A light scent of roses lingered in the air.
Cold sweat soaked the back of the Left Protector's shirt.
"Why don't you go back to your lair?"
Logan's voice came from directly behind him.
The Left Protector froze. His entire body stiffened, as if the gates of hell had opened behind him and some monster with flaming breath and bared fangs loomed just a step away. A terrifying, scorching pressure swirled silently in the air—dread settling deep in his bones.
He didn't dare turn around.
One thought echoed relentlessly in his mind:
This is Logan.
This is invincibility.
But… how did he find me here?!
Ever since Logan had learned to sense the "breathing" of the world, no ordinary disguise could fool him—not even ones he hadn't seen through before. Even though he had never met the Left or Right Protectors in person, the vibrations of adult and child life forces were completely different. The moment the two approached, he had noticed the anomaly.
That was why White Snake hadn't extracted the memory disk right away. He'd suspected that there were spies among the cultists lurking in the shadows. If he acted too quickly, it might alert the cult leader and prompt an escape.
Instead, he'd allowed them to collect Logan's blood and follow at a distance.
"…You're more cautious than I thought," Logan said softly.
The Left Protector bit down on his tongue hard, using the pain to drive out the overwhelming fear surging through him. Gritting his teeth, he yanked a short sword from his waist.
On the other side of the warehouse, the Right Protector had come to his senses. He withdrew a needle nearly as long as his forearm.
Without hesitation, they both raised their weapons—and stabbed themselves in the chest.
Chi! Chi! Chi!
Three precise strikes. Six bloody punctures—three on the chest, three through the back.
Blood gushed forth. They smeared it across their faces, their expressions twisted into fanatic devotion. A red mist swirled in the air, connecting their consciousness to something beyond—the arrival of a terrible, immense power.
Their small, child-sized forms inflated grotesquely like overfilled balloons, stretching past two meters in height in mere seconds.
Their muscles bulged unnaturally, glinting with a metallic sheen.
They blocked Logan's retreat, bellowing, and launched their fists at him.
The Right Protector roared, "Logan! Others might fear you—but we don't! After all, you're just—"
Bang!
The Right Protector's chest vanished. A gaping hole replaced it, raw and horrific.
He blinked in confusion, then looked down.
Star Platinum floated before him, gazing at him with cold, merciless eyes. The ethereal Stand's fist still hummed with residual force.
A twisted grin crept onto the Right Protector's face.
Pain. Death. Destruction. These brought him not fear—but joy. Power surged through him in his final moments.
With a crazed laugh, he spread his arms wide and embraced Star Platinum like an old friend.
"I'll hold him off!" he howled to his comrade. "You go and kill Logan's real body!"
The Left Protector's eyes turned blood-red with fury. The thought of being separated from his brother—his only family—cut deeper than any blade.
It was like watching your brother drive a Land Rover into a luxury villa while you were left behind in a ditch. Except worse.
A strange, dark light shimmered over his fist—the power granted by the Evil God Cult.
"Old Right!" he yelled, tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks. "Even in death, don't forget your brother!"
He threw an earth-shattering punch at Logan, every muscle screaming with rage and power.
Logan looked at the oncoming blow. His expression faltered—not out of fear, but something else.
Pity? Disgust?
These cultists loved killing. They took joy in spreading death and chaos. People like that should be eliminated without hesitation.
And yet… Logan feared that giving them what they wanted might only satisfy them.
The Left Protector's punch came fast, brutal, and full of hatred.
Logan, however, didn't activate time-stop. He didn't summon Star Platinum for a counterstrike.
He simply clenched his fist, stepped forward half a pace, and threw a casual punch—without even gathering his full strength.
Boom!
The two fists collided in mid-air. A sharp shockwave cracked through the warehouse like thunder.
Still held in Star Platinum's grip, the Right Protector's face lit up with hope.
A pause—a moment so brief it could hardly be measured.
Tear!
