The moment Hamel tossed the fruit behind him, applause echoed—
─Clap clap clap
Applause came from somewhere.
Hamel turned toward the sound.
Chepesh stood there, looking surprised.
“Oh, you endured that? Your willpower is very strong,” he said admiringly.
“Yes.” Hamel aimed his sword with an indifferent look.
Chepesh’s expression deflated slightly as he watched Hamel. “…It doesn’t seem very difficult for you?”
“I can endure it,” Hamel answered calmly.
Hunger and thirst were brutal. His throat felt like desert sand, his stomach burned more than it ached. Still, he could endure it. He had to. He forced his desires down with sheer will.
Chepesh’s face twitched, then he smoothed it as if nothing had happened.
“Hmm, then how about this?” he said, slamming his staff into the ground.
For a moment nothing happened. Then a foul stench rose—rot, sewer-sour and cloying.
Hamel glanced down.
His hands were rotting.
Blood and pus oozed from beneath his nails. When he raised his hand, the nails came away with the pus. The rot crawled up his arms; his skin cracked like drought-crumbled earth, pocked with holes like a worm-eaten tree. The stench came from his own body.
Hamel watched for a beat, then looked up. “Is this also the power of an evil god?”
“Hm, why do you think that?” Chepesh asked, slightly surprised.
“Because you are an apostle of Marvas.”
“…Is that so?”
“Didn’t you gain power by offering sacrifices stamped with Marvas’s mark?”
It was obvious. What Chepesh had used now was the same domain as the crow-shaped evil god they’d met before in Sturnhelm. His identity wasn’t hard to deduce.
“As I’ve heard, you’re perceptive,” Chepesh said, stroking his beard. He showed no real concern. As if his identity being known mattered little, he glanced at Hamel and smiled leisurely. “But aside from that, you look rather strained tonight.”
Hamel didn’t argue. He no longer had the strength. Beyond the flesh-eating rot and the stench, his hunger was worsening; the arm holding his sword trembled and his vision kept dimming. At this rate he’d starve before he could even fight.
Chepesh, as if he’d expected it, smiled broadly. “I expected as much. So I’ll make you an offer.”
“…An offer?”
“Yes. It’s favorable for you too. A way to rid yourself of hunger, thirst, and illness.”
Hamel studied Chepesh’s face with difficulty. The ashen hair and bristly beard gave him a wolfish look, but his smile was foxlike—delighted at the prospect of making this offer.
“What is it?”
“It’s simple…” Chepesh broke off, walked to a nearby tree, plucked a fruit, and tossed it to Hamel.
Hamel snatched it reflexively. It was the same appetizing fruit he’d seen earlier—ripe, glistening as if you could bite it at once.
No. This is a trap. He forced himself to stay wary.
Chepesh shrugged at Hamel’s hesitation. “No need to refuse. It’s good for the body. If you eat that fruit, you’ll no longer feel hunger or pain.”
“…Why?”
If Chepesh wanted to kill him outright, there was no need for this charade; a direct attack would be simpler. Chepesh scratched his head, then sighed and began to explain.
“You’re truly difficult. Very well. I’ll tell you.” He tapped the ground with his staff and straightened, speaking with quiet pride. “My name is Vlad Chepesh. I am an apostle of Lord Marvas—the iron slayer, the tyrant of the black mane. He seeks the power of a true dragon. A true dragon could make even other gods kneel.”
So that’s it. David had toyed with resurrecting a dragon too; Chepesh’s goal was similar. But unlike David, who resurrected a dead dragon, he intended something else.
“The storm dragon Diabolos. I will make that being a true dragon.”
“Diabolos…” Hamel thought of the half-dragon rumored to be in the eastern mountains. Could Chepesh already have it? No—probably not. The creature would only gain that power after tonight’s ritual.
“You haven’t captured it yet.”
“Yes. So I’d like you to help me a little.”
Chepesh said it plainly. “If you eat the fruit, you’ll be cured of everything, but there’s a price. Your soul will belong to Lord Marvas. You’ll serve him until you die—and even after.”
