Now at the Bottom of the Ancient Hell

Sacred Heart Hospital, the basement level, deep within the Blood Pool, sealed off by layers of rituals to isolate it from the influence of the upper floors.

Falling.

Falling continuously.

Falling endlessly.

Horn fell into an unfathomable nightmare.

Unlike the previous dream where he soared through the sky, transcending all things, this time, he was drifting downward through a freezing river.

Toward death.

He could see only scarlet, could feel only agony.

Resentment, remorse, roars, and wails.

In his exhaustion, Horn closed his eyes, gradually coming to an understanding.

He was submerged in tears.

"Give me one more, just one, I beg you! It's the last one! I swear!"

A junkie knelt at his feet, weeping and wailing, humbly pleading for his mercy.

Using the cruelest of words.

"I know I have no money left, but I still have a wife, and children, two of them! I'll mortgage them to you, they'll be very obedient, I promise!"

Making such a reckless promise, the trembling man carefully took the syringe filled with flowing scarlet liquid that had been contemptuously tossed to him, tears of gratitude streaming from the corners of his eyes.

Under Horn's indifferent gaze, his figure ignited as if set aflame, twisting and dissipating.

Immediately after, the next phantom appeared.

A madam grabbed a young prostitute by the hair, relentlessly grinding her toes with the spiked heel of her shoe, cursing foully, spittle flying and ruining the girl's thick makeup.

"You ungrateful wretch, you think you're something special? Tell me, what talent do you have besides selling yourself? Get out there and serve the guests, now!"

The middle-aged woman, spewing such venomous words, had completely forgotten the torment she suffered when she first entered the trade. No, rather, it was precisely because she remembered it that she wanted others to suffer misfortunes even deeper than her own.

Those who have been drenched in the rain want to tear down everyone else's umbrella.

Just like that, sipping on the pain of others, she found it genuinely sweet.

At her compressed chest, the wound bitten by the previous guest oozed reddish pus, and tears streamed down a face whose youth could not be hidden even by thick, lead-white powder.

Under Horn's still-indifferent eyes, their figures likewise twisted and deformed, drifting away like smoke.

Another phantom emerged immediately after.

"Cough, cough, cough-cough!"

A violently trembling figure lay on the bed, his white-knuckled left hand clutching a crumpled sheet, his right hand desperately pressing against his chest to keep his coughing from waking the wife and child sleeping beside him.

His wife, a laundress, earned only a meager wage despite her best efforts, and their child was not yet old enough to be sent to the factory. He himself had been laid off due to an accident that left him riddled with illness, living hand-to-mouth.

Thus, he pulled out from under his pillow the "divine gift" that a long-unseen coworker had forced upon him, said to cure all diseases.

For a long time, he closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

The coughing gradually subsided, and a hunger like a tidal wave surged forth.

Cold moonlight shone through a hole in the ceiling, the reflection of scarlet pupils appearing on the now-empty glass bottle. At the corners of his eyes, tears of sorrow and ecstasy intertwined as they slid down.

Then, the next, the next, and the next...

Infinite tears flowed beside Horn, as if thousands were weeping and screaming. Amidst the tide composed of agony, a devout chant arose.

"The man shall flay the burnt offering and cut it into pieces, and he shall put fire on the altar and arrange wood on the fire."

"The priests shall arrange the pieces, the head, and the fat on the wood that is on the fire on the altar."

"But its entrails and its legs he shall wash with water, and the priest shall burn all of it on the altar as a burnt offering, a burnt offering to Baal, a food offering with a pleasing aroma."

The priest's offspring lay naked on the altar, tears flowing along the sharp blade held by his father, dripping onto his tender chest. A ram licked the blood flowing from the altar, and within its scarlet horizontal pupils was pure delight.

The tears continued to flow, drifting into a more ancient and forbidden history.

Before a grotesque statue of a flayed bull, amidst rising smoke, flickering flames appeared and disappeared.

Children, their throats already slit and hearts removed, were placed face-up beneath the idol, atop the pyre, before the sacrificial altar, waiting for the priest's arrival.

This ritual, like countless others before it, was held in the Oak Forest in the dead of night. The ceremony required the clamor of wind instruments, the thunder of drums, and constant screaming. Dancers stripped of their skin and the powerful priestesses of the Sisterhood of Knots would preside over the ritual together. The parents who sacrificed their children to the god were required to stand by and watch, allowed to indulge in their grief and weep bitterly, but forbidden from turning their gaze away.

The more tears at the ceremony, the better, for these tears represented rain. The more that flowed, the more rain would come the following year, and the more rain there was, the more pleased the god would be.

Because offering children as a sacrifice to the god was a privilege, an honor granted only to families with noble blood.

As long as they could reach a covenant with the god they worshipped, the blood shed would inevitably bring about more prosperous and peaceful days.

They believed this to be true.

"If his offering is a human as a Burnt Offering, it may be accepted before Baal. He shall lay his hand upon the head of the Burnt Offering, and the Burnt Offering shall be accepted to make atonement for him."

"He shall slaughter it before the deity; he who brings the Sacrifice shall present the blood, and sprinkle the blood around the altar, upon the soil of the root system, and upon the ancient rocks."

A nauseating, hoarse voice rang out. Saliba, draped in a white robe stained red with blood that clung to his body like a second skin, chanted and prayed joyfully before the altar in a coarse, awkward tongue.

In his pupils, glimmers of joyful tears sparkled.

"Who shall flay the skin of the sacrificial beast? It is the one who confesses his sins! He shall flay the skin of the sacrificial beast and cut it into pieces!"

"Thus, his sins shall be washed away, his life shall attain Longevity, and his Achievement shall be fulfilled."

"He shall be forgiven!"

"Shall be forgiven!", "Shall be forgiven!", "Shall be forgiven!"...

Responding to the cheers with cheers, the Acolytes echoed him in delight. Then, a fire ignited; the blood of the innocent replaced the death of the guilty, and beautiful prayers rose with the fragrant smoke. Above the firmament, dark clouds gathered, and thunder rumbled.

A torrential rain was coming.

Once the ritual was complete, the fields sprinkled with blood would be bountiful, and the High Priest who had washed away his sins would achieve Ascension.

In the intoxicating euphoria of impending success, Saliba frantically tore off the robe wrapped around him, discarding it along with the skin that clung to it. He felt no pain; there was only his heart, beating louder and louder, singing and praising.

Upon his mangled, bloody body, scales squirmed and burrowed their way out, signaling that he had cast off his mortal nature and was gradually transforming into a noble body of Longevity!

Yet, tears still flowed.

Amidst those portions of unwillingness and resentment, amidst those portions of pain and Sacrifice.

And also at the corners of the eyes of Horn, who had been watching every tragedy from the sidelines.

Why must he always bear witness to everything?

Because he is the fuse for it all; the interferer of fixed fate; the spark that brings change to those who wish for it, and to those who do not.

"Monarch of the Kingdom of Tears", "Devil King smeared with the tears of parents and the blood of children", "Messenger of painful Sacrifice"...

All of the above are aliases for this status, the essence of which is the raging, purifying fire ignited upon the ritual altar.

Fire of Sacrifice · [Moloch]!

Having realized his own essence, facing the river of pain that seemed to span history and extend eternally, formed from the gathering of tears, the tiny spark shouted with all its might:

"Hey, can you see me? I am here!"