Chapter 55: Nightmare 8
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 55: Nightmare 8
When the intruders first appeared, Mordor hadn't been worried in the slightest.
Mordor had lived for over a hundred years. He had lived long enough to accurately gauge an opponent's strength at a glance.
There were two intruders. Both were on the stronger side, but they were well within his power to handle. The only thought in his head was that they would make excellent pawns.
Decent corpses had been hard to come by lately, so he considered this a stroke of luck.
However, for some reason, only one intruder stepped inside. Mordor found the boy’s arrogance amusing. He would kill this brat, turn him into a subordinate, and then use him to slaughter the intruder waiting outside.
‘This should be fun.’
He was getting bored with experimenting on young children anyway; the timing was perfect.
"Mordor."
The only problem was that the boy knew far too much about Death Heaven.
When the brat first uttered his name, Mordor thought Betzdo—that insolent punk—had sent him.
“Old man, you’re only sitting in that seat because of your age. You’re weaker than me, aren’t you?”
Betzdo was a disgrace to all necromancers, a man who understood nothing of the grandeur or sanctity of their craft. He was a moron who had only made it into Death Heaven because he happened to survive.
Mordor hadn't originally intended to join Death Heaven either. He believed that huddling together in groups was a behavior reserved for the foolish, unchosen masses of humanity.
“You are weak.”
But his mind had changed after witnessing the strength of the Leader.
That man was a true necromancer—a God of Death. He had appeared out of nowhere, yet he was stronger than any necromancer in existence. He was powerful enough to seize the entire continent at a moment's notice.
Mordor had suggested it several times: let us swallow the continent whole. But the Leader always refused with the same words.
“The time is not yet right. Stand by.”
The Leader had given only one command: Do not stand out.
And so, Mordor collected corpses in secret. It was easy to obtain the bodies of insignificant humans.
“You’re really giving me this much money?”
With enough money, one could acquire people quickly. When he grew bored of buying them, he found other ways to harvest them.
Aside from his name, this brat knew many things. He knew Mordor's rank. He knew Betzdo’s rank. He didn't even seem surprised by Mordor's abilities, as if he had already accounted for them.
‘Could there be a traitor inside?’
No, that was impossible. They had all entered into a "contract" that made betrayal a literal impossibility.
‘I’ll play with him for a bit and then squeeze the information out of him.’
His specialty—the technique of replacing the face of a faceless corpse with the face of someone the target held dear—had failed. But if that were his only trick, he would have died long ago.
Mordor summoned his combat-specialized corpses. Each one possessed the strength of a large Magic Beast. Yet, the fledgling didn't show a hint of fear at the sight of them. He didn't say a word.
Shiver.
For a moment, a chill ran down Mordor's spine. It was the same feeling he’d had long ago, back when he lost the war.
"Nightmare."
As the brat spoke, a thick fog blanketed the entire laboratory. The summoned corpses vanished, leaving only Mordor and the boy alone in the lab.
‘Is this hallucination magic?’
Hallucination magic—a spell that manipulated the opponent's mind to make them see illusions.
"Do you really think I’d fall for a low-level hallucination like this?"
The way to break a hallucination was simple: flood one's own head with mana. However, for some reason, the fog did not dissipate even when he surged mana through his mind.
What Loki was using wasn't a hallucination, but an illusion. It wasn't about making the opponent see something; it was closer to creating something out of thin air.
But Mordor knew nothing about Loki.
"Tsk."
Mordor clicked his tongue and tried to summon his corpses once more.
Thump!
But no matter how hard he struck the ground with his staff, the corpses did not appear.
"Just what did you do—"
Thud.
Mordor stopped mid-sentence.
His head fell.
Literally, his head tumbled to the floor. The face staring up from the ground was identical to his own.
Huh?
Panicked, he fumbled with his hands where his face should be. Fortunately, his head was still attached.
Blood?
But his hands were stained with blood. The more he felt his face, the more blood coated his palms.
"Aaaaaaaagh!"
Before he could process the situation, a scream erupted. It was his own voice. He turned his head toward the source of the scream.
"It's hot! It's burning! Help me! Save me!"
Mordor flinched. There he was, screaming as his entire body was engulfed in flames. Mordor looked down to check his own body.
Whoosh!
He was on fire.
Huh?
It didn't feel hot at all. And yet, his skin was turning black.
Sizzle.
He smelled the stench of burning flesh. But he felt no pain.
