Chapter 692: Death before Rebirth
Translator: CKtalon
Appeared once more? Lumian motioned for Lugano and the others to loosen their hold and inquired of Amandina, “Where is he?”
Amandina’s sky-blue eyes locked onto the entrance of the black ancient tomb situated at the terminus of the motionless river.
“He’s sitting cross-legged over there.”
As the words left her lips, Amandina shut her eyes and turned away. Minuscule protrusions emerged from her previously flawless and supple skin, each on the cusp of rupturing and giving rise to something unknown.
This reaction stemmed from her glimpse of the phantasmal, stagnant river and the ashen-white goat adorned with a golden mask, grappling to traverse the shallow waters.
The pallid goat’s limbs, devoid of all fur, were extensively decomposed, exuding a nauseating yellow pus that swiftly encroached upon the remainder of its body.
Under the sway of the Symphony of Hatred, Reaza’s wan and frigid countenance surrendered its final vestige of color.
The decay gradually consumed the back of his hand, neck, and cheeks, lending him the appearance of a long-deceased cadaver.
This decelerated the deterioration afflicting the pale goat’s body.
Concurrently, the still river conjured by the black ancient tomb grew ever more illusory, its breadth and depth visibly diminishing.
The rag doll, shrouded in a sinister Gothic gown, drifted onward once more, shadowing the retreating river of quietude.
Abruptly, it pivoted to regard the green-eyed man composed of human flesh and blood, who, coincidentally, reciprocated its gaze.
Loathing, enmity, and lunacy erupted from the sinister cloth doll’s crimson eyes. Its black Gothic attire, ensnared by baleful vines, ruptured into myriad holes, scattering fabric shreds and leaving it in tatters.
The green-eyed man in the dark gray suit seemed unscathed, yet as he advanced, he imprinted two footsteps saturated with vivid red blood, the aroma of sulfur swiftly dissipating.
One stride, two strides, three strides. Each step emblazoned bright red footprints, while dark fluid seeped from his human skin.
Iveljsta Eggers at last recovered from the onslaught of emotions and cravings unleashed by the Symphony of Hatred. He cast a glance at the tattered evil cloth doll and retrieved an object from his concealed pocket—a palm-sized puppet.
The puppet appeared to have been stitched together by a young child’s hand. Its limbs were askew, its legs reaching its posterior, and its visage daubed with red, yellow, and white pigments, evoking the image of a circus clown.
Iveljsta infused the misshapen puppet with his spirituality.
It shimmered into intangibility and vanished from his grasp, materializing within the dark brown eyes of the Eggers family scion before vaulting into the green orbs of the man clad in human skin.
This caused the figure in the dark gray suit to stiffen and decelerate.
Lumian dared not prolong his gaze and hastily averted his eyes.
As Amandina closed her eyes and turned away, the minute protuberances adorning her skin receded.
Intrigued, she stole a glance at the monstrosity, suspected to be a Devil, hurtling towards the green-eyed man, seemingly on the precipice of succumbing to terror. She swiftly surveyed her environment.
Her eyes then fell upon the colossal Devil’s incomplete carcass sprawled on the ground and a charred bone flute that had tumbled beneath a palm tree.
“There, there’s something over there,” she whispered, tugging at Lumian’s sleeve.
Could it be a potent artifact discarded by a gravekeeper?
Lumian peered over and murmured to Amandina and the others, “Feign ignorance. Refrain from touching or even nearing it.”
He had purposely abandoned the Symphony of Hatred there, deferring its retrieval.
In such circumstances, wielding it anew was far more prone to endangering his allies than exploiting an adversary’s vulnerability. As a Reaper, he had no need to employ the Symphony of Hatred to pierce the target.
Thus, he feigned a lack of opportunity to reclaim it, hoping an enemy would attempt to turn it against him.
If a similar scenario unfolded, Lumian and the three godhood items would be the sole survivors capable of weathering the ensuing cataclysm unleashed by the Symphony of Hatred. At that juncture, he would whisk Amandina and her companions away via teleportation. Upon later return, he anticipated discovering the enemies’ lifeless husks and acquiring fresh spoils of war.
It was a trap he had laid in passing.
As Devajo, transformed into a colossal Devil, retreated to the proximity of the human-skinned man and drew near the ebbing river of silence, a short silhouette walked out from the forest trail—a boy of seven or eight years old, clad in endearing sleepwear and a nightcap. His yellow hair and countenance were begrimed, besmirched with grease, dregs, and blood.
Catching sight of the boy, Lugano experienced a piercing agony in his absent right hand.
“Man… Man… Man….” He gnashed his teeth in dread.
