the color of fresh blood. Two curved horns jutted from the top of his platinum hair, gleaming in the dim firelight. His eyes—long and narrow like a goat's—stared unblinking, making it hard for anyone to meet his gaze. Behind him, a long tail slithered through the air, swaying back and forth like a sign of growing impatience.
He was clad in a cloak of cinders—tattered as though torn from the brink of hell, continuously shedding puffs of black smoke and glowing embers. The cloak didn't sway with the wind but instead moved with the tremors of the ground—as if it were alive. Beneath that cloak, a suit of armor made from human bones revealed itself bit by bit—shattered skull fragments intricately embedded along the armor's surface. In the center of his chest pulsed a jet-black stone—its eerie throb like a chained heart struggling to beat.
The other figure was a woman. She wore a simple black dress covered in countless tiny white specks, like stardust. Atop her head was a pitch-black crown, twisted and malformed as if forged from shadows. Her silver eyes shimmered beneath a stream of thick, black liquid flowing continuously.
Upon seeing the two waiting figures, the cloaked man quickened his pace.
The sound of dragging feet scraped harshly against the scorched stone. As he came within a few steps, he dropped the two humans to the ground—their bodies collapsing like lifeless puppets.
He raised his hand.
It was a gaunt, bony hand, with long, blade-like nails. The fingers slowly pulled back the hood.
Then, his face was revealed.
No... not a face. Something grotesquely malformed that no living creature should possess. His skin was pale, wrinkled, and decaying like rotted fabric. No eyes. No nose. No ears. Just a massive mouth at the center of his face—brimming with sharp, jagged teeth, perpetually twisted into a grin.
Rook Calder—no one knew where he came from. He only appeared where blood had been spilled, where money was exchanged for a vanished name.
An odd bounty hunter working for The Crimson Sanctum—the Church's most secretive division.
Rook Calder took a few steps forward and stopped before the waiting two.
He grinned wide—a lipless slash across dead flesh.
"Hello, hello... What brings you two here? Last I checked, today isn't payday."
His voice screeched like metal dragging across skin.
Before his words even faded, the red-skinned man lunged like a storm, hurling a punch straight at Rook's face—but it was blocked.
A girl had stepped out, raising her left hand to stop the giant fist with her bare palm.
"Stop it, Vornar," she said, her voice calm yet firm.
Velmira—a human, twenty-two years old, senior member of The Crimson Sanctum. Though slim in appearance, her gaze made even a demon like Vornar falter for a second.
Vornar snapped back:
"Shut up, Velmira! Stop him?"
He roared, his voice like stone shattering in a furnace.
"Do you know how many souls we ripped apart, how much land we razed, how much blood we spilled to create those monsters? All of it—reduced to ashes.
And now, you protect him?!"
Vornar—a demon, rank unknown, but known to be a member of The Crimson Sanctum. And when he raged... nothing remained intact.
Rook Calder tilted his head slightly, grin still twisted:
"Oh... So those grotesque things in the flesh mound got wiped out, huh?"
He raised both hands—mockingly as if to surrender, but his eyes gleamed with scorn:
"Sorry, but I was hired to bring back a specimen, not to babysit it."
Vornar's fury surged like lava.
His muscles swelled in layers, tendons bulging as if tearing through his dark red skin. The temperature skyrocketed—his body radiated heat like a blazing forge, cracking the ground and warping the air.
"I'll kill you... crush you... RIP YOU TO SHREDS, ROOK CALDER!!"
He bellowed like thunder, each step scorching the stone beneath.
Rook Calder just laughed—a dry, maniacal cackle.
"Oh yeah? Come on then, big guy."
At that moment, a deep roar echoed from above.
From the shadows, a massive dragon descended—but its flesh was rotting, peeling off in chunks like death clinging to its body. It landed heavily behind Rook, rocks exploding beneath its weight, winds whipping violently.
Its sunken eyes glowed ominously, reflecting cursed souls.
Rook Calder's steed. A zombie dragon long dead... yet still bound to serve.
"Actually..." Rook said, pulling out a black spear from his cloak, its blade screeching through the air. "I've had enough of your face, Vornar. So today... I'll personally send you back to hell—where you belong."
Vornar screamed, charging forward like a living inferno.
Rook Calder shifted into a defensive stance—unblinking, spear gripped tight, feet sliding lightly across the stone like he was dancing a deadly waltz.
Behind him, the dragon roared, shattering the air, wings torn and wide, black fire dripping from its jaws.
The air thickened with killing intent.
Just as they were about to clash... an overwhelming pressure descended.
No sound. No warning.
Only the sensation of a throat being crushed, a heartbeat skipping, a mountain of blood weighing down.
Both Rook and Vornar froze, turning toward the source.
Behind them...
Velmira still stood—calm, cold, but her eyes... glacial as an abyss, deep enough to drown every madness.