The Left Protector's shirt exploded into shreds. Then his muscles, skin, and bones followed.
His right arm—once locked in combat with Logan—withered like a deflated balloon, shriveling grotesquely.
Chunks of meat, blood, and powdered bone fell from his flesh, raining onto the warehouse floor.
He was dying. His life was being drained rapidly.
But both Protectors… laughed.
They cackled like maniacs.
The Left Protector coughed up blood, wheezing:
"You were struck by my punch and killed me right after… You've been marked by the Evil God's power! Logan, congratulations. Come die with us!"
Black specks had already started to appear on Logan's fist. They crept up his arm, spreading fast—each one sapping his vitality as though an invisible force was peeling away his life.
"This is the Evil God's power…" Logan muttered.
Then he clenched his fist.
Crack.
With a soft pop—like a soda can opening—his right arm detached at the elbow and dropped to the ground.
The spreading black corruption consumed it entirely, reducing it to ash.
The Left Protector stared at the pile of dark dust on the floor, then up at Logan's regenerating arm—already healed and whole.
His expression shifted to confusion… then emptiness.
He stopped thinking.
---
Creak.
The warehouse door opened slowly.
Kakashi and Tsunade burst in, their eyes scanning the chaos.
After dealing with the so-called Saint, they had learned the cult's medium for casting spells: blood. Realizing Logan might fall into their trap, they'd rushed to find him—following the coded trail of clues he'd left behind in the market.
As they stepped inside, they heard the slap of a hand on flesh.
"Hey! Wake up! Don't you die yet!"
White Snake crouched beside the Left Protector's corpse, smacking him repeatedly before finally extracting two memory discs from his temples.
He examined one briefly, then grimaced.
Logan approached. "What's wrong?"
White Snake didn't answer at first. He simply held up the disc between two fingers—like it was a piece of filthy trash.
He handed it to Logan like someone passing off used toilet paper.
"I've seen a lot of evil in this world," White Snake said bitterly. "But this group… they've gone beyond what humans should be capable of."
Logan took the disc solemnly.
Kakashi and Tsunade stepped closer, peering over his shoulder.
The so-called Evil God Cult revolved around a single twisted doctrine:
"The body is empty. Death is coming home."
They worshipped death. For them, it was not an end—but a beginning. A gift from the heavens. If they died, they believed they'd leave the cruel world behind and be embraced by the Evil God.
It sounded like the kind of delusion meant for war-torn countries—where people had no hope and were willing to grasp at any promise of peace.
But the cult's leader hadn't chosen a war zone.
He'd chosen the Land of Hot Springs—a peaceful, calm nation.
Why?
Because to him, the people here were the ones most in need of salvation.
A life of peace? Family? Comfort?
To the cult, these were chains. Lies. Traps that kept humans bound to the material world.
The cult leader believed it was his duty to save these people from that false paradise.
"If he doesn't go to hell," White Snake said grimly, "who will?"
Once someone gave in to the cult's influence—once their minds were twisted—the idea of death as salvation made sense. Terrifying sense.
And so, the most horrifying atrocities were committed not out of hatred… but out of twisted love.
Believers killed their family members, friends, and neighbors—not out of cruelty—but out of the belief that they were helping them.
"For your own good."
Mothers drowned their babies.
Husbands slit their wives' throats.
And through it all, their faces lit with joy. As if witnessing some kind of divine revelation.
Not even the blood and gore were the most disgusting part—it was the serenity. The smiles. The look of relief on the murderers' faces.
"I'm sorry you had to see this," Logan said quietly.
He stepped in front of Tsunade, blocking her view of the bloodied corpses.
"I remember Shizune mentioning your hemophobia."
Tsunade's face was cold. Her eyes burned with restrained fury.
"Yeah," she said through clenched teeth. "Hemophobia."
She cracked her knuckles.
"I'm just afraid I won't beat these cultists hard enough to make them vomit their own blood."
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