Chapter 132
Chapter 132
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 132
Chapter Title: Descent into Madness
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"M-Mana readings are off the charts!"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Warning alarms blared relentlessly throughout the GHO Italy branch.
Red lights flashed, bathing the entire facility in a crimson glow.
And at the center of it all stood Branch Chief Pamellino.
Bam!
"Order an immediate withdrawal!"
Pamellino slammed his fist on the operations table, issuing the command.
His face twisted not just in frustration, but in deep shadow.
'Damn it, how did this happen out of nowhere...'
His eyes locked onto the mana readings and monster distribution maps projected across the Italy branch.
For decades as branch chief, he had lived and breathed Demonus.
To him, those mana readings and distribution maps were more familiar than his own name—he'd called them out and stared at them countless times.
Yet now, the readings and maps were betraying him.
'If the readings spike, the distribution should rise. If the distribution drops, so should the readings.'
It was common sense even a child would know.
Mana readings measured the total magical energy from monsters and demons, so more monsters meant higher mana, and higher mana meant more monsters.
It was basic logic, an unchanging truth forged over decades at this post.
But what Pamellino's eyes saw was pure contradiction.
As if mocking the truths he held dear, the distribution had plummeted, yet the mana readings had hit an all-time high he'd never witnessed in all his years.
"Even if it means calling this operation a failure, we have to pull back. If we stay like this... we'll suffer the worst losses in history."
"Branch Chief!"
Less than a minute after the retreat order.
Pamellino's growing unease became reality.
"Communications captain?"
The comms captain showing up right after the order?
A chill raced across Pamellino's skin.
"This is bad. All the radios and comms devices we placed—five per country—are dead."
Why did his gut feelings never prove wrong?
"Branch Chief."
The intel officer stood beside the comms captain.
"The mana sensors scattered across all of Demonus aren't responding. It seems... the sudden mana surge has overwhelmed every device."
"What do we do?!"
"Branch Chief?"
Pamellino bowed his head.
His eyes, ears, and even mouth monitoring all of Demonus—everything was blocked.
'While we're sitting here, the support hunters are dying.'
The situation spiraled into the worst-case scenario.
No answers came to mind.
'I've imagined every possible disaster from Demonus over decades.'
He'd always simulated casualties in his head during his long tenure.
Demonus was a calamity to him, a problem to solve, driven by his duty to prevent any losses.
Pamellino snapped his head up.
"Assemble all agents."
"A-Agents, sir?"
The intel officer blinked in shock at the swift decision.
Stunned by the boldness, he quickly regained composure and tried to dissuade him.
"We can't! If we lose all the agents, who's going to—"
"Not just agents. Mobilize every hunter, every able-bodied adult male."
"Branch Chief!"
"That's an order."
The intel officer flinched under Pamellino's piercing gaze.
Pamellino was known for his kindness and care for his subordinates.
But the man before him now was someone entirely different.
"Disobey this order, and under world hunter regulations, I'll file for your immediate dismissal via branch chief authority."
"...Branch Chief...?"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Only the alarms echoed through the GHO Italy ops room.
In the heavy silence, Pamellino's rough shout shattered it.
"Move, now!!"
There must be no sacrifices.
Especially not those grateful souls who answered his call for aid just because they were superpower hunters.
"Move! Assemble!"
"Assemble!!"
For the first time in decades, anomalies flooded the GHO Italy branch.
The Demonus War, which had been veering toward victory for the superpower alliance,
had flipped 180 degrees.
Indiscernible group chaos, superpower hunters dying at teammates' hands.
"Damn it!"
Survivors in the wake of a storm of slaughter spat curses, trembling legs finally getting a rest.
Collapsing hunters shed tears.
"Damn... it..."
They'd slain countless monsters and demons.
But today, those who shouldn't have died by their hands had fallen.
The eyes of teammates—wide with injustice, refusing to close—stared at them, weapons slick with blood.
"Get up."
"Captain... Dexter's..."
"I said get up!"
The US's 11th-ranked S-grade hunter, the Strike Dragon, grabbed her dazed black teammate by the scruff and shook him.
"Sob..."
A monster who'd clawed her way into the rankings as a woman.
Her strength rattled the burly black hunter like a ragdoll.
Yet he wept endlessly, mind unbroken.
"Haa..."
Releasing him with a sigh, the Strike Dragon scanned their surroundings.
The US team of 121 had dwindled to barely 30 in moments.
No deaths by monster or demon hands.
All slain by fellow teammates—by their own hands.
In under an hour of hell, 90 lives had turned to blood.
Perfect Sniper Culstin.
Known worldwide as the Strike Dragon, but in the US, she was the Perfect Sniper.
Her flawless marksmanship, fused with unique skills and mana, made her a monster.
In countless US gate crises, her bullets saved lives and punched holes through monster and demon foreheads.
She was a genius of the gun, a hero of American hunters.
But today,
Culstin's shots weren't heroic—they were satanic.
Not piercing monsters or demons, but riddling teammate skulls. Pure devilry.
"Fuck."
The harsh curse burst from her lips.
Many US hunters watched her in agony.
Many teammates died by her hand.
Yet their eyes held no resentment.
Without her, survivors wouldn't even number 30.
"Strike Dragon!"
A unfamiliar voice rang out from afar.
Click.
Her sharp eyes gleamed as her massive sniper rifle—big as her body—swung toward the sound.
The oversized scope magnified the voice's owner.
"Liam?"
Her sharp mind recalled the name instantly.
Canada team leader, S-rank hunter.
Bathed in blood, waving his hand.
