Terror of the Worm Pest
Salat trembled in fear.
...Why, why is this here?!
The Worm Pest, the plague that birthed the undead! The moment she saw it, Salat couldn't move a muscle. Just looking at it dragged up memories of the past, unbidden.
The agonized screams of countless people. Burning cities and fleeing masses. She had fought to protect them, enduring torment. She had resisted endlessly, striving to hold on.
But... that resistance had crumbled so futilely, so hollowly.
Why... why...! The plague that toppled Hanes is here?!
Fifty years ago, the great empire built by the demonkin under Demon King Kalib—the Hanes Empire that shook the continent—had fallen. To the Worm Pest.
The wights it spawned slaughtered the living mercilessly, ripping them apart and devouring them. In the end, after endless advances, the nation of Hanes vanished into history, leaving only its name behind.
Though the records claimed it was destroyed by the "12 Heroes."
Seeing the wights brought it all rushing back. The soldiers who fought to protect her, devoured without even resisting—the image was still vivid before her eyes. Their screams echoed in her ears.
Humans didn't scare her. But these did. The wights, driven solely by insatiable hunger, terrified Salat.
I hate this...
Old trauma sapped her strength. Please...
Her body temperature plummeted, shivers wracking her. Despite the chill, cold sweat poured down her back, sending chills up her spine.
Make them disappear from my sight!
Just then, a wight charged at the translucent hemispherical barrier of defensive magic surrounding them. Salat whipped her head forward in shock.
A grotesquely twisted face glared at her. Its maw gaped wide, spewing thick black blood and wriggling maggots.
"......!"
The wights seemed blind to the transparent barrier, swinging claws wildly, slamming heads against it, jaws snapping open and shut repeatedly. Like rabid beasts mad with hunger for prey.
Salat clutched her head, trembling in terror.
Did her desperate prayer reach the heavens? The charging wights' heads suddenly exploded from an incoming morningstar.
"......?!"
Salat stared ahead in astonishment. Loki was already near the barrier, dodging a wight knight's attack.
"...That was close."
By sheer luck, the morningstar had glanced off the defensive magic. Had it been a direct hit from the wight, the barrier would have shattered.
This... it's more fun than I thought. I got too caught up to notice that side.
Loki's lips curved into a smile. For the first time in three years, combat brought him fun.
Yes, simple amusement. Not the thrill or excitement of a fierce battle against an equal. That only came with worthy foes.
But now? The flailing of inferior vermin was just hilarious.
Yeah, ridiculously so.
That massive bulk waddling around, swinging the morningstar blindly? Desperately thrashing for prey, oblivious to how pathetic it looked?
Not just the wight knight—countless wights swarmed from all sides. Once human, now undead husks.
To Loki, it meant nothing. Wight or human, anyone baring teeth at him was...
"I'll burn you all."
...destined for flames.
Loki dispatched the wights effortlessly, flicking his hands. He danced on nimble feet, fluid and graceful.
Any part touched by the flames in his hands vanished without ash—utter erasure.
A sweep left to right bisected upper and lower bodies, dissolving them. Top to bottom split them side to side, gone.
Wights perished so pitifully against his might. Like vampires in sunlight from some movie.
Loki closed his eyes, ears attuned, lost in the moment. His footsteps, the crackle of flames, the undead wails—it all wove into music.
Discordant noise without rhythm, yet he savored it.
And that symphony...
...thud!
"......"
...shattered.
Near Pol, who sustained the barrier, a hand burst from the ground. It seized his leg mercilessly. A wight's face erupted next, chomping down.
"Gaaahhh!"
Pol's scream echoed in the pitch darkness. His leg cratered, blood spraying.
"......"
Loki froze mid-motion. Irritated at the interrupted reverie, he frowned at Pol, now gripped by the wight.
In that instant, a hand shot from the ground beneath Loki, clutching his leg. More wights clawed up from hellish depths, lunging to devour.
Pathetic bugs daring to feed on him. Their fetid vomit and loathsome worms defiling his body.
True rage surged in Loki.
"You filthy bugs—!"
He stomped the emerging wight's head, crushing it. Blood and Worm Pest maggots splattered everywhere, staining his clothes—but he ignored it.
His form shifted in a heartbeat. A ram-horned goat helm enveloped his head; pitch-black armor gleamed like shadowed obsidian over his body.
Blazing hands donned clawed gauntlets; a dark brown cape billowed from his shoulders.
Loki's eyes burned red. No mere crow-masked man—this was an alien presence, utterly out of place in this world.
The wights recoiled in awe, then terror flooded their instinct-driven minds—hunger and breeding no more.
They quivered, uncomprehending the fear. And like skittish carnivores, they chose the only response: attack.
Dozens charged at once.
"Jörmungandr, Fenrir!"
Black mist poured from his armor. Shadows birthed ebony flames, morphing into a massive wolf's head and serpent's maw.
Fused to the armor like extensions of his body, the beasts growled, tongues flicking, awaiting their master's word.
And...
"Devour them."
They lunged without hesitation. Necks elongated impossibly; jaws unhinged, crumbling flesh on contact, sucking it in.
Wights vanished wholly, unchewed, untasted. Serpent and wolf merely consumed, obeying their lord.
Monsters that doomed the Norse world in myth. Their creator watched arms crossed, impassive.
In a blink, darkness swept clean. The wight knight swung at Jörmungandr and Fenrir, but its morningstar evaporated in black flame on contact.
-......?
As it stared at its haft alone, the beasts shifted targets. They nipped arm and leg effortlessly.
Balance lost, the hulking body toppled. Wolf and serpent took turns ripping flesh.
Seconds later, not a bone shard or drop of blood remained.
All wights there were gone. Save one gnawing Pol's leg, oblivious to its kin's fate, lost in the feast.
Rapilta and Alber had long passed out. Salat gaped blankly at Loki.
Loki approached the wight and crushed its skull underfoot.
"......?!"
Pol fared no better than Salat. Pain, blood loss, even Worm Pest infection faded before the "god" and "demon" confronting him.
No voice for courage. Just trembling dread.
"...Your condition is dire."
That icy voice jolted Pol alert. Agony from his mangled leg and spreading plague tore screams from him.
"Gaaaaahhh—!"
Only a tattered thigh remained, blood gushing. Wriggling worms burrowed from the wound, racing up his skin.
Vein-like anomalies pulsed on his face. Pallor spread; blood leaked from eyes, nose, ears—every orifice.
"Ahh... aaaahhh...!"
His guttural wails faded.
"S-save... me...! I don't wanna... die!"
Pol begged. To his god? The demon before him? He didn't know. He just didn't want to die. Not like this, so pointlessly.
So much left undone. Magic to learn, experiences to chase. Even on this mission, more time with Rapilta and Alber.
But... it was over.
No Divine Gift user could easily resist Worm Pest infection, let alone an unhardened mage.
Two cures only: the Holy Church's high priest holy water, or the dubious universal potion rumor.
Holy water was long used up. So... death.
Or worse—undeath as a wight!
"Save... me... ple...ase...!"
Pol blacked out. Convulsions wracked his body. The Worm Pest claimed him.
Loki tilted his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity over concern.
"...A small bond, perhaps."
Companions from his first journey. He'd taken a liking; it had been amusing, however brief.
Loki drew healing and detox potions from his pouch.
"I'd regret it ending here."
He uncapped them with a flick and poured into Pol's mouth.
"No clue if it'll work. Untested on plagues. Be my guinea pig. Survive, and it's luck. Fail and turn wight..."
His ram eyes flared red as potion seeped in.
"...I'll grant you peace."
Moments later...
Pol's body began regenerating.