Chapter 7:Horror
1670 Words
The night was quiet until a voice split through it, heavy and persuasive, like the toll of a distant bell.
“A message,” the preacher said, his words drifting through the village square like smoke. “A message that stirs the desire for a greater Will. Not the weak Will that fades like mist, but a Will that endures. A Will untouched by wall or poison. A Will that bends even death itself.”
The villagers exchanged looks. Some paused in their steps, others leaned out from their doorways, lanterns flickering in hand.
He paused, letting the silence stretch before his tone dipped lower, unsettling.
“A Will sought at the mention of a peculiar word. And those who seek it, as are countless as the stars above.”
Then, suddenly, his voice thundered like a storm.
“That Will, the one you seek, is a god!”
The words startled a stray dog into barking, but the people didn’t flinch. Instead, a young man near the well scoffed, whispering, “Another zealot.” His neighbor rolled his eyes and muttered, “Always one more, isn’t there?”
Still, the preacher pressed on, voice heavy with solemn weight.
“The god descends, yet the Will you desire stands unrecognized before you. His gift is strength. His mercy breaks death itself. And still, you refuse to see.”
A ripple of disinterest moved through the crowd. One villager shook his head and spat into the dirt. An old woman leaned toward her companion and muttered, “Grand words, nothing more. They’re all the same.”
The preacher’s voice grew hollow, mournful.
“Now cast away…”
Then it softened, warm, almost fatherly.
“Though misery is lifted, a god knows the struggles of mortal life. Without the Greater Will, your strength will falter against the turning of the world. Strength, though tested, may crumble. Yet the Greater Will receives you still, arms open, waiting to raise you up once more.”
Some villagers smirked. Others rolled their eyes. A boy in the back whispered, “If his god bends death, maybe he should bend his own tongue shut.” His friend snorted, quickly shushed by his mother.
The preacher raised his arms for the final time.
“Why not seize the Greater Will, once and for all?”
But when his voice faded, the only reply was silence.
No applause. No reverence. Only the shuffling of feet as the villagers turned back to their homes. To them, he was nothing more than a fanatic. Nonsense on legs.
Then, a while later.
High above them, on the spire of the church-like building, Ngwan Le watched. His silhouette was sharp against the moon, one hand pressed to his forehead as he sank to his knees.
“Oh, these people…” he murmured, voice dripping with false grief. “After all I have spoken, not even an eye turns to me.”
The villagers saw him as a failure. A pitiful preacher crying to the night.
But Ngwan Le’s sorrow was a mask.
Because beneath the mask was something else. Something hungrier.
The mantle he bore demanded blood. Soon, the streets would run red. The young would be spared. Some parents would be dragged away in chains.
Cruel? Yes. But cruelty had purpose.
Ngwan Le didn’t need their admiration. He didn’t need their belief. What he wanted had already been sown.
Seeds. Tiny, faint, hidden in their hearts.
And seeds, even those planted in mockery, could bloom.
Bloom in blood.
Now comes the dark god, Ngwan Le’s persona.
With a sound like mountains breaking, the village gate exploded into splinters. A tide of black fire swept through the homes, consuming timber, thatch, and food stores in a heartbeat. The air filled with smoke and the sharp sting of ash. The villagers awoke too late, their refuge was already a furnace.
The dark god walked among the flames with deliberate calm, every step crushing hope. He showed no pity, no hesitation. Only will.
Then, cutting through the panic, a single figure leapt forward.
A knight.
His sword burned bright in his grip, the steel humming as though it, too, despised the intruder. He struck with all his strength, a gleaming arc of silver and faith.
'Shhhk!'
The blade passed through the god’s chest. No blood. No wound. Only a ripple, as though the weapon had cut through smoke.
“A ghost!” the knight shouted, his voice trembling in disbelief.
Yet what his senses told him was no illusion. He felt the resistance of flesh beneath his strike, this was no spirit, no phantom. The figure before him was real.
The knight’s name was Gulp Iyon, a man both respected and misunderstood. He stood five feet and eleven inches tall, his body honed to muscle, clad in bright blue armor that gleamed even in the fire’s glow. Despite his imposing appearance, he was known for his humility. A seeker of the ancient strength, Gulp was as strong as someone in the fourth realm, a level of power feared by many. He was no feeble warrior.
