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墨書 Inktalez
The night resembled a resting abyssal beast, deep and prolonged, yet one could not ignore the terror and danger it harbored. After all, the awakened ferocious beast is truly fierce; once it stirs, it will burn everything in its path with its endless wrath.
Dark clouds drifted by, obscuring the moonlight, as if even the moon did not wish to witness that hellish scene.
Through the gaps in the clouds, silvery moonlight fell like a veil, landing upon a young man.
Dressed in black, his black pupils revealed no hint of emotion—neither joy nor sorrow, neither sadness nor anger. It seemed he lacked any feelings that life should possess.
His eyes resembled a cold pond frozen for millennia, devoid of any ripples. All that existed was an endless chill and depth, a heart-freezing cold that encased all life in ice.
Beneath his feet, blood had flowed into small streams.
Corpses had piled into small mounds.
Each person's face bore deep fear; none had their eyes closed, and none wore a calm expression.
Blood slowly trickled down, whether intentionally or unintentionally seeming to encircle the young man. It was as if the souls of the dead could not forget their final moments of terror and still sought revenge against the grim reaper who had taken their lives.
Unfortunately, living was akin to being an ant; what could death change?
Those who died at his hands did not even have the right to linger in this world; they were directly sent to the Underworld, joining the throngs of wandering souls on their journey below.
This was merely a result of his mercy. Had it been otherwise, none would have been left behind; all would have been scattered like ashes. For him, this would require little effort.
Mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
This was undeniably a scene from the Hell of All Beings, fitting for the name Senra Hall.
Harvesting these lives had no effect on his state of mind; it seemed like a mere casual act, akin to picking a few wild grasses by the roadside. They were just weeds, plucked without hesitation, only to be discarded, whether into a trash bin or left by the roadside made no difference. Would you feel joy over a weed or sorrow for one?
Without even glancing at the corpses and blood strewn across the ground, he moved, his body floating lightly as if he were a Celestial Being wandering among mortals. His footsteps were soft, almost inaudible, yet to some ears, they resonated like a whisper, striking deep within their hearts.
Beneath the low eaves, a lantern flickered, casting a dim light that offered a glimmer of brightness in the pitch-black night.
In the shadowy glow, a man with an unkempt beard wore an expression of deep melancholy. Beside him lay a young man who bore a striking resemblance to him—perhaps seven or eight parts alike—though younger, it was evident they shared similarities. It seemed to be a younger version of himself.
However, although the young man's body was still warm, he had ceased to breathe and his heart had stopped beating; all signs of life had vanished.
He had become nothing more than a corpse.
The young man's expression was peaceful yet marred by lingering terror, as if he had endured some horrific experience.
He too was a life caught in the wrath of death.
In his final moments, like others before him, his face was etched with profound fear, eyes wide open in eternal fright. Yet it seemed that being near this melancholic middle-aged man provided him with a sense of safety, like a warm harbor protecting him and allowing him to sleep peacefully.
Under the eaves lay an empty thirty-liter water jug.
The air was thick with a pungent odor—gasoline.
Suddenly, a crisp sound of footsteps echoed nearby; the middle-aged man turned to look at the young man beside him.
He saw that the young man's previously serene face had transformed into one of sheer terror; his eyes were wide open as if trying to take in the sky itself.
His already pale face—paler than paper due to the cessation of blood flow after death—was now even more ghostly white. Strangely enough, beads of cold sweat had formed on his brow.
Even in death, even with his soul having entered the Underworld, the body's autonomous memory still allowed him to naturally express fear.
A hand, not particularly broad but rough and calloused, reached out. The palm brushed away the cold sweat from Face and gently closed his wide-open eyes.
The young man was asleep. Although his face remained pale and showed traces of fear, he appeared much more peaceful, as if he were merely having a nightmare.
The middle-aged man's expression was even more sorrowful. His eyes seemed to reveal the depths of the soul, leaving a lasting impression on anyone who looked into them.
These were eyes filled with endless sadness and melancholy. If they were seen in the city by a talent scout, they would surely be taken away.
Step!~ Step!~
The crisp sound of footsteps echoed in his ears, each one like the beating of a drum, striking at his heart.
There was no doubt, no fear.
The middle-aged man affectionately patted the young man's head before slowly rising to his feet.
In his hand was a pitch-black wooden stick made of an unknown material. At its tip was a rusted Spear Tip. Several broken Sakura Spikes hung limply at the junction between the Spearhead and the wooden stick.
Tightening his grip on the spear, his gaze shifted toward an unknown direction. There, hidden in darkness, nothing could be seen—only shadows.
Step!~ Step!~
As the footsteps grew closer, the middle-aged man's expression showed slight ripples of emotion.
The footsteps approached nearer, and in the dim light, something seemed to emerge from the darkness.
The first thing that caught the eye was a pair of feet. They touched the ground without stirring up any dust, as if they were stepping on air. However, the rhythm of those footsteps matched the sound of Heartache that echoed in the air. It was clear who the other person was.
In the dim light, a slightly thin figure of a young man gradually emerged from head to toe.
Dressed in black, with Black Pants, Black Shoes, and Black Hair.
Aside from the exposed skin that appeared somewhat pale, his entire being was shrouded in darkness, as if he were a messenger emerging from the shadows.
A pair of pitch-black Scarlet Eyes seemed like the entrance to a black hole, harboring an abyss darker than night itself. It felt as though gazing into them for too long could draw away one’s very soul.
Tightening his grip on the long spear, the middle-aged man stepped forward, his melancholic eyes fixed on the young man, who was about the same age as his son.
“It’s you, isn’t it? You killed my son.” The middle-aged man spoke slowly, his voice somewhat hoarse, filled with deep sorrow and helplessness.
The young man ignored him and continued to walk forward.
“Not willing to say much…” The middle-aged man sighed helplessly.
“Well then, let’s not say more.”
(To be continued.)
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