Taisu fancied himself an artist—one with exquisite taste.
The gun-sword in his hand was his instrument.
Each gunshot, each wet slash of steel through flesh, was another note on his grand symphony of death.
The chorus of screams—pleading, defiant, despairing—wove through the air like the wild, discordant melody of a requiem for the damned.
Groans of agony. The roar of desperation. The thud of falling bodies. The splash of blood upon stone.
Taisu conducted it all as if it were the most natural of performances.
This wasn't a battle. Not even a slaughter.
It was a performance piece—a composition for the amusement of one evil god.
A hymn of celebration, composed solely for Saikyō Aiko.
A tribute to the girl who would forever fall—never to return—from grace into the endless abyss.
Within minutes, silence reclaimed the chapel.
The cries faded into echoes, leaving only the faint hiss of gunsmoke and the stench of blood saturating the air.
Revenge itself needed no description—it was a simple, beautiful act: no survivors.
Not a single soul left to perpetuate their sins.
The worms who had once tormented innocents were no more.
And that, in its way, was cause for universal celebration.
From deep within Saikyō Aiko's body, Taisu could sense it—not fear, not disgust, but a lightness in her soul. A strange exhilaration.
She was not repulsed by the sight of hell.
If anything, she felt free.
Of course, if he wished, Taisu could have sculpted her outward beauty into perfection—features flawless as porcelain, every curve exactly as he pleased.
But what he truly admired was something far rarer—something that only the soul could create.
He admired her eyes.
Those tired eyes, dulled by the weight of endless suffering; their red sheen like dried blood upon cracked glass.
At times of vengeance, they flared with a violent flame—but even then, the fire burned from within a void.
Most of the time, her gaze remained empty. Detached.
As if life itself had no meaning left for her.
Once, those eyes had sparkled with childish light. Once, they had been full of curiosity, sweetness, and love.
Now, they viewed the world with quiet disdain—like a goddess looking down upon ants crawling in the dirt.
It was a gaze born not of arrogance, but of exhaustion.
A contempt reserved only for existence itself.
To Taisu, it was divine.
The perfect contrast—fragile body, indifferent eyes.
It awakened in him a strange fascination, an urge to witness something new, something exquisite.
He wanted to see it—the moment those cold, lifeless eyes softened.
The instant they clouded with a haze of rapture and delirium.
He wondered—almost curiously—
Would those eyes, when lost in the chaos of pleasure and pain,
when drowned in divine madness…
Would they, perhaps, form the shape of a heart?