He stepped back, adjusting his stance. Before his eyes, the dark god’s body rippled, reshaping like a living shadow, slime-like in its movement before solidifying once more. “A shadow-like physique…” Gulp muttered. His eyes narrowed. He raised his sword once more, blue aura flaring like wildfire around the blade. His steps were steady, his gaze unyielding.
“To think I must face an opponent like you…”
He advanced, each step deliberate. The air seemed to thicken as the aura pulsed from his weapon. Villagers watched, breath caught in their throats, daring to hope.
But all it took was a gesture.
The dark god raised a single finger. With a flick, power rippled outward like an unseen wave.
Blood erupted from Gulp’s chest before he had crossed three steps. His blade fell silent. His body crumpled to the ground.
Silence.
Then, horror.
If a knight of the fourth realm could die so easily, what were they? The crowd broke into chaos. Mothers screamed for their children. Men stumbled over one another, desperate to flee. Yet none could escape the shadow pressing down on them.
The dark god advanced, not with haste but with cruel patience. And rather than slaying them outright, he indulged in torment. Screams rose, sharp and unending, echoing through the night as one by one, the villagers and their defenders fell.
More knights rose, their blades flashing with desperate resolve. But each one fell as easily as Gulp, slain before they even understood the gap between them and the god they faced, their struggle pitiful, their sacrifice in vain.
The villagers’ resistance dissolved into terror, their prayers smothered by smoke and the crackle of fire.
The night stretched on, thick with agony. From afar, Ngwan Le could hear every cry, every plea, every scream, until the village was drowned in despair.
The horror had only just begun.
The dark god Ngwan Le’s persona had prepared something far more terrifying than death.
From the ground. The corpses scattered across the village square began to twitch, as if refusing to remain at rest. These were not mindless undead, nor puppets carved from bone. No, these were the very bodies slain by the god’s own hand.
Though they had collapsed lifeless moments ago, faint breaths lingered. Their eyes flickered open, hollow and cursed.
One figure stood first. He was tall, nearly six feet. And clad in armor so black it seemed to swallow the light around him. From his body radiated a suffocating darkness, heavier than the night sky. His blade pulsed with an energy that chilled the soul.
“…No…” a villager whispered, already weakened by torment and torture, stumbling back in terror. In a moment of inattention…
The armored figure moved. *Shhk!*
A single s***h, and the villager collapsed lifeless.
The villagers’ hearts sank.
They knew that face.
They knew that stance.
It was Gulp.
Once hailed as the protector of the village, he had now become its executioner.
“Oh, what a tragedy,” the dark god’s voice finally rang out, cold and mocking.
“Why is this happening? Sir Gulp, why are you doing this to us?!” cried an old man, tears staining his dirt-covered face.
But the nightmare deepened. One by one, the other bodies rose. Some, clad in black armor like Gulp’s. Others, without armor, but drenched in the same dark power.
They were villagers.
The very same villagers who had dared to revolt.
And now, bound to darkness, they turned on the living.
“What is happening?! Why must we suffer this? Is this punishment from above?!” another screamed as neighbors-turned-fiends cut them down.
“No, please, no! Don’t kill me!” begged a villager, crawling backward in the dirt, as a dark-clad figure approached.
Shwoosh!
Dark steel tore through him. His blood painted the ground. Across the dirt.
And then, the s*******r began in earnest.
The dark-clad figures moved like predators, cutting down men and women alike. Cries for mercy were ignored. Those who resisted were butchered even faster.
The dark god stood unmoving, his expression empty. He had no pity, no voice, no mercy, only silence, broken by the screams of the dying.
Finally, when nearly more than half the adults of the village lay dead, he spoke again.
“Enough.”
Instantly, the black-armored figures halted. Their blades dripped, but none moved without their master’s command.
Not a single child had been harmed. Every youth remained alive.
“Take the survivors captive,” the god commanded. His tone carried no anger, no joy. Just cold certainty.
The villagers’ children did not cry. Even the youngest among them stared blankly into the void. They had no strength left for tears, their voices stolen by torment and torture, their spirits drowned in grief.
What lingered in the air was not the sound of crying,
But the crushing weight of silence.
A silence heavier than death itself.
- Writer
