Chapter Twenty-Five: Death Is a Serene Song

"Two—"

The languid voice dominated the room, marking death's relentless approach.

As the specter of death drew nearer, the reactions among those present diverged. Many had already recognized the infamous Black Witch through her summoned fiends and mismatched eyes. Yet of them all, only the young Glorious One possessed the resolve to stand against Alfred, the notorious Harbinger of Death.

Most, upon hearing the faint loosening in his tone, did not hesitate: they immediately tore away, smeared, or peeled off the various disguises from their faces. Only a rare few—either ignorant of their employer’s identity or somewhat familiar with the Church of Chaos—remained uncertain.

Could a heartless demon possibly show mercy?

What a joke.

Amy watched with biting sarcasm as the assassins exhaled in relief, as though snatching back their lives. Anyone with even a passing knowledge of the followers of Chaos would rather gamble on the faintest hope of survival than trust the words of those madmen who had sacrificed their bodies and souls to the blind folly of Chaos. Even the exalted Dark Elders were, at heart, but human-shaped fiends enacting the nameless, mindless will of Chaos—an essence unaltered by rank or title.

As the old saying goes, an ivory tusk can never emerge from a dog’s maw. The wisdom of the ancients was profound indeed: how could a demon, bereft of all humanity, display magnanimity without reason? It could only be a trap.

Amy had already foreseen such a possibility, but only when Alfred spoke again did the boy realize he had gravely underestimated the sheer malice of the legendary Black Witch.

“My apologies—” The noble youth, as if stepped from a painting, halted his count. With a radiant smile, he let his gaze linger on the now-revealed assassins before speaking slowly, “If memory serves, I said that anyone with any covering upon them would become my enemy—did I not?”

Spreading his arms with ill intent, he mimed an embrace.

“There is but one second left, ladies and gentlemen. I urge you—do hurry.”

A devilish smile twisted his lips.

And then, the final countdown began.

“One—”

His voice was deliberately drawn out.

This was no mistaking it—pure, unabashed humiliation.

Yet when life and dignity are weighed on opposite sides of the scale, most will choose survival, for what worth has pride if stripped of life to bear it? It is neither a question of worth nor of reason, but the primal instinct of humankind.

Some may elevate honor above all, willing to die for their dignity, but such paragons are rare among assassins.

Besides, once a person sets foot on the path of degradation, every subsequent step becomes easier—especially so in matters of human frailty.

Thus, after only brief hesitation, most hurriedly shed their clothing as though peeling away venomous serpents. Regardless of gender or age, they stood half-naked beneath the chill of the night rain, thoroughly soaked.

“Excellent—excellent—” The Black Witch, Alfred, laughed heartily after praising them twice in succession. “Oh gods—do you see this? Such stupidity! Such ugliness in mankind!”

When his laughter finally subsided, he composed himself and offered a courteous smile. “Forgive my lapse of decorum. As thanks—”

“Let me bestow upon you a magnificent death!”

He spread his arms once more, and from his chest, a deluge of crows erupted, their black wings eclipsing the moon, the stars, the entire night sky.

Death—

Death that blotted out the heavens!

In a daze, Amy seemed to drift beyond time itself, witnessing the black tide that swept across the continent, watching countless multitudes displaced by terror and chaos, seeing thousands upon thousands of gaunt, skeletal figures collapse to the ground. He saw people scatter in panic; he saw others, organized, herding the sick—regardless of age or gender—into confinement, then setting the straw alight...

Death in all its myriad forms, everywhere.

From shock, to horror, to numbness, he looked down upon the suffering of humanity, his heart gradually calming. He felt, with every fiber, the sorrow and helplessness of millions beneath death’s shadow; he sensed their despairing, hysterical struggles against the doom that must come—and then...

He opened his eyes.

Time flows on; the world changes. Yet a century passes in but a finger’s snap.

As the young Glorious One’s dark eyes again reflected the myriad stars, the black crows had only just swept forth. There was no expected carnage, no wild flurry of wings; in their panic, the assassins realized—they were still alive.

“It was only a jest,” Alfred said, bowing slightly. “I beg your pardon.”

A jest?

The assassins who had brushed against death exchanged uneasy glances. The killing intent had been real; though none suffered harm during the ordeal, their honed instincts screamed that the black specter of death lingered, unseen, over them.

No—perhaps it was no illusion.

More than one found their breath growing labored—not merely a physical response to tension, as common folk might think. Assassins, masters of their bodies beyond even many Glorious Ones, never lost control in such a fashion. For them, such changes were harbingers of something amiss.

What had happened? Where had things gone wrong?

The assassins grew restless, like animals before an earthquake.

And then—

The quake struck, right on cue.

Blood began to seep from their orifices—thick, black as ink. Death’s marks, black spots, erupted across their exposed skin, shriveling it before their eyes, forming ghastly scabs that oozed black pus. Now, the most skilled killers in Hemtica could only watch in terror as vitality drained from their bodies and death crept ever nearer.

They struggled, they resisted, but it was useless.

Even Glorious Ones, favored by Order, dreaded the powers wielded by Black Witches—how much less could ordinary mortals hope to survive?

There was almost no possibility of escape.

The Power—Plague.

Alfred owed much of his reputation as the Harbinger of Death to this very power. In Hemtica, crows were seen as omens of death because of it. Indeed, if this Black Witch unleashed his authority without restraint, in three days the city would be a city of plague—a city of death.

Such is the terror of the Dark Elders.

And yet, Amy felt no fear.

The Black Death—this was the truth behind the Plague Authority. Though he had never read of such a pestilence in mortal chronicles, the vision he had just experienced made its meaning clear. The words echoed in his mind as he connected them to the Black Witch’s power.

A shiver ran through him.

Perhaps none in this world understood the horror of the Black Death as he did—the cloud that snuffed out millions, casting countless souls into despair. Even though it had only been a vision, he could not suppress his dread, nor the sense of injustice and hopelessness that lingered from the struggle of millions against the pestilence.

Death falls like the heavens, inescapable by all.

It was the mark of an era—an ancient one, lost to history.

Perhaps...

A wild, heretical conjecture flickered through his heart.

Perhaps the era he had glimpsed predated the arrival of the Ancients to the land of Chaos—an age unknown, unexplored, vanished from all record.

Perhaps, within it, lay the ultimate secret between Order and Chaos.

But speculation must remain as such. He had neither the time, energy, nor power to pursue that lost history. More pressing matters demanded his attention.

He coughed softly, black blood seeping between his fingers.

Yes—the plague that had once ruled a dark age was now upon him.

The Black Death.

The young Glorious One acknowledged this calmly, neither panicked nor afraid. Thanks to the dense blood of Order that flowed within him, his symptoms were far milder than those of the assassins, but as time passed and the virus spread, sooner or later, he too would fall—another victim to the black spots.

But he did not care.

—To live by dying.

With this thought, the youth quietly closed his eyes. He surrendered; he ceased struggling, ceased resisting, relinquished all but his final breath, letting his consciousness sink into the deepest darkness. He let the terrible pathogen run rampant within, let the black spots of death draw ever closer.

Then—

Breath ceased.

Then—

The heartbeat stopped.

Then—

Blood stilled.

—All signs of life vanished, leaving only a cold corpse on the ground.

—He was dead.

As the body grew cold and the skin lost its elasticity, there remained in Amy Ulysses no trace of life—save for one thing.

The flame of Anna still burned, quietly, undiminished.