The Blooming of the Nine Netherworlds
I cannot remember when it was, and the face of the one who asked is hazy, but someone once asked me a question.
They asked if there was truly nothing in this world that I feared.
My martial arts had already transcended the gods, rivaling the cataclysms of nature. The enlightenment etched into my soul could shake the heavens and the earth, and with a single word of command, I could bend the spirits of the world and the ghosts of the underworld to my will. Who, they asked, could possibly make me feel fear?
Back then, I simply laughed it off. I told them that even a god who has attained enlightenment cannot be entirely without fear; I merely claimed that I was capable of enjoying that fear.
However, there was one thing I could not bring myself to answer at the time.
If there is anything I fear, it is perhaps only one thing.
Even after I had placed every land scorched by the sun and every water illuminated by the moon into the palm of my hand; even after I had taken those legendary heroes as my disciples, stood against the gods who were the manifestations of natural law, and shared love and intimacy with the most beautiful women in existence—there is still one face that I cannot forget.
“....”
“Di, Dianes?”
It was identical.
She was draped in a peplos of a deep indigo hue—a garment so revealing that even in the Demonic Cult, it would have been considered scandalous. She held a long, slender jangjuk pipe in her hand, even though she despised medicinal herbs and didn't even burn incense, let alone smoke.
She was a woman who had never learned a proper martial art due to her frail body, let alone sorcery, yet with a mere wave of her hand, she had scattered my killing intent. Every step she took caused the withered, yellowed garden behind her to bloom with vibrant life.
But it was unmistakably her face.
From those eyes that were always hazy as if dreaming, yet sparkled like the morning star. To that snow-white hair that shimmered with a blue light as it cascaded down, much like white snow falling from the sky only to turn into rain upon reaching the earth. Even that cold, pitiful, and beautiful face, reminiscent of eternal snow—faint as the peak of the Cheongwan Mountain, yet shining with a chilling brilliance.
She was a woman I could never fail to recognize, no matter how hard I tried. The woman I had barely managed to forget, the woman I had sworn I would never forget, had appeared before me once more, walking along a path that didn't suit her at all as she approached me.
The first thing that washed over me was the shock and denial that such a thing could be possible. Then, a tidal wave of sorrow and fear followed.
Every time she took a step closer, my mind churned like a small boat lost in a storm, and my heart hammered against my chest as if it were about to burst.
How?
Why?
No, why on earth?
Why now, of all times...
Amidst a chaotic swirl of questions and doubts, I forced all those thoughts to a halt. Because none of it mattered.
“You are not her.”
When I cast aside my emotions and looked, it was clear as day.
Is it possible for her to appear here? No. Even I, having received the authority of a transcendent god, was reborn in a different body, with only my soul remaining the same. Yet she appears here, at this timing, in the exact form I remember?
It would be more realistic for Zeus to renounce his throne and enter the Buddhist priesthood.
Then, is there a possibility she was summoned here by some power? Obviously not. Her intellect was comparable to the likes of Wolong and Fengchu, but no matter how brilliant one is, the laws of heaven and the natural order are not so easily bypassed by mere intelligence.
And decisively.
Had she ever been this relaxed, smiling like that?
Not once. She had never let her guard down.
She was always being chased by something. Even though the lifespan that ate away at her and the grudges that bound her had all vanished, she whipped herself as if it were her duty, finding a moment of peace only when everything in the world unfolded exactly as she had predicted. She never basked in the sunlight so leisurely, nor did she ever look at me with such a relaxed smile while holding a pipe.
Then, is that truly her?
Of course not.
As my emotions began to boil and spiral out of control, the answer provided by my reason cleared my vision in an instant.
“That’s right. You are not her.”
As the fear subsided and the confusion settled, she, still sparkling before me under the Mediterranean sun, smiled brightly and asked me in return.
“What do you mean, I’m not?”
And that was the confirmation I needed.
“Truly, you are not her. You have merely adorned yourself with her appearance.”
“How can you be so sure? Can you really be certain that I am not?”
Certainty turned into rage, and rage soared into killing intent. After a long life, endless power, and countless experiences, even when many things have been worn down and become similar, there is always a line that can never be crossed.
“How dare you... how dare you!”
This woman, who dared to steal her face and smirk before me, had trampled upon that line and crushed it. Not content with that, she used the stolen face to flash that smile like something cheap, and dared to challenge me to a gamble with truth and lies laid out before us.
If so, she should have been prepared to be torn to shreds by the beast that had been growling behind the broken fence.
“...Oh my?”
“?! Mother! It’s dangerous...!”
I don’t know what that creaking sound in my head was. Perhaps it was the scream of my reason, which was about to explode after I had barely managed to suppress my rampaging heart. Or perhaps it was the sound of my killing intent, reaching its peak, tearing apart the earth and the very air itself.
But one thing I was certain of.
It was a firm sense of duty to tear to pieces that thing which dared to appear before me, wearing her face and mimicking her.
“Hey there~? Why, why are you like this? Isn’t this the face you’ve been wanting to see the most?”
A black sword, darker than the night of the new moon, appeared in my hand. When a martial artist draws a sword, they must cut something, and since a sword was in the hands of a demonic master, it was self-evident that someone’s head had to fall.
