Chapter 86: Forged from Countless Human Souls
As the distorted hum of destruction faded, another sound rose to dominate the silence: the buzzing of wings. Not a single insect, but an overwhelming swarm.
"Look there—!"
"What is that—!"
"Are they trying to escape?"
Eyes turned skyward. A dense black mass surged out from the arena, rushing outward at alarming speed. Insects, grotesque and unnatural—horned, fanged, tailed monstrosities that had now sprouted wings. Beelzebub's spawn.
And they flew with purpose—like diseased missiles.
"Hades," Satan sneered, "you know what Underworld Taboo No. 13 is, don't you? And you're aware Beelzebub is said to be the demon of plague. So guess what I plan to do next?"
Hades' expression went rigid.
Taboo No. 13 was not merely a curse. It was a viral affliction that turned its victims into raging berserkers—beasts devoid of reason, driven only to kill.
Combine that with Beelzebub's domain over infection, and the consequences were beyond hellish. And worst of all: before symptoms emerged, the infected wouldn't even know. By the time they raged, they'd have spread it far and wide.
Those countless insects—they were carriers. Virus-laden harbingers.
"Blame Solomon," Satan grinned. "He forced my hand."
With unspeakable audacity, he cast his impending atrocity on Solomon's shoulders. And in the chaos that would follow, many might indeed turn on Solomon and the humans behind him.
"Then, until next time—King!"
With that venomous farewell, Satan unleashed his spawn—the spawn of Mara—into the skies, their intent clear: spread contamination across the realms. Infect not just the arena but the worlds beyond it.
But as the swarm breached the dome overhead, Satan froze.
What lay outside was not the world he recognized.
Massive tendrils filled the sky, black and eyeless. The arena had been transported somewhere else entirely.
His gaze narrowed, trying to make sense of it. He saw the texture of the tendrils. He inhaled sharply.
Something primal inside him recoiled.
He should have noticed earlier. But he'd been too consumed with escape.
Too late.
Chapter 87: A Body Wrought Through the Sacrifice of Humanity
"Sister Brunhilde… What is Underworld Taboo No. 13?"
Grey's voice trembled with unease.
She didn't know the exact nature of the curse, but Satan's cryptic invocation of Beelzebub—the demon linked to disease—was enough to infer its nature.
"I don't know," Brunhilde replied grimly. But whatever it was, it was spreading.
Countless winged horrors now flew toward all corners of the heavenly realms. Who could predict the scale of plague they might unleash?
To stop this, the insects had to be eradicated. All of them. Immediately.
But they were fast—blindingly fast—and in their flight, a mist seeped from their wings.
The infection had already begun.
Some gods tried to intervene—
"Damn it! What's happening?"
"Is he infected?"
"Already mutating?"
Panic spread like wildfire through the audience. Brunhilde's face turned pale.
Then came Hades' solemn command—calling for immediate containment and sealing of infected individuals. No one was to touch them.
It diverted precious attention away from the swarm.
Some major deities wanted to strike preemptively, to wipe out as many insects as possible before they dispersed.
But they hesitated.
Any massive strike could accidentally detonate False God Chaos, unleashing destruction on an unimaginable scale.
So they watched helplessly.
Their only hope now… was Solomon.
Earlier, as Satan invoked Chaos, Solomon had spoken a cryptic phrase:
"The coronation begins—thus does the cosmos awaken."
Was it a summoning incantation?
As if in response, the arena's broadcast system crackled back to life. The final battle between gods and mortals resumed on screen.
The camera tracked the swarm—catching them as they neared escape velocity.
Then… they stopped.
Frozen mid-air.
The gods leaned closer. Had Solomon cast a binding spell?
The image zoomed in. Though faceless, the insects seemed terrified. Paralyzed by something they saw.
"Let us bear witness to what horror shook the plagueborn..." Heimdall, ever the vigilant herald, spoke from his flying device—but his voice caught.
He couldn't finish the sentence.
His throat locked. His jaw trembled.
"Sister Brunhilde, what… what's going on? The outside world shouldn't look like that."
From Heimdall's perspective, the outside was alien. Not heaven. Not any realm known.
A cosmic void like deep space stretched outward. Beneath it, cracked wastelands reminiscent of hell.
Then they saw the tendrils.
Monolithic, tower-like tentacles pierced the earth and sky.
No… not stone.
They had eyes.
Eyes lined each tentacle.
And beneath those eyes… figures.
Humanoid shapes.
Grey blinked hard. Was she hallucinating?
"Brunhilde, am I seeing things? Those tentacles… they're made of people."
Her sister gave no reply—only a trembling glance, beads of sweat, and a hesitant swallow.
From the crowd, similar whispers arose—
"Did anyone else see that?"
"Are those people… sewn together?"
"The tentacles… they're formed from human beings!"
And then, as False God Chaos finally disintegrated into dust, the glow returned.
The arena filled with light.
Eight titanic tentacles—the ones that had suppressed Chaos—were fully revealed.
And in that instant—
Silence.
A deafening hush swallowed the arena.
Those who saw the tentacles were struck cold—not by temperature, but sheer terror.
Despite the arena's ambient warmth, it suddenly felt glacial.
"Ow—!"
Grey had fainted in fright, hitting her head against the wall. That brought her back just enough to keep watching.
But what she saw next threatened to freeze her soul.
She tried to shut her eyes. She couldn't.
Her lids refused to obey. The horror was too overpowering.
"Brun-Brun-Brun-Brun-Brunhilde—please… Knock me out. I'm begging you!"
Better to forget. Better to lose consciousness. Better to erase this moment.
Because this… this was trauma eternal.
These tentacles weren't merely grotesque.
They were made of humans.
Bodies grafted together.
Each individual bore unique posture and emotion. Some struggled. Some had given up entirely.
Faces twisted in agony, anger, sorrow, hatred, grief.
No two were alike.
Men and women, young and old, stout and frail—some deformed, some maimed, some writhing in eternal torment.
This wasn't a carving.
It was real.
They could feel the souls trapped within.
This was a monument—not of flesh and art—but of humanity's sacrifice.
And there were seventy-two such tentacles.
Seventy-two pillars of humanity, fused together.
The price paid for Solomon's ascension.
His transformation into the Demon King had not come freely.
He had sacrificed all mankind to attain this form.