Chapter 208: Cursing Fate
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 208: Cursing Fate
Belland.
The Lower District.
Somewhere.
In a pitch-black space, candlelight flickered, casting everything into shifting, ghostly shadows.
Pale blue moonlight spilled onto a circular altar. Skeletal, fanatical believers sat in a ring, chanting a frenzied holy hymn that sounded like the howling of ten thousand demons.
Around the perimeter of the altar, a massive blood pool rippled. Corpses floated within it, the stench of blood heavy in the air, as a maddening aura—as if saturated with all the filth in the world—spread like a thick fog.
The Banshee stood at the edge of the blood pool. She took a deep breath, her face flushing with intoxication as if she were smelling the bouquet of a fine, aged wine.
"Lord Priestess, this is the final batch."
Behind the Banshee, a figure stood with a bowed head, respectfully directing subordinates to dump corpses—their faces frozen in expressions of terror and despair—into the blood pool.
"Is this all?"
The Banshee lowered her gaze to the pool. It seemed to be slightly short of the projected volume.
"The Silence Bureau is pressing us harder and harder. We truly had no other choice," the man said, his face full of shame.
"Is that so? In that case, you know what must be done."
"Yes!"
His shameful expression instantly transformed into one of fanaticism. The man suddenly drew a dagger and slit his own throat.
Blood sprayed. He tilted his head back to look at the pale blue moon, letting out a hoarse, gurgling roar:
"The Moon—is eternal!"
"The Moon—is eternal!"
More roars erupted as the men who had been carrying the corpses began slitting their own throats or piercing their own hearts one after another, letting their blood flow and spray wantonly.
Then, one by one, they collapsed into the blood pool with heavy splashes.
The pool reached its capacity and began to churn.
The patterns on the altar lit up inch by inch, and the believers' hymn grew even more deranged.
Yet, it seemed as though some core element was missing; this grand sacrifice could not reach perfection.
The Banshee did not seem impatient. She tapped her arm, humming an eerie tune as she waited in silence.
Suddenly, she turned her head toward the darkness.
"You're late," the Banshee said, arching an eyebrow.
"Not late at all."
The response from the darkness was as cold as a block of ice, devoid of any emotion.
"True. The sacrifice has only just begun."
The Banshee smiled with extreme allure. She reached a hand out toward the darkness and said, "Then, welcome home, my... family."
After a moment of silence, a hand reached out from the shadows and grasped the Banshee's palm.
A purple skirt fluttered like a butterfly, and loose tresses of hair fell like a cascading silver galaxy. When that breathtakingly beautiful face emerged from the darkness, even the moonlight seemed to pale in comparison.
Anna Kabulin.
However, her face no longer held its familiar charm or tenderness. Instead, it bore a coldness that could almost freeze the air. Her icy, serpentine pupils flickered, devoid of even a ripple of emotion.
It was as if... she had become a completely different person.
"My, how strange."
The Banshee’s nostrils flared as she leaned in to sniff her.
"You carry the scent of Muen Campbell, yet there is no smell of blood. With your strength and your relationship with him, did you fail to take the opportunity to kill him?"
"He escaped," Anna said. "He is the son of a Duke, after all. He is not so easily killed."
"True. A bit of a pity."
The Banshee nodded, a flash of hatred and regret crossing her eyes, but she did not doubt the story.
At this moment, Anna was clearly completely eroded by the Snake Transformation Disease, having become the Moon's most devout believer.
Her failure only meant she had bad luck, or perhaps that Muen Campbell's status was too troublesome.
If the boy could drag a Siege Magic Cannon into the city district, god only knew what else he could pull out of his sleeve.
"Well, it's of no consequence. After tonight, everything will reach its predestined end. Muen Campbell... will be no exception."
The Banshee raised her hands and cried out in excitement.
"The Moon is eternal!"
A flash of fanaticism appeared on Anna's face as well, and she echoed softly, "The Moon—is eternal."
"So beautiful."
The Banshee tilted her head, admiring Anna’s purple dress. The well-fitted garment perfectly traced the curves of her body; as she moved, she was breathtakingly lovely.
"Did you dress up so grandly just for this great moment?"
"..."
Anna paused for a beat. "Naturally."
"Good, good, good. Go then. The Great Moon... is waiting for you."
The Banshee pointed a finger, and the surface of the blood pool instantly solidified, becoming as still and flat as a red carpet.
Anna stepped onto the crimson surface, walking gracefully toward the altar.
The believers stopped their chanting and prostrated themselves before Anna. Their expressions were respectful and fanatical, as if they longed to kiss her toes yet feared desecrating a noble Divine Heir.
Anna stood in the center of the altar. She looked up, gazing at the pale blue moon high in the heavens, appearing deeply entranced by the allure of the moonlight.
"Now, let us begin," the Banshee commanded.
The foul, deranged hymn, sounding like the cries of demons, rose once more.
The believers linked arms, singing with reckless fervor. Their already skeletal bodies grew even more withered, yet the light in their eyes burned ever brighter.
The blood pool surged. The purest blood began to float into the air, swirling into the deep reaches of space, where it was devoured by an invisible presence that feasted greedily.
The moonlight grew clearer and more brilliant.
It was like a supreme Holy God shedding merciful light upon the mortal world.
The Banshee watched this scene, her heartstrings vibrating as if plucked by a thousand hands. She couldn't help but tremble with excitement.
Finally.
Finally.
Finally.
The moment was arriving. The Great Moon was about to—
Crack.
In the midst of that frenzied hymn, the Banshee heard a discordant noise.
It was so insignificant, yet so... clear.
Her fanatical expression instantly froze.
She lowered her gaze, only to find that the girl who had been staring at the blue moon just a moment ago had bowed her head. Her face no longer held fanaticism or intoxication, but rather melancholy... and disgust.
She had always loathed that moon. That had never changed.
With a light flick of her slender hand, crystal-clear jars fell from her sleeves, smashing to pieces upon the altar.
That was the source of the noise.
As the jars shattered, multicolored vapors rose, spreading rapidly and snaking into the bodies of the believers who were singing the hymn.
The hymn stopped abruptly.
It turned into screams of agony.
The believers who inhaled the smoke began to convulse violently. Foul blood sprayed from their mouths and noses as the toxic mist corroded their insides in an instant.
Anna swept her hand out again, her long whip lashing out to knock the believers one by one into the all-consuming blood pool.
"Anna Kabulin!"
The Banshee’s eyes nearly split with rage. She charged toward Anna recklessly, swinging her Crescent Scimitar. She no longer cared about Anna's "noble status" and slashed down with lethal intent.
"Why? Why do you still have your own consciousness?!"
The whip coiled back, blocking the scimitar.
The immense downward pressure caused Anna’s internal energy to shudder.
The whispers and the icy will—which had been suppressed for so long by the Tear of True Love gemstone—suddenly surged back, battering against her mental defenses.
Anna’s face turned slightly pale. She took a deep breath and said softly:
"A witch must always try to curse this fate, shouldn't she?"