Did justice truly exist?
Konrad Curze had pondered that question countless times, and in the end, he had reached no conclusion. But he already had a similar theory, forged from the raw material of his once-mad mind, in countless blood-soaked long nights, shaped by a pair of cold, twisted hands from the screams and suffering of the guilty.
Justice existed, but it would not descend upon him. The thing he pursued was destined to be turned by countless plausible illusions into fragile glassware, to fall to the ground and become powder impossible to seek again.
And all of it had been forged by his own hands.
As for now, he asked for only one thing.
Vengeance.
The Night Lord's cold gaze transcended all things, lingering with stubborn, enduring focus on that rotten thing. The Preacher on its back let out an indescribable shriek, the piercing sound soon fading into the wind.
Its blasphemous, spiritual heart was constantly warning it, one cold ending after another flashing before its eyes, full of despair, full of death.
The wyvern beat its rotting wings and flew across a sky long hidden beneath dark clouds. It had been a very long time since sunlight had appeared on Terra. From the first moment of the invasion, the Demons had used the blood of countless mortals to conceal the sun's existence. In the year that followed, the cold, long night had become a silent onlooker, watching humanity die with indifferent eyes.
Now, it was about to watch the Preacher die as well.
The Night Lord raised his hand. His sharp nails, harder than steel, sliced open the top of the cabin, which had been made from composite metal materials. A gale howled in, whipping up his long hair. It thrashed wildly, like the physical embodiment of malice