Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Man at Death's Door

Crackle—crackle.

Accompanied by a burst of crisp sounds from the air being scorched, like a ferocious beast trapped in a cage, savage flames clawed their way out of the hearth, painting the entire view in a harrowing crimson.

And so—

The young Bringer of Glory opened his eyes.

As if jolted awake from a nightmare in which he narrowly escaped death, he sat bolt upright from the hard wooden cot, breathing in sharp, heavy gulps, while cautiously and warily examining everything around him.

—Corpses. Corpses everywhere.

—A dense, endless sea of bodies.

Where was this...?

After a brief moment of disorientation, the boy gradually calmed himself.

He wasn't dead...

His thoughts flashed past the thunderous, stormy night, swept over the overwhelming black wings, over the suffocating darkness that symbolized death, and then... Feeling the powerful beat of his heart in his chest, the blood surging through his veins, the muscles and tendons warming and loosening, he could not help but murmur aloud:

“How wonderful.”

Yes, wonderful—being alive is truly wonderful.

The black sorcerer Alfred, a dark lord who could contend with all the Bringers of Glory in the city of Hemtica, possessed a terrifying power far beyond that of mortals; he was a humanoid demon, a walking calamity, a living embodiment of catastrophe among men. Not to mention Amy, a Bringer of Glory who had never received any combat training—even the true powers who ruled life and death in the upper city would find themselves in grave peril before such a foe.

Thus—

From the start, Amy never expected to leave alive.

—To embrace death in order to live.

The moment he sensed the power of plague infecting him, he had acted with ruthless decisiveness, adopting a lizard’s self-amputation to survive. Not only did he refrain from using the blood of glory within him to resist the ill omen invading his body, but he allowed the virus to fester, the pestilence to spread unchecked, then forcibly severed his five senses, and repeatedly used his past experiences of true death to fine-tune his own body—slowing his heartbeat little by little, slowing the flow of blood, suppressing even the sound of his breath...

Naturally, his awareness blurred, and his body grew cold.

He became indistinguishable from the dead.

If not for this, the boy would not have had the confidence to deceive a death-bringer akin to the Black Reaper himself. Yet, conversely, a feigned death convincing enough to fool a dark lord was, in truth, perilously close to real death—so close that even Amy, who had skirted death many times, could not be sure that, once his consciousness faded, he would ever open his eyes again.

It was a complete gamble—a wager with his life. But unlike most, the young Bringer of Glory had the capital to take such a risk, and the power to overturn the table if he lost. The Omen of Death, though largely useless in daily life, could offer him a sliver of hope for survival—or even a chance to turn defeat into victory—at the critical moment, almost like cheating.

Of course... if he triggered the Omen for a third time, it would be extremely dangerous. Judging by the aftereffects of the second activation, the backlash could multiply with each use. Even if he narrowly escaped death, there would likely be little strength left to face any further crisis.

Fortunately, fate seemed to favor him tonight.

Amy thought this silently, reining in his wandering thoughts and carefully observing his surroundings.

Earlier, he had taken only a cursory glance to ensure the immediate area was safe. Now, however, he examined the environment with care, taking in the delicate engravings in the finer details, the profoundly symbolic murals on the walls.

There was no doubt: this was the Tower Supreme.

At least, it was one of the Order’s strongholds.

From what the young Bringer of Glory knew, the winged figure with its back turned in the murals was an archetypal image from the Order’s scriptures—a being of perfect goodness and beauty created by the omniscient, omnipotent Lord, the very embodiment of order, a living interpretation and manifestation of true virtue, goodness, and beauty within humanity.

Yet, that alone was not enough to confirm that this was the subterranean section of the Tower Supreme. What truly convinced him that this was the legendary resting place of the dead was a line of delicate script inscribed upon the doorway:

“May the Lord’s lambs rest in peace beneath the earth.”

The Order was a religious organization that placed great emphasis on the afterlife. According to their doctrine, every person born into the world bore original sin, a stain that could only be washed away by devout faith and the glory gained from fighting darkness. When, through faith, the soul was polished to a state of purest white, death ceased to be the end—then the most high God would throw open His kingdom, endless light would pour forth, and the winged figure would descend from the heavens to redeem His pitiful lambs.

Alas... only truly devout Bringers of Glory could ascend to heaven after death.

No matter the faith, truly devout believers were always few; most followers were merely lukewarm or nominal. Perhaps their faith was far less pure, but for any sizable religion, such people were indispensable. Doctrine must always leave room for these wavering souls.

Even the Order, with its exalted status in Hemtica, was not immune to this.

