Western coast of the kingdom, fallen territory.
Among broken walls, a massive pigfolk struggled to prop up his upper body. Coarse bristles were caked with grit and dried blood. He was the leader of a dozen-plus pigfolk raiders.
Many unorganized demon bands like his now roamed the fallen zone.
They weren’t regular army—just opportunists who came to plunder captives while human defenses were broken.
Without the main demon army backing them, the trade was extremely dangerous.
Those who came either had confidence in their strength and wits, or—like him—had no other choice.
Duke Xenophon’s death on the battlefield dealt a heavy blow to pigfolk influence in the Empire.
Added to the mistakes he made during the war, after death, aside from a small personal domain, the rest of his fief was either reclaimed by the Emperor or carved up by neighboring lords.
Countless pigfolk lost their patron and had to fend for themselves.
Unwilling to become hopeless cannon fodder under other lords like some kin, he gathered followers and came to the western coast, hoping to scrape together capital through this lick-blood-on-the-knife business.
Only he failed.
His last memory: escorting captives back to port when blazing fireballs shot from ruined buildings on both sides, sealing all escape.
The pigfolk shook his heavy head. Vision clearing, he found himself in an iron-barred cage—the same kind he used for human captives.
First thought: why didn’t the humans kill him on the spot and capture him instead?
Humans didn’t take demon prisoners.
But when his gaze met the next cage, he saw not his pigfolk subordinates, but the human captives he had personally taken days ago!
They hadn’t been freed; they were shackled too.
One gaunt man locked eyes with him and slowly cracked a twisted smile—not the joy of rescue, but the pleasure of revenge glimpsed through despair.
He pushed up, looking past the cage edge, and finally saw the escort’s true face.
A column of silent black-robed figures walked among the ruins, hoods hiding their faces.
Yet even so, the pigfolk instantly recognized demon traits on several members.
A mixed human-demon team?!
What shocked him more was a familiar figure!
In that instant, he understood—his squad’s ambush wasn’t random.
“Tagu!” he roared. “It was you! You led the enemy here?!”
The figure paused, slowly turned, and pulled down the hood.
A young pigfolk face appeared—his scout subordinate.
Tagu’s eyes were unnaturally calm. “It was me, Captain.”
“Why?” The pigfolk captain lunged forward. Iron bars groaned. Saliva flew. “Why betray your own? Why, you fucking bastard?”
“For redemption, Captain. For all of us to find true happiness in the next life!” Tagu’s gaze held near-religious clarity. The answer chilled the captain to the bone.
“Next life? Hand of Passage?!” Even in the Empire, the Hand of Passage was infamous.
After all, even Elinore—who cruelly raised blood cattle—did so for profit and logic.
But the Hand of Passage was different. These lunatics shouted about happy afterlives while committing horrific massacres, all to sacrifice to their god.
Even demons despised such crazies.
Realizing what he faced, the pigfolk captain thrashed wildly.
With bone-cracking sounds and muscle-tearing rips, his already huge body swelled further. Veins bulged like worms under thick hide. Tusks pierced his lower lip, dripping blood. The cage deformed under his berserk strength.
With a roar, iron bars snapped. The pigfolk captain stepped out of the wreckage and backhanded the rushing Tagu.
The young pigfolk flew like a broken kite, slamming into a tree and sliding down limply.
The captain didn’t spare him a glance. Crimson eyes swept the other cages. Massive hands gripped bars and tore with brute force.
Whether terrified shrieking humans or fanatical pigfolk kin inside, every cage was destroyed by his raw power.
Screams, cries, curses exploded. Chaos reigned.
He didn’t do it from mercy—he knew only greater chaos could disrupt these black-robed lunatics and give him a sliver of survival.
Some captives charged the cultists in revenge. Others fled panicked into the forest.
Just as chaos peaked and the captain prepared to run:
“Quiet.”
A girl’s voice rang out. Not loud—even gentle—yet instantly silenced all noise.