Drip, drip.
Charred skin fell to the floor in clumps. Still, there was no pain.
"Water! Water!"
Despite the lack of pain, he screamed. If he stayed like this, he would burn to death!
Ssssss.
He looked down again. The fire on his body had gone out. However, his skin was completely charred, hanging in loose, blackened tatters. The fire was out, but his skin did not return to normal.
"......Hungry........."
A weak voice reached his ears. Again, it was his own voice.
There stood another version of himself, looking as if he were about to starve to death. He was so emaciated that his bones threatened to pierce through his skin.
"Wow! Food!"
A child's voice, completely out of place, rang out. At the mention of food, the starving version of himself lifted his head.
"Look over here! There's something to eat!"
The child was pointing at Mordor.
"What?"
Hearing those words, Mordor instinctively backed away.
Patter, patter, patter.
Mordor watched as the starving version of himself sprinted toward him. He was tackled to the ground. The thing that looked like him opened its mouth wide and began to tear at his flesh. It bit down again and again. Chewing. Gnashing. Swallowing.
He felt no pain while being devoured, but he saw his flesh being ripped away with his own eyes and heard the sound of his meat being chewed with his own ears.
"Aaaaaagh!"
The biting continued until his lower body was gone. Only after devouring his entire lower half did the creature that looked like him leave, seemingly satisfied.
"Uuugh..."
Hearing a sound, Mordor flinched and looked toward the source.
"You guys!!"
Then he laughed. Standing there were the corpses he used.
"First, get me out of—"
Mordor couldn't finish his sentence. One of the corpses drove a blade into his body.
"Huh?"
Another corpse swung an axe into his arm. His arm was severed, and blood sprayed like a fountain.
"Aaaaaaaaagh!"
More corpses appeared from behind. They were the children Mordor had turned into corpses for sport.
"What are you looking at!"
The children held no weapons. Since they were useless for combat, Mordor hadn't bothered giving them any.
Dozens of children opened their mouths. Mordor recalled how his own double had torn his flesh away.
"N-No!"
Dozens of children began to bite and tear at Mordor. Everything except his head disappeared. Only then did the corpses leave.
"Uuuh..."
At some point, Mordor began making the same guttural sounds as the corpses he had created.
Plop.
A clump of dirt fell before Mordor's eyes. Mordor looked up.
"Aaaaaagh!"
He was struck with pure horror. A mountain was falling toward his head. Mordor tried to flee, but there was no way for a man without arms or legs to escape.
"H-Help me!!!"
All Mordor could do was watch as the mountain plummeted toward him.
‘I’m going to die!’
Mordor had faced death several times before. But he had never actually died. In this short span of time, Mordor had experienced decapitation, burning, being eaten alive, and being hacked by swords and axes.
The Mordor who boasted of being special because he commanded death was gone. In his place was only a pathetic old man struggling desperately to survive.
Rumble—Boom!!!
The mountain crashed down upon Mordor's head. Mordor closed his eyes.
But he felt nothing.
Mordor opened his eyes again. His arms and legs were back. He checked his body. It was clean, without a single wound.
"......A dream?"
"Did something happen?"
Mordor looked toward the voice. Standing there was the Rank 1 of Death Heaven, the man he so admired.
"That is... I had a dream—no, a nightmare."
The Leader hummed thoughtfully. "Is that so? But that wasn't a dream."
"Pardon?"
As soon as he spoke, a sound echoed.
Thud.
His head fell to the floor. It was his own face.
Confusion.
Doubt.
Terror.
Terror.
Terror.
Terror.
Terror.
Terror.
Terror.
Whoosh.
His body caught fire.
There was nothing he could do. This wasn't a physical death. His mind was dying.
* * *
Loki looked down at Mordor with hollow eyes.
An hour had passed since he activated the skill. At some point, Mordor had stopped making any sound; his body merely trembled uncontrollably.
Loki looked exhausted. To create an illusion, one had to imagine every single detail. He had been able to maintain it for an hour thanks to the Elixir, but the throbbing headache was unavoidable.
Step, step.
Sensing his mana was nearly depleted, Loki walked toward Mordor.
Shing.
He sheathed his sword-stick and pulled a dagger from his Pocket Dimension. It was the very dagger used to kill those children.
"Die."
Thuck.
Loki drove the dagger into Mordor's head. Mordor couldn't even muster a scream.
Death Heaven Rank 8, Mordor.
Deceased.