In the scriptures of the Order, there was a prophecy: the Most High would redeem His lambs; when Judgment Day arrived, the Kingdom of Heaven would descend to earth, and the kingdom on earth would be destroyed. All things, perished or still enduring, would face the final judgment.

After that... all believers resting in the place of peace would have their sins washed away and ascend to the Lord’s heavenly kingdom.

So merciful, so generous is the Lord.

So the missionaries proclaimed.

Yet, in the boy’s mind, the afterlife described in all religious texts was but an empty promise—a pie in the sky. The living could never disprove it, and the dead would never speak again. No one understood better than he did that behind that door, which the living could never open, there was no afterlife as depicted in myth—only utter emptiness, so void that not even darkness could find a place to dwell.

That was the greatest terror of this world.

At this thought, Amy let out a deep sigh. But in the next instant, the hair all over his body bristled uncontrollably—

For the reason was clear: at his ear, a faint sigh drifted by.

“Who’s there? Who is it?” he blurted out, instinctively rolling to his feet and drawing his short blade, Darkblood. But before him, there was nothing—no one.

“Young people these days are always so jumpy,” came an aged voice behind him. The young Bringer of Glory turned instinctively toward the sound, but again saw nothing. Just as he was about to give up, a corpse on the bed suddenly threw back the cloth covering its head, revealing a face deeply etched with wrinkles.

“Not a shred of respect for the elderly. Is it easy for an old man to get some sleep around here?”

Amy did not reply, only quietly studied the old man before him.

The old man was ancient; the rings of age on his face could practically trap a bean, and the sparse forest atop his head was now a barren wasteland. His exposed skin had shriveled to a terrifying degree—viewed from here, he looked entirely like a leather-wrapped skull. When he spoke, his jaws opened and closed with a grotesque and uncanny effect, very much like the sinister villains from legendary tales who killed without blinking.

But the boy knew he was no villain—at least, not in the usual sense.

For he saw the cleric’s robe on the man.

Though tattered and worn, it was unmistakably the kind found everywhere in the Order.

Even so, the boy did not let down his guard. In Hemtica, relations between the Order and the Bringers of Glory were anything but harmonious; private clashes broke out frequently, though rarely escalated much. Thanks to their mutual silence regarding such matters, the illusion of peaceful coexistence was maintained. Now, however, in the secret underground world beneath the Tower Supreme, with all means of communication with the outside cut off, anything could happen in such a closed environment.

All the more so because... the old man before him was far from ordinary.

Though not exactly a battle-hardened veteran, Amy had survived many crises. For someone to get so close without him noticing meant they were far from as frail as they appeared.

“May I ask…” Despite his wariness, Amy’s outward composure never cracked. Facing a visage that could frighten a child into silence, he showed no sign of fear. Instead, a faint, genuine smile appeared on his face as he greeted the old man with calm courtesy. “Who are you?”

“For an old man so near to the grave, a name is meaningless,” the old man said, extending a hand from beneath the white sheet. The black, ghastly markings there made the boy’s heart skip a beat. “As you can see, I am already mortally ill. Soon, I’ll be joining the rest of them.”

“What is this...?” Amy asked, uncertain whether this man was one of the assassins or another victim of the black sorcerer Alfred. “Did you encounter the Death Bringer?”

“Heh heh—” The old man let out a string of dry laughs, as harsh and grating as a dying crow. “If it were only Alfred, I’d be fine. One-on-one, I’m confident I could teach him some manners. But unfortunately, it was a trap—a trap set for us. Waiting there were not only the Death Bird and the black sorcerer, but also... Pandora.”

“Three of them!” The boy stiffened in shock. As a member of the upper ranks of the Chaos Cult, he knew that any one of the Dark Lords could threaten the safety of an entire city. In his memory, Hemtica remained largely peaceful only because the Bringers of Glory could suppress Alfred, keeping the infamous black sorcerer in constant fear and unable to commit further evil. Now, this mysterious old man claimed that, besides the Death Bringer, there were two more such terrifying enemies in the city...

“Is that a lot?” The withered old man glanced at him, then unexpectedly nodded. “Well, I suppose that is a bit much for a city.”

“You survived the combined assault of three Dark Lords?” The information was so explosive that the Bringer of Glory could hardly process it at first. “You... could you be one of the Order’s... Grand Swordbearers!?”

“No—” The old man shook his head, gesturing to himself with a bony finger and giving a bitter smile. “Do I look alive to you?”

Not at all.

The young Bringer of Glory could clearly see that the old man was on death’s door. Yet, confronted with the living symbol of the Order’s highest martial power, he still found it hard to believe.

After all, there were only three Grand Swordbearers in the entire city of Hemtica...