Startled Awake on His Deathbed

"Speak."

Horn had not expected such a straightforward answer. Under the imminent threat of death, Belloc's features twisted as he first spilled the general intelligence he had memorized.

"Uh, one of the Blood Cup Cult's priests chose Birmingham as his banquet hall. He wants to take things further, rise even higher. I was coerced by him into collecting [Scarlet Blood] here, to serve as the necessary consumables and influence for the ritual."

"Anything else? Give me details."

Though he did not know whether the "ritual" Belloc described differed from his own understanding, this was not the time to ask such basic questions. Horn frowned slightly and urged him on.

"Of course. That, that... I once heard at a gathering that 'Blood of the Fallen, Tears of the Innocent, Heart of the Restless' are the three major elements of the ritual. And a secret Burnt Offering rite must be held where 'death devours life, and life gives birth to death,' taking its symbolism as an anchor to twist the principle."

"The Hound Bar is one ritual site responsible for collecting [Blood of the Fallen], and it is nearly overflowing now. Although I don't know the locations of the other ritual sites, the Hound Bar definitely has the largest collection range. I swear!"

"That's also why I know many people working as Blood Cup lackeys. The Prevention and Suppression Bureau will definitely be interested! As long as you let me live, I can take you to find every last one of them. All of them!"

"As expected of the 'Bloodhound.' What a good dog for leading the way."

"Then tell me one. The nearest one."

After making that jab, Horn asked casually. He looked calm and composed, not the least bit anxious.

At least, he did not look anxious.

Although he did not know what the "Prevention and Suppression Bureau" was, Horn could infer from the context alone that it was an official organization opposed to the Blood Cup Cult. His heart settled slightly.

The less capable one was, the less responsibility one had. If the sky fell, the tall people would hold it up first. It was not up to an alchemy Apprentice who had not even graduated to save the world.

Although nothing he had done along the way could be called cautious, Horn's original intention was actually very simple.

I just want to be a good person.

A good person who did not rely on eating people, drinking blood, or consuming corpses, but climbed upward through honest effort and kept himself on the right path.

And if, on that basis, he could truly change some things that were less than good—things that made people sick to their stomachs and filled them with disgust—that would be even better.

For example, the Blood Cup Cult's so-called "ritual."

Or Belloc, standing before him.

Within Horn's pupils, the two colors of light that had once been evenly matched had now determined a victor. The bright orange light blazed fiercely once more, overwhelming the surging rose-red glow and making the mandala-like spiral tilt to one side.

In Belloc's account, he was a pitiful and innocent man coerced by the Blood Cup, forced to work for them, and a promising candidate sincerely seeking redemption as an informant. But even an elementary school student who broke a vase knew how to use words as weapons to conceal their mistakes, much less a gang leader.

Believing even a single punctuation mark in his excuses would be disrespectful to Horn's profession.

Before he understood the attitude of the so-called official organization, the Prevention and Suppression Bureau, toward "wild" supernatural beings like himself, Horn had already decided Belloc's fate for the sake of caution.

After squeezing enough secrets out of him, I'll drive the knife into Belloc's throat. Then I'll shove his corpse into the Blood Pool like those previous victims, and let him add bricks and mortar to his own so-called ritual.

That way, Horn would get victory, Belloc would get peace, and nobody could object. A win-win!

Horn won twice!

Belloc's actual connection to the Blood Cup Cult was only a single line. He had merely used that connection as an excuse to stall for time. Now he desperately racked his brain for a lie that would not be exposed immediately, caught between a rock and a hard place.

"The nearest one, the nearest one... um..."

"Hmm?"

"I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

Pressed for information he had intended to keep as a bargaining chip, and feeling the icy blade draw ever closer to his windpipe, Belloc decisively surrendered and spat out the only location he knew.

"The biggest one is—"

His hoarse voice abruptly fell hollow.

His lips had clearly parted, and his tongue had clearly curled. Yet just as Belloc was about to utter the first syllable, his whole body suddenly stiffened like a stone statue. Only his pupils trembled violently, proving that he was still alive.

"What's wrong?"

At Horn's uneasy question, it was as if something had been triggered. Belloc's chest, which had been pinned beneath Horn's foot, swelled by a full circle. Something inside him struggled and shook frantically, and then—

Slammed!

With strength from nowhere, Belloc raised his neck. The blood vessels across his face bulged as though ready to burst. He suddenly arched his body, breaking free of Horn's restraint and jerking upright.

Vividly demonstrating the medical miracle of sitting bolt upright on one's deathbed, Belloc's face flushed an unnatural red as he opened his mouth wide and violently vomited out an oval object covered in blood.

The instant the oval object passed by him, Horn saw it clearly.

It was a heart.

Its outer surface had swollen in a horrifying fashion. What should have been a healthy dark red had turned somewhat purple, as if stagnant blood were endlessly accumulating inside it.

It was almost twice the size of a normal heart. Its once-smooth pericardium had been stretched taut by wildly proliferating muscle beneath it, like the thin skin of a balloon on the verge of bursting, faintly revealing the madly beating lump of flesh below. Restraining muscle fibers, like overly swollen ropes, were thick and tangled in disarray. Every fiber seemed to be pulling at the surface with all its strength.

Trying to stop it from exploding.

Thump. Thump, thump!

Even after leaving its owner's body, the heart continued beating. But no longer with a normal, regular rhythm—it pulsed chaotically and frantically, making one inexplicably irritated.

It traced an arc through the air before falling into the Blood Pool with a plop, sending ripples across the surface.

Then...

There was no then. The ripples quickly smoothed away, and the enormous Blood Pool was silent as death.

Only the strange emblem hanging overhead became ever more vivid, as though it could drip blood at any moment.

Looking at Jim Belloc's corpse, still warm—the Bloodhound who had once dominated a corner of the Lower District, only to die in such a miserable state—Horn did not feel relieved.

He only felt some instinct screaming.

Roaring, shouting, clawing at him with unparalleled urgency and desperation...

It said:

Run!

[Parsing...]

[Detected abnormally active spirituality from external "Grail."]

[Corrosion index rising. Critical threshold imminent!]

Lines of dizzying text flashed across the light screen, only to be covered by overlapping warnings. Layer upon layer of pop-ups gathered into one large word.

[Danger!]

Though he could not understand it, Horn was profoundly shaken. Without even having time to collect the spoils from the scene, he gripped his Edge, tensed his muscles, and fixed his gaze with determination.

Then he charged backward at full speed!

Running away might be shameful, but it really worked.jpg

The hurried footsteps gradually faded. In the empty warehouse, a vortex suddenly appeared atop the tranquil Blood Pool. The water level fell at an inconceivable speed, vaguely exposing a massive shadow hidden beneath.

Something was hatching.

And it was hungry.