If this was the Chaos worshipper’s way of provoking her, then Maria admitted he had succeeded.
Her mother’s corpse had been desecrated, and the one most likely responsible for this abomination was none other than her father, Pastor Lynn, in his desperate wish to resurrect Ruth. Nothing could be darker, nothing more ironic. Chaos worshippers were born with malice toward mankind, and now, before Maria, he ripped open the bloody truth, mocking in silence the small and foolish mortals—powerless, even when their loved ones’ corpses were desecrated and profaned.
“Unforgivable… unforgivable…!”
Forcing down her raging emotions, Maria looked up at the rising Blasphemous Altar.
If she had been of a class that could turn rage into raw power, then her fury—piercing the heavens—would have made even her enemies tremble! It almost felt as though the cold fire burning within her was pushing back the nauseating, clinging white mist. The bloodborne particles twining around her weapon were beginning to riot.
“Calm yourself, Miss Maria.”
From the same cellar where the altar tore its way into the sky, the Chaos worshipper Green grew out of its flesh like some obscene symbiote.
Twisted parasitic flesh made his form horrifying, revolting to behold.
“Don’t worry. I am calm.” Her voice was like unmelting ice, her scarlet eyes glowing with a deathly gaze. The same bloodborne particles seeped uncontrollably from them.
And in the next instant, the so-called calm Maria vanished.
Like a black afterimage she lunged at the altar, her sword-staff trailing a cruel, bloody radiance as she struck down toward Green’s filthy head. She swore she would cut it clean off and hang it upon the highest holy sigil of the chapel—only that would ease her hatred!
The sound of blade against flesh and bone was sharp and vivid. But after plunging three centimeters into Green’s skull, the sword-staff could go no deeper. His defense was absurd—like rubber laced with steel wires, every fraction of penetration a contest of brute strength.
The staff-sword groaned under the strain, and even her bloodforce could not swiftly corrode the ever-regenerating, warped flesh.
And then the altar itself awoke. Like a sleeper startled, countless gaping maws split open across its surface, all shrieking in unison. The psychic scream—like a banshee’s death-curse—slammed directly into Maria’s soul.
Blood burst from her lips. It felt as though her very brain had been churned like dough, her vision splintering into blurred doubles.
The next moment, her body was seized.
Warped limbs thrust from the altar, piercing her arms, legs, and torso, hoisting her high into the air. Barbed flesh tore through her from within, sending invasive filaments writhing through her wounds, eager to reshape her on the spot.
The agony was as if every blood vessel in her body were being flayed, as foreign growths clamored to replace her flesh.
Yet the corruption was crushed as soon as it entered her body. Her bloodforce, surging like a tide, dissolved the tendrils into raw nourishment. To her bitter realization, her body was digesting the foul limbs—and what’s worse, if one ignored their grotesque form, they were nutritious.
Suspended in the air like a macabre trophy, Maria cast her cold gaze down upon Green, the vagrant she had once crossed paths with.
“We should never have come to this,” he said. “For we were both chosen, both blessed.”
His voice was deranged. Twisted into the altar, his face melted like wax, rotten yellow teeth bared in a warped grin. Her staff-sword was still lodged in his skull, but the “Father’s gift” granted him vile vitality—at the cost of pestilence and rot.
“My father’s greatest mistake was taking you in. If I had returned sooner, you would never have had the chance to corrupt him.” Her voice was icy, her gaze on him as if he were already a corpse.
“Pastor Lynn did nothing wrong. He only wished to bring his wife back. You know how grief consumed you after Lady Ruth passed.”
“He chose the worst possible way.”
Green’s dissolving face twisted into a hideous smile, mocking her inability to grasp the “greatness” of life.
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At the same time Maria was hung aloft, another figure stirred—the Chaos-corrupted wearing a priest’s robe. Pastor Lynn staggered to his feet, the man she once called father.
Now she faced at least three formidable Chaos fiends: her father turned monster, this wretched Green, and her mother, Ruth.
The sight was tragic and grotesque—Maria, pale and beautiful, surrounded by writhing limbs tipped with bony spikes, eager to pierce her skull and feast upon her brains.
“When you too join the great Father’s family, you’ll see—the worst way is also the best. Now, Miss Maria, behold in silence as the Father’s power reveals a miracle upon this world for the first time.”
Bantering with a Chaos worshipper was meaningless.
Though she was pierced and bound, Maria restrained the urge to break free immediately. She was nearly certain she could tear herself loose and fight on, but past battles had taught her—better to wait. Chaos worshippers always had some ritual in motion. The best strike was at the brink of their so-called success.
A “miracle.” Likely resurrection.
Yes, in this age, only gods could raise the dead. No mortal possessed such power.
But would it really go so smoothly? Maria knew too well—Chaos gods delighted most in watching mortals fall from hope into despair.
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