The So-Called [Thug]

"Splash—"

The sound of something heavy hitting the water rang out. Corrosive blood splashed everywhere, making Belloc instinctively retreat and shield his face, but he was still too slow.

A few droplets of scarlet landed on Belloc's blade and began to squirm their way up it. The cold gleam on the Edge flickered erratically, nearly collapsing altogether, accompanied by an illusory-sounding hiss.

Belloc shook his blade hard, flinging off the scarlet substance that clung like a festering sore. The shock had yet to fade from his face as he stood frozen beside the Blood Pool, staring fixedly at where Horn had just fallen in.

"Huh?"

What Horn had just done had shocked him beyond measure. It was like watching someone do a 360-degree spin at a swimming pool, flip you off, then dive headfirst into a tank of sulfuric acid.

"No, why did you just jump in? Even if you hadn't, I would've sent you in myself."

Watching the Blood Pool return to stillness, even its ripples gone, Belloc no longer felt the pain of his wounds. All he felt was absurdity rising from the depths of his heart.

I've already played my trump card, and you went and killed yourself?

It was not as if no living people had ever been thrown into the Blood Pool. In fact, ever since it had been built, it had devoured quite a few. Some had been disobedient people the Hound Gang tossed in to destroy the evidence—sometimes Belloc had done it himself.

The first reaction of everyone who fell into the Blood Pool was to struggle. But no matter how strong an ordinary person was, they could not resist the Blood Pool's all-pervasive assimilation and draining. After a few futile thrashes, they would slowly sink, join the cycle of spirituality, and become another extension of the Blood Pool.

As the adrenaline gradually faded, blood began seeping from Belloc's wounds again. Grimacing, the injured Belloc lost any desire to investigate further. He painfully pulled the last vial of [Healing Herbal Tea] from his pocket, uncorked it, and gently inhaled its drifting fragrance. His furrowed brow gradually relaxed.

"Repair broken bodies, color dimmed souls." Since Hecate's era, witches, healers, and herbalists had simmered beneficial herbs in cauldrons to mend wounds of body and mind.

The Liquid in the test tube swayed with Belloc's movements. It was not the pink associated with the Principle of [Heart], but scarlet, with [Grail] used in its place. Yet when it came to healing injuries, the latter was hardly inferior to the former. In pain relief and replenishing blood, it was even better.

For [Heart] represented protection here, while [Grail] represented growth. For an injured Belloc, rather than raising his maximum health and defense, straightforward health recovery was much more practical.

As the Principle of [Heart] gradually declined, authentic [Healing Herbal Tea] had become increasingly difficult to find on the market. The two bottles of [Healing Herbal Tea: Blood] in Belloc's pocket had been precious consumables issued by the Blood Cup Cult. He had not expected to use them both today.

Now isn't the time to worry about the price. If it needs using, use it.

Belloc brought the test tube to his lips and opened his mouth. The Liquid flowed—

Bang!

The open crate filled with "grapes" was flung high into the air. The scarlet Liquid within spun toward Belloc, catching him completely off guard and splashing all over him!

"Urgh—cough, cough!"

The precious medicine was knocked from his hand. His clothes were stained, and Belloc, covered head to toe in sticky blood, staggered backward while coughing uncontrollably.

His face looked as though he had seen a ghost.

How was he still alive!?

How could he be alive?!

Expressionless, Horn silently increased the output of [Flame of Destiny], Burning away the scarlet spirituality that had invaded his body and was stirring restlessly. Having risen from the Blood Pool, he still felt lingering fear.

The surface of the Blood Pool appeared calm, but in Horn's spiritual vision, an invisible vortex wrapped around it with the emblem hanging above as its core, greedily devouring life. Once submerged in the blood, the colorless flame Horn had covered himself with beforehand had nearly been extinguished by the impact. It could barely protect him from being infected by parasite-like spirituality, and it was visibly dissipating.

Still, that was enough.

Using the thick pool water as cover, Horn swam to where the crate had been placed based on his earlier impression and grabbed the edge of the Blood Pool.

Then—

What a surprise!

Having interrupted the boss's unforgivable healing-drink routine, Horn—who had just replenished a huge amount of spirituality through Burning what remained—bent down and picked up the pistol he had thrown to the ground earlier. He looked straight at the bedraggled Belloc. His right arm, holding the gun, extended upward, the raised muzzle aimed at Belloc's incredulous face.

Though a gun was pointed at him, Belloc seemed utterly unconcerned. He merely stared blankly into Horn's eyes.

Those Burning eyes.

Orange and red light coiled over his pupils, flickering with the boy's breathing. Though Belloc had left London years ago, he still remembered that light, from the deepest corners of his dreams...

Back then, he had still been called "Lean Dog" Jim, one of the countless orphans on London's streets. Like the others, he should have been forced into work upon reaching a certain age in the orphanage, becoming a pickpocket or chimney sweep, before dying cheaply somewhere like a bag of garbage, with no one ever speaking his name again.

Until, during a street brawl where he had risked his life, a passing "important figure" had glanced at him by chance. After enduring layer upon layer of tests, he received the Mark of [Thug], grasped real and tangible power, and became a supernatural being beyond even his wildest dreams.

From then on, no one called him "Lean Dog" anymore. In its place came the fearful, reverent title: Lord Belloc, the Bloodhound!

And now, faced with that similar light in Horn's pupils, Belloc was momentarily dazed. The sticky discomfort of his clothes and the pain in his body seemed to drift farther and farther away, until they were beyond reach.

He seemed to have become that child again, curled up on a street corner, looking at the dazzling goods in shop windows, silently lowering his head and clenching his fists red with cold.

When one saw beauty and grandeur that did not belong to oneself, one wanted to possess it, curse it, tear it apart, and—

—destroy it!

The starving wolf in Belloc's heart raised its head.

Perhaps this is why I was chosen as a [Thug]. How fittingly ugly.

With a laugh in his heart that he could not tell was self-mockery or relief, Belloc felt the scar on his left palm—the one left by the ritual, which had never completely healed—tremble and split open slightly. Foul blood flowed out, binding his palm to the hilt of his knife. It was as familiar as a limb, no longer distinguishable from himself.

This was a Mark. This was a wound. This was power.

As the first step of the Path of Strife, [Thug] granted only two simple, brutal enhancements.

The first was fearlessness toward pain, along with a wolf-like agile body. To a [Thug], bleeding wounds were like medals of glory.

The second was that rebellious ambition to rise against authority and incite riots. Years of running a gang had bored Belloc to death, and now, a path to freedom lay before him.

Having understood the essence of [Thug] and established his Devotion, Belloc had found, through this life-or-death confrontation, the opportunity he had once sought in vain—an opportunity he had even been willing to make a deal with the Blood Cup Cult to obtain.

The door to the Second Seal was about to open for Belloc.

How ironic. How fortunate.

He scoffed at the muzzle aimed directly between his brows and raised his already bent Edge level before him.

In Belloc's heart, fervor boiled!

As experienced as he was, he naturally recognized the gun in the brat's hand as an M1900. Five shots had rung out just now, plus the first one—six shots in total.

And an M1900's magazine could hold no more than six bullets.

So—

"I bet your gun is empty."