Observing his abnormal reaction, Camus and the others inquired in astonishment, “What’s wrong?”
Tracing Lugano’s line of sight, Amandina, Camus, and Rhea spotted the boy.
The former swiveled to Lumian in bewilderment, “Isn’t, isn’t that your godson? Why is he here? It’s very dangerous!”
“No, he’s not in danger.” Camus recollecting Kolobo’s exaggerated reaction upon encountering Louis Berry and his godson. He recalled some of the words of his companion from the Fate pathway and said with a solemn expression, “We should be the ones in danger.”
Without waiting for Amandina and Rhea’s misgivings, Camus regarded Lumian and knitted his brow.
“What do we do?”
As a godfather, you should have a way to control your godson, right?
Lumian’s gaze flitted to Ludwig pursuing the Devil, then to the corpses and Hisoka’s Devil form strewn on the ground. He replied with a grin, “It’s not a big problem.”
There was ample food here to form an effective seal!
As to why Ludwig had trekked to the black ancient tomb, Lumian roughly had an idea.
The man and woman who had freshly arrived in Tizamo tonight and taken lodging at the Brieu Motel were likely minions of the Nois family’s Demon. By some means, they maintained lucidity in this special dream. Once the Dream Festival commenced, they left the motel and hastened towards the black ancient tomb.
During this process, they passed the second floor, inducing Ludwig to catch wind of delicacies. He forsook the insipid fare and shadowed them closely, matching the pace of a seven- or eight-year-old child.
At that moment, Ludwig’s brown eyes were fixed solely on Devajo, the Devil. “Why isn’t it a big problem?” Amandina wore a look of skepticism.
Lumian smiled and indicated the massive Devil who had fled in proximity to the green-eyed man.
“He’s here to hunt down that monster.”
“Hunt? Him?” Amandina glanced left and right in confusion.
A seven- or eight-year-old boy in azure star-spangled sleepwear, pursuing a pitch-black Devil almost three meters in height, with curved goat horns and bat wings sprouting from his back?
This is indeed a dream, right?
As he neared the green-eyed man formed of human flesh and blood and the black ancient tomb, Devajo sensed a tinge of respite. Yet, his mind remained haunted by visions of his tongue roasting, his brain scooped out by a soup spoon, and his arms and legs gnawed by the boy.
What kind of monster is this? Devajo watched in abnormal fear as the boy strode towards him.
At that juncture, Amandina, who had stolen a glance their way, exclaimed, “That figure is looking at the man in the black robe.”
Iveljsta?Lumian peered over but discerned nothing amiss with Iveljsta Eggers.
Amandina averted her gaze, taking a moment to regain her composure before looking again.
She quickly explained, “He’s not looking at the man in the black robe. He’s looking at the Devil!”
Amandina abruptly halted, withdrawing her gaze and furrowing her brow.
“That figure seems to utter something… I don’t know the language, but I understand the meaning.”
“What did he say?” Lumian pressed.
Amandina dared not look towards the black tomb. She organized her thoughts and said,
“Basically, it means:
“Everyone in the world knows that crawling insects can spin cocoons. After the cocoon fractures, butterflies take wing.
“A common insect can transform into a fluttering butterfly and alter its form of life. Why?”
Unknowingly, Amandina’s voice shifted, as if swayed by some influence.
She paused for a moment before answering the question in a low, cold voice, “Death before rebirth. Ascension into godhood…”
Before Amandina could finish her sentence, Devajo, in his Devil state, stiffened.
He beheld his flesh swiftly decaying, fragments sloughing off to bare ghastly white bones.
Within seconds, the Devil lost consciousness and crumbled into a mound of putrefying flesh and bones.
The remains fused as if alive, intertwining to form a human-sized cocoon.
It rapidly shattered, and a human-headed avian monster draped in white plumage emerged.
After absorbing all the flesh and blood, the monster expanded significantly, its form undergoing a transformation.
The lower portion of its head rapidly elongated and expanded, as if possessing a body of its own. The flesh at its “waist” melded with the avian body, mantled in pale-yellow feathers.
“Hahaha!” Devajo, with innumerable white feathers sprouting from his eyes, nostrils, visage, and fingertips, erupted into laughter.
He slapped the white-feathered bird body below and soared skyward, as if riding it.
Devajo ascended higher and higher, gradually turning ethereal. Then he spiraled downward and entered the black ancient tomb.
Witnessing this, Lumian glanced once more at the entrance of the black ancient tomb but still could not perceive the unseen figure Amandina had mentioned.
His heart stirred as he took two steps forward and retrieved the peculiar golden mask from Hisoka’s corpse..
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