The captives who had been screaming, fleeing, resisting suddenly went blank-eyed and softly collapsed, falling asleep.
The pigfolk captain’s mind reeled as if struck. His massive body swayed. Forward momentum halted. He staggered two steps and crashed to the ground, ragged breaths turning to dizzy gasps.
His muddled brain tried to process what happened.
Sonic attack?
No!
The cultists were unaffected.
They swarmed the weakened captain and pinned him down.
The girl who spoke walked slowly to him and pulled down her hood.
A human girl’s face appeared—still carrying youthful innocence.
Her eyes were unusually bright, as if reflecting the blue moon above.
Every black-robed cultist—human or demon—gazed at her with fanaticism.
“High Priestess!” they whispered.
The girl crouched, calmly regarding the pinned pigfolk captain.
She reached out pale hands and gently cradled his blood-and-dust-caked, twisted face, tender as if touching fragile treasure.
“Shh… poor lost soul tangled in life’s thorns…” Her voice was ethereal, carrying strange rhythm. “Why struggle? This crude shell, endless desire and rage, the pain of separation and loss… all just heavy burdens on the road of reincarnation.”
The pigfolk captain struggled out of mental daze and roared furiously, “Kill me if you want—just fucking do it! Stop trying to brainwash me, you goddamn lunatics!”
He jerked his head and bit half her palm. The hand so fragile he severed it with a light clench. Blood instantly filled his mouth and nose.
Yet the girl seemed to feel no pain. Her gaze grew even softer. “See how tired you are. Fighting, plundering, fear, betrayal… the living carry so much dust, trudging endlessly in futile cycles.”
Her tone grew gentler, like singing a lullaby. “Death is not the end, but a new beginning. There, no racial divides, no strong or weak, no tangle of pain and joy… only pure nothingness.”
With her murmur and caress, a strange sensation spread.
The pigfolk captain’s anger, fear, even physical agony quietly ebbed like a tide.
Deep, irresistible weariness rose—as if he had walked the thorny path for a thousand years and finally saw a soft bed.
The girl’s prayer reached its end. Her voice grew ever softer, almost merging with the night wind. “…Thus we, the Hand of Passage, guide lost souls. Break this world’s chains and return to slumber. When reincarnation’s bell rings again… you will have a lighter journey.”
The final syllable fell.
The pigfolk captain’s crimson eyes lost focus, turning empty and peaceful.
His ragged breathing stopped. Tense muscles relaxed completely. His ferocious face smoothed into an infant-like serenity.
His massive head rested in the girl’s still-bleeding hands. His chest rose once more, then stilled forever.
The girl withdrew her hand. Her intact fingers gently touched his closed eyelids—a blessing seal.
She stood. Black robes fluttered in the wind. Her gaze swept the sleeping offerings on the ground.
“Prepare the ritual,” she ordered. “To hear the Lord’s oracle again, we must save more people!”
…
Meanwhile, Mushroom Capital.
Another cult was performing an evil ritual here too—a group praying to a Puchi.
There was no formal prayer; everyone just babbled about how great Puchis were.
After praying, the Mushroom Worship Cult’s original leader Julia carried the ordinary Puchi down from the altar and let it scamper away.
Then she served the big pot of glowing mushroom soup she cooked. They blew out the candles and shared the “holy communion” by the soup’s fluorescence.
During communion, one follower suggested finding a real Mushroom Tribe member to worship.
Julia agreed, but the problem was: known Mushroom Tribe members were all with the kingdom, and wild ones were nowhere to be found.
Everyone offered ideas: go to the dungeon, pray to the fungal mat for the Puchi God to grant a Mushroom Tribe member, or boldly risk attention and contact the kingdom’s known members.
To these Puchi worshippers, Mushroom Tribe members were surely divine messengers of the Puchi God. Gaining their recognition was vital for cult cohesion.
They excitedly imagined a future led by a Mushroom Tribe member—even just fantasizing made them thrilled.
But just as discussion peaked, orderly footsteps sounded outside.
(End of Chapter)
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