Dagger

Chapter 46: Dagger

The moment he stepped into the royal palace, it was as if he had crossed from an eternally sleeping dark night into a falsely bright day.

A gentle breeze wafted in, carrying a faint, delicate fragrance of rosemary, sage, and hyacinth, mingled with wisps of incense smoke and the aroma of fine fruit wine scattered throughout the garden. Layers of pure white gauze curtains were adorned with jade-green vines, upon which deep purple roses were artfully arranged, like a hanging garden and a terrestrial paradise.

Mors walked amidst this beautiful scenery, his blood-stained black attire and robes appearing utterly out of place. His steps never faltered, and with each footfall, more soiled blood and shredded flesh from his robes sloughed off, leaving a bloody trail on the courtyard's pathways.

After a moment's thought, he plunged the heavy blade in his hand into the ground. The sword's edge dragged, tearing through the exquisite milky-white cobblestones like a ripped scroll, igniting a fierce, lingering fire that violently shattered the intoxicating harmony of the place.

A soft chuckle echoed from afar. Mors tapped his sword hilt with a single finger, making the flames burn even brighter as he continued deeper into the palace.

His mind was highly focused, not just on the transformed palace but also extending to the planet's surface, constantly monitoring the overall situation.

When he saw Peturabo's army regrouping after the surprise attack and quickly deciding to continue their advance, he paused briefly. Then, imperceptibly, he transmitted more power imprints through the invisible mark he had previously placed on that child's shoulder, providing temporary transfer and identification.

Deep within the palace, Mors ignored the countless sounds of laughter, the crackling roar of burning flames replacing the seductive melodies.

Only one thing truly caught his attention: he had not been obstructed in any way along his path; not even symbolic pain-bringers or phantoms of weak succubi had appeared.

The Prince of Pleasure had exhausted all means to express his infinite welcome for Mors's arrival.

Or rather, he was desperately eager to extract his soul through a more direct and decisive method, along with the vessel that intimately fused with his soul.

Mors cleaved through the massive, relief-carved doors of the inner royal court with a single sword stroke, first tossing in the sack carrying the long Prince Harkon.

The number of people present, or more accurately, the number of things, was greater than he had anticipated.

The one seated on the throne should have been Dameks—his withered head lay in the center of the floor, his body sprawled across the armrest of the couch, a golden scepter piercing through him from top to bottom.

Upon seeing Dameks, Mors confirmed that he had coincidentally arrived about seven to ten minutes late.

Since the usurper was dead, he no longer saw a need to keep the long Prince alive. A flash of light, like lightning or frost, flickered, and Harkon died.

Without looking back, he sensed the broken grand doors becoming covered in dense cobwebs.

Each layer of cobweb was exquisitely embroidered with different geometric patterns. Viewed individually, they were enough to captivate the mind, but when layered together, they wove a complex, disorienting tapestry of spatial illusion, displaying an overwhelming beauty.

The longer he observed, the more the lingering taste of blood on his tongue transformed into sweet, delicious nectar.

The entire space began to sway rhythmically, causing objects to shift from side to side. More ornaments tumbled to the floor.

Behind the overlapping cobwebs, vibrant, iridescent colors surged like oil drops on water across the vast ocean's surface, creating a sensory illusion for those inside, making them feel as if they were floating in a small boat amidst the waves.

That was no longer a path to leave.

The sword's edge sliced across the floor, its tip pointing towards two unknown, twisted creatures beside the couch.

A string of runes flowed from the sword's tip, traversing the smooth, moist, skin-like surface of the snow-white marble floor, crossing several contorted corpses formed from crimson drapes and withered flowers, passing over the unevenness created by indiscernible scattered gold and silver ornaments on the ground, and finally penetrating the surface of the two creatures.

Like slicing the skin and flesh from a ripe fruit, amidst the miserable wails of the two creatures, the various mutated layers of their skin peeled away. Scales, wings, and overgrown, twisted limbs were forcibly severed and stripped by the runes, crushed onto the smoothly shifting floor.

Regardless of whether the internal mutations had ceased, and ignoring the muscles that continued to bleed fragrant pink blood, they at least began to resemble human forms.

The incantations transformed into golden spikes, piercing and fixing the remaining hands and feet of the two creatures.