"Looks like we're not the only ones."
Behind waving Liam trailed fewer than 10 hunters.
All grim-faced, drenched in gore—they'd clearly endured the same horror.
Swish.
Culstin slowly lowered her sniper rifle.
The situation was dire.
A monster wave now would overwhelm them.
To break through, powerhouses like Liam were essential.
"Canada?"
"They look just like us."
A few US hunters who knew Liam's face shook their heads.
Their state was wretched.
Shared trauma, perhaps.
The US team welcomed the Canadians' approach.
At the survivors' words, Culstin's rifle dropped fully.
She pondered joining forces positively.
'Wait...'
Just as all welcomed them.
A dark thought struck Culstin.
'What if...'
That seed yanked her lowered rifle skyward.
Her finger slipped onto the trigger, ready to fire.
"Culstin!"
"What are you doing?!"
Teammates panicked.
But Culstin had no intention of stopping.
"Lower the gun! What the hell?!"
"No way Culstin's turned too..."
"Right? She hasn't, has she?"
Her sudden move sent teammates stumbling back.
They feared she'd mutated like the others.
The horror of more tragedy etched deep fear on US faces.
"No. If I had, this rifle would be aimed at you, not them."
Her steady voice followed.
"Ah... Thank God."
US hunters sighed in relief, clutching chests.
But fear unearthed lingering doubts.
"Then why them...?"
Why hadn't she lowered the rifle?
Culstin answered.
"Why's no one suspicious? Ever think Canada has no survivors?"
"What? No survivors? Then they're..."
Clueless teammates tilted heads.
Smarter ones caught on, voices rising.
"Exactly! They could be the mutated ones who killed their teams!"
"Makes sense. No guarantee otherwise."
Culstin's words: possible no survivors.
In other words, these Canadians might all be like their killer teammates—weapons drawn for murder.
"Right! If Culstin's correct, they're here to kill us!"
"Strike first! Prepare to attack!"
"Attack prep!"
The welcoming US team flipped to battle-ready in seconds.
They'd just survived that nightmare.
Trauma blocked any "what ifs."
Clang. Shh-shh.
True to superpower status, unlike others, the US had 5 S-ranks.
Minus one lost in chaos, 4 remained among survivors.
Culstin and 3 others could slaughter the approaching Canadians swiftly.
"Everyone! Attack!"
As they geared to annihilate.
"Wait!"
A man's voice cut through the US team's resolve.
One voice among 30.
Trauma-hardened, they should've ignored—but all halted, eyes turning.
The voice belonged to their sole intact S-rank: the healer.
"Not another pointless sermon, right?"
Culstin snapped sharply.
But despite his unease, he shouted back.
"What if they are survivors?"
"Veil!"
"What if they're poor souls like us, through the same hell?!"
US world S-rank healer Veil.
His white mana healed all—irreplaceable White Light Veil.
Culstin scowled at his cry.
"Veil, let me flip it. What if they're not survivors, but the psychos who slaughtered their teams? What then?"
"Then... uh..."
"See? You have no answer. Two choices: kill them, or trust and die."
Veil fell silent at her razor words.
US team nodded in agreement.
"Or another angle: Can you tell them apart? Proof they're survivors?"
But.
Veil lifted his head boldly.
"Yes!"
"What?"
Culstin showed rare fluster.
"I saw it! Before the slaughter—dark gray iron chains binding the team."
Veil's confident voice.
Silence followed briefly.
Broken not by support, but mocking laughter.
"Puhahaha!"
"He's lost it bad."
"Tch tch, waste of an S-rank healer on him."
"Skills down the drain, tch."
"It's true!"
Veil yelled at them all.
"Tch tch tch."
"True! They have no chains! They're survivors!"
Culstin approached frustrated Veil.
Hand on his shoulder.
"Stop. Even if they're innocents, we've lost too much. No more risks."
"Culstin!"
"Battle stations!"
Veil's pleas dismissed cleanly.
Trauma had hardened their hearts like concrete.
"Battle stations!"
US superpower team echoed, fully prepped.
Mana brimmed for instant skills, weapons raised high.
Perfect Sniper Culstin on trigger, breath steady.
"Hup."
Her mouth filled with air, then released in a throat-rattling roar.
"Charge!"
"Charge!!!"
"Nooo!!!!"
Culstin's order, US roars.
Veil's desperate scream last.
The slaughter among allies—thought ended—reignited.
"Huh? Wh-what?"
US commotion let Canadians close in.
Sensing odd mana buildup, but trusting US as allies, no suspicion.
Shouts revealed mana aimed at them.
Too late.
Too close for countermeasures, no prep.
Death's whisper brushed Canadian ears—escaped once before.
"D-Dodge!!"
Mana erupted; Canadians scattered.
As US full-force skills swept to obliterate.
Crash! Whoooosh—
Something streaked past, cleaving every skill and attack.
Earsplitting roar, fierce wind followed.
Whatever passed the gods now hit US and Canadian teams.
They knew only that something flew by.
What? No clue.
Just a long trench between them, proof something intervened.
"Wh-what the...?"
The phenomenon stunned them, forgetting battle.
Splitting all those mighty skills in one go.
US and Canadian hunters gaped at the trench snaking across the ground.
Thud! Boom!
Boom boom boom boom boom!
Kyaaahhh!
Brief silence.
Amid it, distant Demonus battle cries reached their ears.
Eerie drumbeats pounded relentlessly; unknown screams echoed.
'Not just us?'
'Others endured hell too.'
In the unwelcome, chilling din.
US and Canadian teams stared across the trench.