The wood of the door creaked under his hand.
Guts entered alone.
The air inside was still. Too still. As if the space itself was holding its breath.
The hall was intact. The walls clean. The furniture untouched.
And yet… something was wrong.
The silence wasn't just empty.
It was pressure.
A formless presence… watching him.
He stepped forward a few paces.
Then stopped cold.
His sword slid from his back in one slow motion.
The Dragon Slayer — massive, heavy — scraped against the polished floor.
His eyes searched the shadows.
And in the darkness… nothing.
But his body knew.
Something was there.
A shadow behind him.
Another… to the side.
A breath too faint.
Claws on stone?
Muffled whispers?
Or just his past, coming back to haunt him?
Guts (low voice):
"Show yourselves."
No response.
Only the dull thump of his heart.
And the weight of that feeling…
That something in this house had already devoured the living.
And then…
He saw them.
The cultists.
They were there.
Appearing in an instant.
From the walls. The floor. The shadows themselves.
Like cockroaches no one had ever really chased away.
Their black cloaks covered their entire bodies.
No skin. No faces. Just fabric.
Or something else… pretending to be human.
Their daggers glinted faintly.
Not raised. Not threatening.
Held upright — like candles before an invisible altar.
Lined up.
Still.
Silent.
Not a breath.
Not a word.
Not even a tremble.
A ceremony.
A nightmare.
A message without language.
Guts stared at them.
And for once…
He didn't know what to think.
This wasn't a trap.
Not an ambush.
It was something else.
Something older. Something darker.
They weren't here to kill.
Not yet.
They were waiting.
But for what?
Then suddenly…
At the top of the stairs, a figure appeared.
He was not like the others.
His face wasn't hidden.
It was there. Exposed. Bare.
Hideous.
Twisted in a permanent grimace — a rictus of suppressed madness, of dead ecstasy.
Sunken eyes devoured by shadow, yet glinting. Lucid.
He descended slowly.
One step at a time.
As if treading holy ground.
His movements were slow. Precise.
Almost calm.
There was no fear in his eyes.
No urgency.
He looked at Guts as one would examine a strange work of art.
Then, about ten meters away, he stopped.
And he spoke.
His voice…
Gravelly. Harsh. But clear. Like a prayer memorized long ago.
??? (soft, composed tone):
"The Scourge of the old world… the blasphemer's blade… you've finally come to us."
He extended a thin hand, palm open.
As if welcoming a brother.
???:
"We've been waiting. We've seen. We understand."
(Pause)
A second figure appeared at the top of the stairs.
He descended slowly, barefoot on the stone.
His face wasn't hidden either.
It was monstrous.
Elongated, stretched, ravaged by ancient madness. His mouth quivered, his eyes rolled — but he didn't laugh. Not yet.
Step by step, he approached. Until he stood ten meters from Guts.
Then he stopped.
And spoke.
Betelgeuse:
"I am the Sin Archbishop of Sloth — Betelgeuse Romanee-Conti."
Betelgeuse:
"I see… I see that you… have known love."
Guts had a vision — Casca.
She haunted him every night since arriving here.
Betelgeuse:
"It's rare… for an intruder.
A man without a name in our scriptures. A lost soul… slipped in,
without the Prophecy foreseeing it."
(He bites into a finger — slowly, deeply — never looking away from Guts.)
Betelgeuse:
"You are not one of us. Not chosen. Not a sinner. You are a… mistake."
Betelgeuse:
"And yet you breathe. You walk on Her land. You interfere in Her design!"
(He rips off a fingernail. Blood drips to the floor. He winces, but continues.)
Betelgeuse (panting):
"She whispered your name to me. Oh yes… She saw you. She KNOWS."
Betelgeuse:
"The one your heart longs for… She is no longer of this world."
Betelgeuse:
"Look around you, warrior with no past… because what you think you protect… is already lost."
(He takes a step back. His form flickers. His body dissolves into the shadows — literally. He vanishes like vapor.)
The silence crashed back —
But not for long.
The cultists raised their heads all at once.
Their black hoods turned toward Guts.
No shout. No command.
Just a movement.
Slow. Synchronized.
Like a wave of living blades.
They surged forward.
The silence lasted only a heartbeat —
Then the black tide fell.
Guts drew his sword.
One motion.
Sharp. Instinctive. Perfect.
The battle was brief…
But ferocious.
The cultists threw themselves at him without restraint, without voice, without fear.
As if they weren't trying to win…
But to die at his hands.
Their daggers shimmered, their bodies twisted — but none of them hesitated.
None of them pulled back.
Guts struck.
He cleaved.
He crushed bones with his bare fists.
He didn't think.
He acted.
Blow after blow.
A gasp. A snap. A body collapsed.
And again. And again.
Blood sprayed the walls, the floor, his blade — and him.
But he kept going.
As always.
Until not one was left.
Then… silence returned.
Heavy. Greasy. Viscous.
The corpses lay scattered.
Piled. Motionless.
As if they had never been alive.
Guts stood there. Alone.
His deep, slow breath barely covering the dull pounding of his own heart.
He didn't shake.
But something within him… faltered.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Confusion.
What he had just witnessed…
obeyed no logic.
No war he knew.
The enemies hadn't attacked to survive.
They hadn't even tried to win.
They had existed only to die.
Like fragments of someone else's madness.
Like extensions of a mind no longer human.
Guts lowered his eyes.
Looked at his blade. Then at the floor.
And for the first time in a long while…
He muttered, almost to himself:
Guts (low, hoarse):
"What the hell is this…?"