The End of the Ritual

When the last drop of blood flowed backward up from the little river and was sucked dry by the final monster crouching on the riverbank.

Herpo the Foul had fulfilled the most insignificant of his many promises—to make Alexandria clean. The bloodstains on the streets and the thick reek of blood that had filled the air were gone without a trace. The streets were spotless, like exhibits in a display window. Indeed, when was a city at its cleanest? The instant there were no people. But once the order brought by humanity collapsed completely, the disorder from the wilds would soon devour everything.

When only clear water poured into its throat, unable to please its senses, the monster slowly withdrew its mouthparts from the river and slowly raised its head. Its twisted, swollen body could no longer be told head from tail. Every inch of it was covered in crimson muscle, and countless lumps were beating with a thump, thump, as if it were a hive gestating a swarm of insects, or as if countless hearts were pulsing beneath its flesh.

The body, whose top and bottom, limbs and torso could no longer be distinguished, defied all description. Yet anyone who saw it would feel that it was merely a stubborn stone still being carved, its rough outer skin only just stripped away, impossible to imagine what world-shocking work was hidden within. Its heavy footsteps fell on a street whose original appearance could no longer be seen, leaving bloody footprints that were quickly evaporated, but no matter how one looked at them, those footprints seemed more like masks. Only after it climbed over the riverbed and crossed the street was its full form finally revealed—the swollen crimson lines of muscle outlined faces that had once belonged to Alexandrians, their expressions