Chapter 836
A medicine of oblivion that makes one forget sorrow and pain, anger and sadness, all misfortunes.
Freshly extracted from the poppy, the opium mixes with wine and enters their bodies.
Opium is a drug that grants courage before battle.
A drug that severs all hesitation with the blade of oblivion.
As the chains that bound them break, a feeling akin to reckless courage begins to surge in their hearts.
“Grant us your blessing!”
“Grant us your blessing!”
What they are chanting is the name of Hypnos, the god from ancient Greek-Roman mythology.
The twin brother of the god of death, Hypnos, the god of sleep.
Was their intention to come closer to him by mixing opium in their wine?
His dwelling is filled with all manner of drugs, undoubtedly a way to get closer to the god of sleep.
But sleep is a concept that dances on the edge of death.
Thus, seeking his power meant drawing closer to death.
Do they not know the cost?
Do they not understand the meaning of sleep?
No.
They know the cost.
As they brush through the weeds of marijuana, taking in the scent of the poppy flowers densely growing from floor to wall, what they see inside the cave is the god. He who strictly defines the line between mortals and gods, governing the heavens and what lies below.
How insignificant was humanity in their myths?
Humans are the ones who face tragedy at the whims of the gods.
As one can see in those tales, borrowing the power of the gods of Greek-Roman mythology brings a heavy price.
Even those who know nothing of magic can easily guess at its dangers.
Yet still, their willing act of performing magic was…
To forcefully drug the poor souls of this city into sleep, creating an environment suitable for magic related to the “god of sleep,” even consuming drugs themselves, it was purely their choice.
Clang.
The magicians throw their cups to the floor.
The bronze goblet clatters loudly on the ground, spilling the mixed opium wine that stains here and there.
In their dazed state, they grip the bronze clubs in their hands tightly.
Pain fades, their bodies that seem foreign to them start to move, and in a mental state that is neither awake nor asleep, they unleash a physical power exponentially greater than what they usually possess.
Creep.
The club bends in their tight grip.
The once insignificant muscles start to swell crazily, steam even rising from their bodies.
As if they had consumed a potion of physical enhancement.
But even so, their appearance was far from healthy.
Anyone could tell that their enhancements came at the expense of their dwindling life force.
Their once black hair begins to turn completely white, and their skin becomes sallow.
Lips dry and crack, their tongues coated with white, resembling a drought-ridden surface with spiderweb-like fissures.
Gums recede and bleed, a few teeth easily falling out without resistance.
This is the cost.
This is the power granted to those who sacrifice their remaining lives for a fleeting sweet dream.
They scatter throughout the city, bronze clubs in hand.
And whenever they encounter a soldier or something inhuman, they swing without hesitation, beginning to guide them to the twin gods of sleep.
Splat!
Splat!
Splat!
With every swing of their clubs, a person’s head is crushed like a watermelon.
Amplified physical abilities.
The blessing of Hypnos makes their presence nearly undetectable.
The drugs leave no hesitation even in their hands.
The ones wielding the bronze clubs were nothing short of killing machines.
Thus, they began their cleansing throughout the city.
Mercilessly, like purifying seawater, stealthily and assuredly. Those who fearlessly wandered alone were killed without a sound, dumped into dark corners with their corpses, while those working together would shatter heads in unison.
Splat!
Splat!
Thus, the soldiers who with the excuse of a search pillaged the city, the soldiers who shot down people with lies that they could be threats, and even those who half-mad engaged in unethical acts had their heads equally smashed and died.
Splat!
Splat!
Even the “non-humans” clad in suits ostensibly forced to work were crushed, as were those hiding while pretending to be homeless in the alleys, capturing others.
How many did they kill, one wonders.
How many heads of soldiers and non-humans did they smash?
In their hazy, dreamlike state, they lower their heads to gaze at their hands.
Their hands were soaked in sticky blood.
Yet, they felt neither the warmth of blood nor its stickiness.
In that surreal state, they slowly raise their heads to look at the sky, catching a fleeting glimmer in their minds causing them to halt their smashing and stand still.
Then they plunge the twisted bronze club into the nearby ground and begin tearing their clothes to wrap the end of the club.
Then, lifting their hand, they grab their chin and yank.
