Chapter Seventy-Four: The Name of Pandora (Fourth Update)

Time seemed to freeze.

Just a moment ago, the two adversaries were locked in a life-and-death struggle, but now, as if by unspoken agreement, both ceased their actions. Their sharp gazes briefly crossed, converged—and then, a third voice sounded.

“To suddenly lay hands on a lady, that is hardly the behavior of a gentleman,” murmured the girl, discarded on the ground like a battered doll, under the scrutiny of the Glorious One and the Dark Sorcerer. She rose nonchalantly from the pool of blood, gracefully lifted her skirts, and spun around. “But perhaps, Mr. Galsworthy, you have overlooked something. The so-called Pandora was never a mere human; she was a sacrifice offered to settle disputes between gods and mortals—a living sacrifice. Consider: in ancient myths, people habitually lament the cruelty of the gods and the dreadful fate awaiting mankind, but who ever sympathizes with Pandora, with a tool, with an offering?”

A sacrifice…

To whom is it offered?

A sudden sense of unease gripped the Glorious One, causing him to tighten his hold on the sword. He did not launch a surprise attack while the girl spoke, for it would be meaningless—if one kills a human, they die, that is the law of nature. But what if this was not a human, merely a non-human thing wearing a human shape? Could his sword truly kill it? Kill a vessel, kill a sacrifice, and summon a greater horror?

The powers wielded by the Lords of Darkness are intimately linked to ancient myth. The girl named Pandora was but a vessel, a box storing the concepts of war, disease, death, and other calamities. To grant these forms in the world, a price must be paid—a condition for their manifestation. Now it seems the Knights’ intelligence was incomplete; there are methods of special summoning beyond the ordinary.

For example, to kill Pandora—such an act would be deemed offering the vessel as a sacrifice.

And then…what would be summoned?

“Pride is mankind’s original sin,” she said, her bloodied dress and dust-stained childish face lending her a strange charm that transcended gender. Perfection and disarray mingled, evoking an instinctive urge to conquer and destroy. “The pride of the Glorious One is a greater sin still. Face your wickedness honestly, Duke Galsworthy.”

With her words, something shapeless and intangible descended.

“Pride blinds the eyes.”

A whisper echoed in his heart, and his sight vanished in an instant.

“Pride deafens the ears.”

Next, his hearing was taken—the world fell silent.

“Pride leads inevitably to madness.”

Like a dark god’s whisper, it gnawed at his soul, driving him to uncontrollable frenzy.

No, he must not succumb!

Sensing his own uncontrollable aggression, the Lord of Hemtica made a swift decision.

Enhance.

He activated his ability; the blood of glory responded.

Thus, his mental attributes were strengthened.

But it was not enough—not nearly enough.

The Glorious One invoked his power again. With a rush of weakness and dizziness, his hearing returned, then his sight once more.

Yet what he saw was an endless swarm of black ravens.

It was a feast for the ravens—realizing this, without hesitation, the Lord of Hemtica summoned his power again. Like a raging bull about to charge, he expelled a cloud of white breath, gripped the invisible sword in both hands, and swung—

Bang!

Thunderous noise shattered the glass of countless shops along the street, a mighty shockwave swept through, and the sky, once shrouded by raven wings, was revealed. Even the clouds before the morning sun were cleanly split in two, as if the whole sky had been severed by an invisible blade, refusing to mend.

Alfred had no time to marvel at these celestial phenomena. As Duke Galsworthy swung his sword, he realized the danger and hurried to redirect the flock—but he was a step too late. Though it was nothing more than a simple swing, the shockwave stirred a violent storm. His summoned familiars flailed helplessly like drowning men in the turbulent air, then inevitably crashed to the ground.

Damn—

In an instant, the tides reversed. Without a thought, the Dark Sorcerer activated his avatar.

Yet, the expected strike did not arrive. As the dust began to settle, Alfred, handsome as a figure stepping from a painting, cautiously surveyed his surroundings with his heterochromatic eyes. Suddenly, his pupils contracted, and a wave of humiliation surged within.

The Duke’s target was not him—never him—but Pandora.

Once more, the Glorious One ignored him, seizing the opportunity to execute a decapitation strategy on the doll-like, exquisite girl.

Yes, decapitation—in the literal sense.

As the Dark Sorcerer extended his awareness outward, the girl’s head was already rolling on the ruined street, bouncing playfully like a ball.

