Chapter Fifty-Six: A Desperate Gamble

Impossible.

At that moment, the Guildmaster of the Dark Guild and the human vessel for its greatest shadow, “Ash,” suddenly widened his gray-brown pupils, his aged face etched with disbelief.

His reaction was understandable—for the aura of the Dark Earth Mother had vanished. That abomination, cultivated from the flesh of hundreds of high-level fiends, a monster for which even he could not imagine a means of true destruction, had been… defeated by those people?

This was beyond any joke.

Though the Dark Earth Mother was a failed creation, dominated entirely by instinct and nothing more than a tumor of flesh, its physical strength and regenerative abilities far surpassed those of ordinary high-level fiends. It possessed the unique power to nurture life and sustain its kind. He had always believed that even the proud luminaries and swordbearers of the upper districts would return defeated before it—perhaps even become dessert for the fearsome creature.

No conventional method could threaten it. Its overwhelming bulk, incomprehensible self-healing, and the boundless evolutionary potential it held for its kin made it the perfect vessel for the will of darkness in the material world. Alas, its formidable body rejected even the evil will lurking behind Ash and hidden in the history of the Dark Guild; unable to control such a near-perfect flesh, they could only seal it away as a failed work, serving as the Guild’s final and strongest barrier.

Even in his wildest dreams, he had never imagined this last line of defense would be shattered head-on.

Had a great swordbearer or a chosen one intervened?

Only an equal could annihilate a high-level fiend. Even though that chaos-born monstrosity had been stripped of intellect by his own hand, left with only the instincts to feed and reproduce, its mountain-like body was itself the embodiment of power—a synonym for invincibility.

Humans have weaknesses; they can be overcome.

But how does one defeat a natural disaster?

To challenge mountains, rivers, the ephemeral clouds—perhaps such descriptions are not entirely precise, but for humanity, a fiend whose form defied comprehension was an utterly unconquerable foe. A masterful swordsman may cut iron and steel, but before the earth and the mountain, before existence itself, how should they wield their blade? How could they overcome the unknowable calamity?

The evil will that created the monstrosity knew its terror better than any. If it merely could not claim the body, why seal it away instead of using it as a murderous weapon? What truly frightened the monster born from human evil was the extraordinary strength of this senseless, unfeeling artificial fiend. Even with the creature firmly in hand, it could not dispel its own dread.

Yet, now that this monster—beyond control and destruction—had fallen before it, a powerful unease stirred within.

The next to die… would be itself.

For the first time, the fiend birthed from human evil wisdom recognized its own frailty.

And that was all.

As the actual ruler of the Dark Guild for a century, decision had never been lacking; fear never shook its resolve or influenced its choices. In fact, at this moment, it was more decisive than ever—since the trump card, the Dark Earth Mother, had been felled by unknown invaders, the threat was to be ranked higher; even if it defied logic, the enemy must now be treated as a super-strong being on par with high-level fiends, great swordbearers, or chosen ones.

Only those of equal rank could contend with them.

Therefore, completing the final ascension of the Killer was imperative.

The Killer, like the Dark Earth Mother, was a vessel prepared by the evil will for the material world. Drawing lessons from the Earth Mother's failed plan, it had not blindly increased the subject’s physical strength, but instead strictly controlled it within manageable limits. Yet, when the experiment neared success, the Killer’s emerging will escaped control, wreaking havoc in the lower districts. It took considerable effort to bring it back under command.

For this, the prototype was dismembered—the original Killer known as Misty Night.

The flesh of the newborn high-level fiend was implanted in thirteen separate bodies, cultivating a second generation of Killers, easier to control. These were both the Guild’s hidden blades and the evil will’s backup vessels. With reserves of high-level fiend corpses nearly depleted, another failure was unaffordable. Though preparations for a third experiment were underway, the evil will lurking behind the scenes never relinquished its desire for the master body.

If you coveted a house but it was occupied, what would you do?

Simply remove the inhabitants.

That was precisely what the evil will had done: splitting the prototype into thirteen, recreating thirteen individuals, allowing their mutual rivalry and slaughter to erode the will present in each avatar, gradually devouring them, and finally claiming the perfected body as its own.

But the plan was dead before it began.

The crucial “Number One” had been killed in the Eastern District before the evil scheme could commence. Now, even if all twelve remaining Killers assembled and completed the final ascension, what the evil will would gain was but an incomplete vessel with near-high-level fiend power—a poor return for a century of effort.

But now, there was no time for hesitation. The priority was damage control, not gains or losses.

Thus, controlling the current Guildmaster “Ash,” it released the final shackle binding the Killers, granting them absolute freedom.

Freedom to slaughter, to evolve, to complete the ultimate ascension.

It waited for the outcome, for the final victor to appear—a monster gathering the power of all twelve Killers, a step away from the domain of high-level fiends, whose surging murderous intent would inevitably bring it before the evil will. Of this, it was confident.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty… No! They had not passed! As the minute hand pointed to twelve, a razor-sharp gleam flashed in Ash’s turbid brown eyes.

The mist had risen.

He turned his chair to face the slightly empty hall, a faint smile curling his lips.

“So, you’ve come,” he said, his tone indifferent as he addressed the mist-filled and otherwise empty hall, something inscrutable in those brown eyes. “I’ve waited long for you—my creation, my child.”

No voice responded, only the surging of mist.

“I am pleased to see you’re still as cautious as ever,” Ash spread his hands, his face expressionless, betraying nothing of his thoughts. “But don’t you think it’s rather excessive to remain so wary before an old man who is about to step into the grave, utterly powerless to resist? Don’t forget, it was I who released your final restraints—your, or your kind’s… father.”

He gave weight to the word “father.”

Silence reigned, the only sound in the control room was the old man’s faint breathing.

“I am dying,” he spoke after surveying the room, his cloudy gaze calm as ever. “Before death, all are equal—even I am no exception. As the last mark I leave upon this world, I wish to behold my life’s most perfect creation before I die. Will you not grant me even this small request?”

A suffocating silence followed.

Neither the possibly present Killer nor the Guild’s supreme ruler spoke.

But a sound broke the hush.

A dull, dry noise, as if a cleaver cut through spoiled leather, followed by the drip of blood striking the floor.

Moments later, the mist receded like a tide, revealing a tall, slender figure. He tugged the brim of his hat, withdrew a dagger from the old man’s heart, letting blood spray across the floor and the Guildmaster’s limp corpse collapse.

“Sorry, old man,” the Killer broke the silence, voice deep and hoarse. “The only thing I trust is a corpse.”

Without hesitation, he swung his blade.

The venerable head fell.

“The only good men are the dead,” the victorious Killer did not spare the former titan a glance. “So smile, Father. You’re a good man now.”

Thus perished the Dark Guild’s final Guildmaster, infamous “Devil of Ash.”

Yet, for this reason, he failed to notice the old man’s severed head, which bore a faintly sinister smile.

A sudden crackling sound.

The Killer’s movements became stiff as a puppet, and after a moment of awkward rigidity, he flexed his body with a clatter.

“The original words were true—only the dead are good. Pity… I am not human. My foolish creation, you have finally fulfilled your last purpose.”

He paused, blood-red pupils glimmering.

“And Number Twelve… I’ll deal with you later—after all is settled.”

Word by word, he spoke.