In a world perpetually devoid of sunlight, continuous darkness and torrential rain formed the primary backdrop.
But unlike the usual leaden sky, a silver-white object, barely visible to the naked eye, was soaring through the air. The sleek fuselage looked like an extraterrestrial artifact. A pair of electronic eyes gazed loyally at the ground, transmitting images to a nearby tablet.
"Dammit, no matter how many times I see it, it's still nauseating."
Kenmyo Isayama watched the feed on his tablet, his stomach churning uncontrollably. To sum it up in one sentence: "That village is alive."
Visually, it was a horror show of gore. Whether it was the buildings or the ground, everything was blanketed in sickening, bloated strips of flesh and organ-like masses. One could only faintly make out the original wooden structures underneath. Watchtowers stood at the four corners of the village, similarly overgrown with this endless meat, tangled like old tree roots, looking as if they had sprouted directly from the earth.
The surfaces resembled the skinless carcasses of monkeys. Countless bulging veins and scarlet bloodstains didn't fade under the wash of the black rain; instead, they grew more vivid. They pulsed with a rhythmic, heavy breathing—a powerful, terrifying visual impact of raw muscle.
Just staring at it invited an overwhelming malice—predatory and bloodthirsty—that seemed to want to drag Kenmyo into the abyss with it. Unimaginable resentment coiled around this ominous flesh.
This was why Kenmyo called the village "alive." After staring at the screen for a while, his brain throbbed with a sharp pain; he couldn't look for long. Even the thought of stepping onto such a disgusting place made him want to vomit.
He felt incredibly lucky to live in this era. Technology allowed him to see the full layout of this "virgin land" without having to set foot on it personally.
As for the vengeful spirits he coveted, he observed at least thirty of them. They were scattered like zombies in a horror movie, moving sluggishly between the fleshy buildings, ignoring one another. Even when they bumped into each other, they merely let out a hiss before moving on.
Kenmyo had set up a small camp on the very cliff where he and the Vengeful Spirit (Hunter) had previously tumbled to their deaths. He had pitched a small tent to block the rain. Out of caution, he used only the lowest setting on a small night light, which provided just enough light for him to mark his sketches.
"The entire village is three kilometers long and 1.78 kilometers wide. Eighteen buildings in total, with exits at the north, south, east, and west."
Kenmyo translated the drone images into simple diagrams and sketches on paper.
"It can be divided into three zones."
He used areas not covered by flesh as boundary lines. There were three such spots: one looked like a small shrine, one looked like an ancestral hall, and the last was the most magnificent structure.
Is that where the village head lives?
Kenmyo had never been there. So, the first shell would go right there. Who told it to be so special?
Besides, Kenmyo had zero cost for trial and error. If he realized he'd made an irreversible mistake, he could just slit his own throat and restart the round. Logically, the spirits living in such a place should be the strongest and, consequently, worth the most points.
To be safe, two rounds.
Kenmyo drew two circles over that spot, meaning it shouldn't just be hit, it should be hit hard. As for the shrine and the ancestral hall, he naturally wouldn't spare them either.
Kenmyo's goal was a total massacre. As for the honor of these long-dead "elders," he had only one thought: blow it up. He drew circles over them as well.
He had prepared a total of eight "Gas Tank" mortars. He planned to use four now, saving four for later—not to mention the ten "original flavor" gas tanks he hadn't even opened yet.
Sigh, is this the burden of having too much ammunition?
Looking at the eighteen marked houses, he realized that even with one shell per house, he'd have a few left over. However, he didn't plan to waste shells on the dilapidated small courtyards. It was beneath him.
Better to target the clusters where vengeful spirits gathered. He used the drone to mark their locations on his sketch.
Targets confirmed: twenty-four strike points.
Kenmyo decided to send a "rocket greeting" to his vengeful spirit brothers. He pulled the eight prepared gas tank mortars from his inventory and lined them up along the cliff edge.
The warheads were scrap gas tanks, filled with high-energy explosives Kenmyo had mixed himself, with impact fuzes welded to the tips. For the propulsion bodies, he had welded thinner water pipes filled with a certain combustible booster. The length of the pipes could be adjusted: short pipes for close range, long pipes for distance. Finally, he added four tail fins to keep the flight path stable.
Crude as they looked, and despite their "touching" accuracy, they possessed every necessary structural component of a real shell. Moreover, with a $300\text{mm}$ caliber warhead, the payload rivaled the heavy main guns of a battleship. Even if they could only fly a kilometer or two, it would be more than enough for these spirits to handle.
The high-strength steel shrapnel from the exploding tanks would cause horrific damage—a "celestial maiden scattering flowers" of jagged metal.
This was what Kenmyo pursued: Caliber is Justice!
Step one: adjust the elevation angle (a simple bolt sufficed). Step two: calculate the trajectory (an iPad with its built-in tilt sensor did the trick).
Kenmyo calibrated each mortar one by one based on his coordinates to ensure they wouldn't miss. He even tied the eight fuses together into a single line for convenience. Once everything was ready, he made sure to fly the drone higher. If he lost an 180,000 yen drone to friendly fire, he'd be devastated.
"Alright, time to see if these babies can run."
Despite lacking a third-party safety certificate, Kenmyo had confidence in his craftsmanship. After all, he was a "traditional craftsman" now.
Whoosh.
In the dim night, a flicker of blue psionic flame rose from Kenmyo's fingertip, illuminating his face.
"Let this be the battle song for my path to power."
Sizzle...
The fuse, ignited by the psionic fire, raced toward the mortars at high speed. The blue flame transitioned to orange-red as the internal fuel ignited.
The next second, the world turned white before Kenmyo's eyes.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The massive kinetic energy of the launch produced a series of ear-splitting thunderclaps. Crack! The ground at the cliff's edge buckled under the recoil, a large fissure snaking through the rock.
Kenmyo felt the earth shudder. He waved away the thick cloud of smoke, watching as eight streaks of orange-yellow light tore through the silence of the night like falling stars. A brilliant smile spread across his face, and he spread his arms as if basking in the moment.
Successive explosions dyed the sky the same hue as a lava-drenched earth. The eight dazzling flashes from the rhythmic, manic detonations were like ceremonial cannons illuminating this defiled world—a sacred light of purification.
Purging all filth!
[Points +31,000]
Meanwhile, at the very top of the Demon-Slaying Pagoda within All Souls Temple, which seemed protected by a barrier that the fierce shockwaves outside couldn't touch...
Inside a secret chamber blanketed in blood-red scriptures, surrounded by ritual implements like vajra pestles and phurba daggers used to suppress evil...
What these artifacts were suppressing was an open box made of pure gold, carved with sealing runes. Looking down into it, there sat a severed head.
It was the head of an extremely young monk, his features radiating mercy and compassion. What was eerie was the crimson coffin nail driven into his skull, as if to pin him in the golden box forever. His eyes were covered with white cloth, and his mouth was sewn shut.
The reason for such cruel treatment remained unknown, and though the brilliance of the scriptures and artifacts on the walls had dimmed over the eons...
That head remained as lifelike as if it had just been severed.
And if one looked closely, the coffin nail was slowly, almost imperceptibly, being pushed outward.