The black flames that burned instantly, causing pain to vanish quickly, were not enough to satisfy me, and a swift decapitation was not enough to appease my heart.
“I will tear you into a thousand pieces, so you can neither die nor live.”
The pitch-black sword sliced through the bright Mediterranean sky, painting the cool sea breeze with killing intent as sharp as frost. The sword strike, turning the world into a blank canvas and embroidering it with jet-black ink, was aimed at only one thing: the entire body of the mongrel who was still wearing a mask and provoking me.
The Hell of Equal Life in the Eight Hells. From the fluff of the grass to the wind that brushes the skin, everything was buried in the sword tip, a hell of blades that cut and cut again, shredding the myth.
“Ha? Hahaha!”
“Mother!”
“It’s dangerous...”
As danger approached their master, the Empusae revealed their true forms, extending their bronze-colored claws and spreading their wings. It was a sight that made it easy to see where the archetype of the vampire or Dracula from folklore came from, but it was merely laughable.
[How pathetic! You insignificant mongrels born of nothing!]
Thousands, hundreds of sword strikes had already occupied the surroundings. Usually, such phantom swords mix feints and killing blows to induce confusion, but the killing sword of the Hell of Equal Life was the opposite. To the swordsman, all things are divided only into those that can be cut and those that cannot, and if one wishes to cut, the killing intent is imbued in everything from the orchids in the field to the very breath one exhales.
The jet-black sword marks already splattered everywhere were my sword energy, my killing intent, and they were already unleashed sword strikes. I simply stepped forward and drew my sword straight.
-Screech!
The sound of the air being torn apart and bursting.
-Clang!
The sound of destruction as the bronze claws shattered.
-Crunch!
The sound of bones breaking and flesh being crushed. Along with the chorus of the trio, jet-black flowers of the underworld bloomed beautifully, blocking the sun.
When hell opens its mouth, there is no flower more beautiful than this.
“Ah...!”
On the surface, it was so beautiful it seemed like a god’s blessing, but every line that made up the flower was a sword strike overflowing with killing intent, as if to cut down even a god. And in the center of that flower, amidst the sword energy that felt as if one’s soul would be shredded at any moment—the goddess, having removed her mask, was smiling brightly even though her minions had been shredded by the petals and fallen.
“Haha, beautiful! Wonderful!”
The goddess, smiling brightly as if she had no regrets, reached out her hand toward the waterfall of underworld flowers falling upon her. The storm of sword flowers, which looked slow because it was too fast, poured down upon her head along with my single sword strike.
-Kuwagagagak!!
From the flowers of hell to the torrent of killing intent. The crushing sound that echoed belatedly, as if watching the harmony of hell, decorated the finale.
-Swoosh...
“Huff... huff...”
The flowers, the torrent, the killing intent, the anger. Even the vampires who had dared to attack and the mongrel who had tried to toy with me while wearing a mask had all vanished. Under the peaceful Mediterranean sun, as if nothing had happened, only a phantom stood, swaying while holding a sword.
-Grind!
My teeth screamed in my jaw, which had clenched on its own, but I felt as if I wanted to break my own body because even after shredding her like that, it wasn't enough.
“Damn it...!”
Is this destructive impulse the misery of having shredded the woman of the past, the woman I couldn't forget, once again?
“Ha! Nonsense!”
No, this was merely anger directed at myself. Even though I had decided, determined, and sworn to forget. The pathetic feeling and self-loathing for having shown such a spectacle while still unable to let go came rushing in.
What is the use of causing gods to fall, taking heroes, and overturning the heavens and the seas? When I cannot even do anything about a single memory of my own.
The demonic path, which takes even agony as power. To not be able to cast it off and instead swallow it means to carry it to the very end. Is this kind of rampage perhaps my destiny?
Because I had poured it all out, I was staring blankly at the sky, clutching my head, when an annoying sound reached my ears.
-Clap! Clap! Clap!
“Wow~ That was a really good show~”
“...Tsk.”
I had certainly felt the touch on my sword, and I had been certain that I had ended her breath. It wasn't quite the level of the 'Opening of the Gate' I used when I taught that bastard twin of Poseidon a lesson, but since 'Blooming' was the act of pouring the essence of the Sixteen Hells into a single strike, there was no way she could be fine, even if she were a god.
In fact, the three portions of blood and flesh splattered where the sword flowers had poured down were telling me that the massacre that had just occurred was real.
As I slowly lowered my head and looked back at the mansion door from which the thing that had been wearing her face earlier had walked out—a strange goddess, standing in the same posture as before, was looking at me and smiling deeply.
However, her appearance was the exact opposite. Dull ash-gray hair and a shadowed face that was nothing if not decadent. The madness and desire glimpsed beyond the languid mask reminded me of a beautiful witch from a story. Furthermore, the hundreds of strange and mysterious flows glistening around her were a familiar sight to me.
Hecate.
The guardian deity of magic, sorcery, and alchemists. One of the oldest gods who shared the divine authority of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, and who had walked through history alongside Greece.
That first meeting was, to put it mildly, the worst.