Crack.
The unpleasant sound of their jaw dislocating.
Yet, it seemed that was not enough, as their might stretches their lips wide as if to tear them apart.
They then take the cloth-wrapped end of the bronze club into their mouth, closing their eyes to whisper their final prayer.
“May my dedication be justly evaluated.”
“And may I unite with the god.”
Their voluntary sacrifice and dedication would be rewarded.
Their selfless actions would bear fruit.
As the ember hidden within their overheated bodies grew.
As that ember burned through their insides and esophagus, releasing light and heat.
As the flame clung to the end of the bronze club turned into a torch.
As the fire spread, consuming them as fuel for a greater flame, melting and burning everything around them.
Their fiery lives will be rewarded by becoming one with the god.
***
The infamous terrorist, the Polluter.
He groaned in agony from the intense pain radiating from his severed arm and the overwhelming distress from his magic surging.
“Ugh.”
Continual minor pains pull at him incessantly.
And between those pains lurks a sharp, intense agony that numbs his mind.
Like an instrument strumming pain, a fortissimo mixed with pianissimo.
Then, as if to show a performance, blood drips from his severed arm, stopping and starting intermittently, the sound of flesh tearing followed by explosions of blood creating a spotted painting.
The rainbow-colored magic began to solidify, mixing with blood and beginning to splatter onto the ground, an abhorrent hue reminiscent of someone injecting gasoline into blood.
‘It’s not just my arm that’s the problem.’
Other parts aren’t fine either.
The gas mask he carried is half-destroyed, barely keeping its form, while magic leaks from wounds all over his body, making it difficult for him to control it. Furthermore, his leg is severely swollen, possibly broken, and a few toes and fingers have turned black, indicating necrosis.
His throat is on the verge of coughing up blood, but several times it is obstructed by his mouth.
His mouth is already drenched in blood, and only the metallic scent lingering in the air fills his nostrils.
One side of his nose seems smashed, leaving him unable to smell and accompanied by excruciating pain and headaches.
The Polluter struggled to steady his severely injured body as he pondered.
‘How did it come to this?’
His plan was not bad.
Instilling awareness in China for the terrifying deeds being done in the sea.
To poison their water sources, making them realize the value of water.
To instill fear by killing or torturing their higher-ups.
After leaving this city, he intended to pollute and destroy the dams across China.
He sought to create forceful floods to teach them precisely the horrid consequences of contaminated water.
He also planned to send enormous rainclouds to areas untouched by floods to trigger tsunamis!
None of these ideas were unreasonable or unwarranted!
Yet, why had it come to this?
He had confidence that he could fend off the U.S. military, and yet look at him now, a pitiful sight!
‘Those wretched shamans. Those damn shamans!’
The plan that should’ve been successful had ended in ruin.
He bore wounds he shouldn’t have sustained.
Unlike his intentions, the city was destroyed, and instead of the lesson he wished to impart, he was about to convey another.
His presence faded, and the message he wanted to send was buried somewhere, ignored.
All of this was the shamans’ fault.
The one who controlled insects and those who commanded shadows and marine creatures.
‘Why?’
He understood that their mindset was unlike ordinary humans.
He knew their behavior was bizarre and unpredictable.
He also recognized that they were closer to some kind of humanoid aberration than real people.
‘Why.’
But why?
Why now?
Not just one, but two of those rare shamans have come out to thwart his plans here and now?
Why!
‘The shaman who alters the surroundings to resemble the sea has caused damage… but the one controlling insects is still hiding.’
The more terrifying thing was that he had been unable to eliminate this horrible variable.
That monstrous beings, capable of doing anything, still lingered.
‘Such a calamity, two shamans…’
The Polluter sighed as he gazed outside.
The Chinese army, which had destroyed the city in pursuit of him, remained in the city, conducting searches without a care, requiring him to glance outside periodically.
“Ah.”
But as the Polluter looked outside, he realized he no longer had to worry about the soldiers.
“…Oh god.”
The entire city was ablaze.
“…Another shaman has come….”
Now there were three, not just two.
Three shamans had gathered in this city.
The Polluter blankly stared at the declaration of the new shaman.
It was a grand flame, the beacon signaling that this city had transcended into hell.