Hamel looked at the fruit in his hand: a glossy red thing that might taste like a plum or a fragrant peach. He raised it slowly while Chepesh watched triumphantly, convinced his persuasion had worked.
Then—
─Crack.
Hamel bit down.
Red liquid trickled from the corner of his mouth. Chepesh’s triumphant smile froze as if he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.
Hamel turned his head and spat. It wasn’t fruit he had bitten—it was his own skin.
“You imitated a demon a bit too much and went mad?” Chepesh sneered.
Hamel had bitten his own forearm. In the next instant, a blue, azure flame rose and healed the wound. He wiped his mouth and said, “I’m starting to come to my senses now.”
Clarity returned. The tremor in his sword hand ebbed. He dropped the fruit and stomped it into mush; its sweet scent rose but no longer unsettled him. A fouler taste still lingered in his mouth, hollowing his senses, but it could not unmake him.
Chepesh watched for a moment and then let out a hollow laugh. “I’ve lived a long time, but… you’re the craziest person I’ve ever seen.”
“Is that so?” Hamel replied evenly.
Chepesh’s laugh faltered; the corners of his mouth trembled as if embarrassed by the emotion behind it. Hamel knew what it was: fear—the fear of the unknown. Madness could be countered by a greater madness, and someone who had something to protect could overcome any fear.
Hamel tightened his grip on the sword. It was time to drive a stake into this long hunt.
Hamel swung with killing intent.
Slow.
Chepesh melted into mist as leisurely as if taking a stroll. Hamel’s blade sliced only air.
The mist condensed behind him and Chepesh swung his staff.
“…!” Just before the blow struck the back of his head, Hamel twisted and parried with his sword.
─Clang!
The impact sent him forward. He recovered and lunged, but he knew—from that single exchange—that it was meaningless. No matter what he did, that creature could not be defeated by force alone.
Chepesh, amused, regained his composure and asked, “Why insist on such a hard path? If you’d eaten the fruit, it would be over. Don’t you want to become a demon? You put so much effort into imitating one.”
Hamel said nothing. His pupils narrowed into vertical slits like a dragon’s, blue flames flickering in their depths. Even Chepesh, who still held the advantage, swallowed dryly at the incomprehensible presence in Hamel’s gaze.
After a moment Hamel spoke in a dry voice. “What happens after you catch it?”
“What do you mean?”
“What will happen to me after you catch Diabolos?” Hamel asked.
Chepesh’s mouth shut.
Hamel had heard the careless remark left behind long ago: You will be useful. Perhaps you could complete it in one go. Given Hamel’s knowledge of Dragon tongue and his experience fighting Karaksis, it wasn’t hard for him to read Chepesh’s intentions. More than that, Hamel himself had searched for half-dragons. Chepesh, lacking that information, could only be surprised.
“Haha… Didn’t you choose the wrong profession?” Chepesh scoffed.
“I hear that often,” Hamel murmured, then suddenly swallowed something.
Chepesh’s jaw clenched. He knew what it was—dragon’s blood, the catalyst Hamel used to draw out his power. Hamel had taken it the moment the conversation distracted him; it looked innocuous, but he would use any shortcut.
“You pulled such a shallow trick just to get him to drink that… huh?” Chepesh muttered, about to press further.
He couldn’t finish. For a reason Chepesh could not yet grasp—
─Whoosh.
Hamel’s aura shifted.
Jet-black armor enveloped him, the silhouette of a knight. Earlier he’d looked more Dragonian—scales had sprouted on his skin—but now something else flickered into being. Between his shoulder blades blue pupils glinted. The enormous sword he wielded radiated an indescribable dread.
“It can’t be,” Chepesh muttered.
Flames roared along every seam of the armor, alive and hungry. The figure before him was no mere Dragonian; it felt closer to the source, an entity older and broader than a half-dragon. It was, unmistakably, a true dragon—the presence of those who had razed the world.