Afterward, Mors silently used the tip of his sword to cleave open the chaotic, filthy shells that constituted the creatures.

He heard, and understood, the calls of the two beings.

But he would not respond.

If any creature truly fallen into the path of pleasure were present, it would undoubtedly find endless joy in the first creature's pained cries.

Its suffering was incredibly real, capable of making any sentient being's heart feel as if it were being sliced by a blade. Each cry began with a desperate apology and ended with an unintelligible plea.

"It's all my fault, Mors... I shouldn't have listened to her... my ignorance... this isn't what I wanted..."

Mors patiently sliced through its skin. Direct contact with the Pleasure Lord's power had completely altered its internal structure; he could only see a mass of flowing chaos, like seawater, ceaselessly circulating.

The creature beside it cackled sharply, "I killed him! Are you angry?... Nothingness, did you foresee this fate? Heehee, I also told my brother Harkon that he should make his move. If his betrayal fails, he'll drown in wine..."

A bottle of aged wine that had been placed on the square table fell to the ground due to the space's swaying. Scarlet wine spilled across the floor, seeping into the long prince's mangled limbs.

In a corner of the room, unnoticed by anyone, the avian statue symbolizing the vulture god Isis fell from its stand, its feathers exhibiting a vitreous deep blue luster.

A sweet aroma, so thick it made breathing impossible, rapidly spread from the fallen wine bottle.

Mors stopped breathing. More incantations manifested from within the black cloth, spreading outwards.

He cut away the second layer of that unnamable thing. The seawater-like contents flowed outward, leaving behind a gelatinous, unknown substance.

"I finished that painting, you were right, it looks so good..." that thing said. "I didn't have time to finish your model. At that time, I couldn't move my brush anymore... Mors, Mors, Mors..."

It repeatedly called Mors's name, perhaps trying to grasp the last straw that could steady his consciousness amidst the boundless waves.

"Mors, can you tell me... how are they? My family... my citizens... and your child..."

Mors crouched down, resting his longsword across his knees, and his black-cloth-wrapped hand reached deep into the gel.

"I... Mors, can you answer me..." the creature's voice grew increasingly indistinct.

After waiting in vain for a response, its fixed limbs trembled, resisting the innate struggle for survival within the creature.

"I understand... I'm sorry, kill me..."

The other creature cackled with boundless glee, its tone rising, "How wonderful! No answer! Look what you've done! Such pain! Cruz's brother, fallen into a fate of suffering with Cruz! Fate, oh change... you don't answer, he thinks all calamities are his doing, my good brother, he doesn't even dare to beg..."

As it spoke, this thing suddenly shed purplish-blue tears.

Mors suddenly yanked, his fingers twisting out a slender, exquisite golden needle, carved like a dagger.

The edge of the dagger seemed to hold a mysterious, unfathomable opening, an endless corrupting radiance lingering there.

If any mortal were present now, even if they didn't look, listen, or smell, avoiding all sensory stimulation, the concentration of chaos here would be enough to teach them to play chess with their own blood in an instant.

Mors tossed his longsword, casually and completely pinning the chattering thing on the other side. Then, he withdrew his longsword and sat down on the ground.

Runes circled his fingertips as he focused on sealing the source of corruption in his hand. Simultaneously, the forces distributed around the outer perimeter of the royal palace began to cleanse and burn inward layer by layer, destroying all surreal erosion phenomena.

Killing demons was always the simplest part of the entire process.

If nothing unexpected happened, once the pollution here was completely purified, all crises would end.

Precisely at this moment, a scent of mingled rust and blood erupted hundreds of miles away, and the rune beacon Mors had previously placed on Peturabo urgently signaled an alert.

After a rapid assessment of pros and cons, he dispatched a portion of his power to where his apprentice was, the price being that the veil of reality at his own location suddenly fluctuated due to the energy imbalance.

The six previously completely isolated sources of corruption abruptly shattered, their energies merging with the three significant corpses already present here. The entire scene violently trembled, as if struck by a hurricane on the open sea, all objects tumbling and shifting.

A long string of sharp, high-pitched laughter exploded in his ears, and a sweet scent simultaneously intensified.

Mors plunged his five fingers into the marble to steady himself. The moment his longsword fell from his embrace, the golden dagger precisely pierced his palm.

The last thing he managed to do was complete the runes on the longsword.