If time could be turned back, Goyle Bedlaid would never have done that thing again. He would never again have smugly left behind some so-called "mark." He would rather have killed that stubborn governor outright than torture him again.
But there was no such thing as medicine for regret in this world.
Goyle Bedlaid's hands trembled. The warning instruments on the bridge shrieked madly, and the metal ship's wheel spun out of control, giving off a hoarse, monotonous rasp. Someone had carved the eight-pointed star of Chaos into its metal surface, and now, it was slowly changing.
Pitch-black marks writhed across the metal surface. A moment later, a black Aquila appeared upon it.
The Astropath screamed uncontrollably in that instant. Golden Flames began to burn from the neck where infant skulls hung.
They spread with extreme slowness, covering the Astropath bit by bit. He fell to the floor, his skin giving off a foul stench. At first, he could still scream and beg Goyle to save him.
Yet after half a minute, the enormous pain had already left him suffocating, unable to make another sound. The flames crackled over him, flesh melted, and bones twisted within them little by little. Just like that, a living man vanished before Goyle Bedlaid.
In his place was a single word, a High Gothic word made of blood, bone, and meat. Goyle Bedlaid knew how it should be spelled, how it should be read aloud—in truth, he had already murmured it without realizing.
"Vengeance."
Goyle Bedlaid muttered to himself. The crew looked at him in terror, but Goyle Bedlaid gave no reaction at all. He turned a deaf ear to their words and merely kept repeating that word.
His companion, Alfonso Tangris, still retained one last shred of sanity, and so he gave an