“You bastard!”

Rage and humiliation exploded, and for the first time, the Lord of Darkness’s expression changed.

“I am curious,” the Glorious One continued his actions, the invisible blade slicing repeatedly. In a blink, what was once the girl’s body was chopped into dozens of pieces. “What happens when the same sacrifice is offered a second time?”

A grim smile twisted his face, blood pouring from his eye sockets. His once-beautiful black eyes were now veiled in thick blood, appearing as two gaping holes, coupled with his cold, merciless tone—it was enough to chill a child’s cries.

Even the Dark Sorcerer, hysterical but a moment ago, now paused mid-air, seemingly awed.

Of course—

Appearance and reality were worlds apart. Alfred’s pause was not due to the horror of the Glorious One’s current state, nor to any aura of intimidation, but because he remembered his own identity, weighed the risks: familiars, plague, avatar—the three powers combined gave him the fearsome reputation of Death’s harbinger, but also limited his direct combat ability.

Familiars let him command the red-eyed black ravens, plague let him spread seeds of death widely, and avatar enabled him to transform his familiars into avatars identical to himself. The three powers intertwined, granting him swift mobility, fearsome immortality, and a reaping ability akin to the mythic, scythe-wielding Reaper clad in black.

Yet he lacked the decisive power needed for direct combat.

To clash head-on with a monster like Duke Galsworthy would be sheer folly.

Now, all he needed was to wait—for Pandora’s resurrection. He could not believe that one of the Nine Lords, a supreme being, would die so quietly in a border town.

It was unrealistic.

Those who sit among the Nine Lords are genuine monsters, ultimate forces capable of wrestling with the Chosen.

The Millennium Duke, Demon Duke, and Impaler Duke are nominally the sect’s highest leaders, but throughout the sect’s long history, their active periods are rare. In most eras, even for the Lords of Darkness, their existence is closer to legend than reality. The true power lies with the exalted Nine Lords.

And before him, the girl bearing the name Pandora, always appearing as a young girl, held the second rank among the Nine Lords. Only a mysterious being—whose name never survived and who was said to be jointly sealed by the three Dukes—surpassed her.

In other words, in the absence of the three Dukes, she was undeniably the strongest.

So…don’t overestimate your own importance.

The Dark Sorcerer naturally found a reason to stay out of the fray. The Duke’s strength far exceeded his expectations. Though he could maneuver with his avatar’s advantages, it was like dancing on a tightrope—one trivial mistake could cost his life. It was hardly a profitable venture.

Thus, the ravens once again covered the sky, then scattered.

“Boring.”

The Lord of Hemtica saw through his thoughts but did not pursue. Though the battle between him and Alfred was overwhelmingly one-sided, to truly slay this cunning, snake-like adversary was not simple. Moreover, maintaining multiple enhancements, his body was already over the danger threshold—prolonging the fight would not only fail to secure greater victory, but might reveal his own weakness.

Rather than drag himself into a long, uncertain battle, it was better to capitalize on his recent triumph and drive the Dark Sorcerer from the field—yes, the battlefield.

His fight with Pandora was not over.

No…in truth, it had only just begun.

He turned to gaze upon the girl’s remains, now reduced to scraps.

Undoubtedly, he had made a mistake.

An irreparable mistake.

—He had opened Pandora’s Box.

Whether by intention or accident, Pandora’s seemingly truthful words contained lies. Like her malicious name, the girl’s nature was ominous, but she was not a living sacrifice; she was a seal, a vessel. In ancient myth, she herself was the container of calamity, Pandora’s Box—and the key to opening it was nothing other than death itself.

First death awakened “Pride.”

Second death, with her body thoroughly shredded, the vessel’s damage worsened, and more calamities inevitably escaped. Without material hosts, they could not affect the real world. Thus, the dozens of luminous spheres symbolizing disaster wandered the street, then returned to the girl’s remains—not to the seal, not to the vessel, but to the substance best suited to manifest their powers.

Pandora.

Through the writhing flesh, the girl’s delicate, tempting body reformed.

But this time, what appeared before him was not the girl named Pandora, but…a true monster.

Black eyes opened, and the flames of “Wrath” roared.

The strongest living weapon of the Cult of Chaos—

Pandora, the absolute evil that encompasses all the world’s evils, had now descended.