Chapter 277

[Third Person's PoV] 

Zeto slashed through members of the Cult, a wide grin stretched across his face. Blood clung to the side of his cheek as he cut down another opponent, his dagger slicing clean through their throat.

A sword came swinging for his neck, but Zeto—small, agile, and beast-born—moved like a blur. Though young, his muscles carried raw strength, further amplified by magic. His ears twitched, sensing the attack, and with a swift pivot, he blocked the blade. Sparks flared as his dagger scraped along the enemy's weapon. In the same motion, he flicked his other hand forward, sending a second dagger flying. It found its mark instantly—buried deep in his opponent's forehead.

Zeto exhaled, his chest rising and falling. Stepping forward, he yanked the dagger free, then turned toward the far wall of the hall.

There, leaning casually against the stone, stood Zeta, arms crossed, watching him with a critical eye.

"You let your last opponent get too close," she remarked, frowning. "A mistake like that could cost you your life."

Zeto shrugged. "Does it really matter? I mean, Aniki is basically the Lord Venerable of Death. If I die, he'll just revive me."

Zeta's expression darkened.

"What?" she snarled, her glare sharp enough to make Zeto flinch.

He instinctively cowered as she stepped toward him.

"Are you saying you'd willingly become an inconvenience to our Lord when it could've been prevented?"

"...No," Zeto muttered, looking away.

Zeta scoffed. "I thought so. Don't say something that stupid again—I know you're smarter than that. Let's go."

Together, they stepped past the blood-streaked walls and the lifeless bodies sprawled across the floor. They descended a flight of stone stairs, heading deeper into the Cult's underground lair. As they walked, Zeto wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.

Reaching the final step, they froze.

A grotesque sight awaited them.

Body parts dangled from meat hooks above—some rotting, others fresh. Even entire bodies of children hung like morbid decorations, swaying slightly. Large glass cylinders lined the floor, filled with green liquid, each containing the severed heads of beings from different races. Humans, elves, beastmen—all reduced to mere specimens in a nightmarish collection.

"Ugh… that's disgusting," Zeto grimaced.

Before Zeta could reply, the sound of rattling chains echoed through the chamber, followed by the sharp slap of leather shoes against marble.

Both turned toward the sound.

A man emerged from the shadows—tall and poised, with cropped black hair and dark round glasses. His black-and-white suit was pristine, contrasting the filth and gore surrounding him.

Petos.

"So this is the source of all the commotion…" Petos mused, his tone lighthearted—until his gaze landed on them.

His smile vanished.

Bloodlust poured from Zeta like a crashing wave, met by Petos's own suffocating aura. He tried to maintain his usual smirk, but the veins bulging on his forehead betrayed his frustration.

"You remember us, then?" Zeta sneered.

"How could I forget?" Petos muttered, his grip on the chains tightening. "The humiliation I suffered at his hands… Where is he? Is he here?" His voice grew sharper. "Tell me he's here—I have a score to settle."

Zeto burst into laughter.

Both Zeta and Petos turned toward him as he doubled over, slapping his thigh.

"Hahaha! Oh, man, that's hilarious!" Zeto wheezed. "You hear this, sis? This guy wants to fight Aniki! Pfft—HAHAHA! What kind of idiot willingly seeks death?"

Zeta's lips curled into a faint smirk, but it disappeared the instant a chain lashed toward Zeto.

Without hesitation, Zeta caught it mid-air.

The sheer force behind it was enough to slice through weaker opponents like paper, but to her, it was nothing. She tightened her grip, then yanked.

Petos barely had time to react before he was lifted off his feet, hurtling toward her.

Zeta merely raised a fist.

The moment Petos reached her, she drove her knuckles into his gut—twisting as she struck.

A wet gasp escaped him. Blood spewed from his mouth as his body rocketed backward, crashing through several glass cylinders. The room filled with the deafening sound of shattering glass and splashing liquid.

As Petos crashed into the wall, a crater formed behind him before he bounced forward, shards of glass embedding deeper into his back. He coughed up more blood before collapsing onto the floor with a rough thud.

"Yeah! Fuck him up, sis!" Zeto cheered.

Zeta narrowed her eyes. "Who taught you that kind of language?"

Zeto shrank slightly. "Sister Delta…" he muttered.

"That mutt…" Zeta hissed, shaking her head before stepping toward Petos. The battered man shakily raised a red pill to his lips and swallowed it with an audible gulp.

A dark crimson aura leaked from his body as he let out a monstrous growl. His wounds sealed rapidly, forcing the glass shards out of his skin, which rained onto the bloodstained floor. His body began to expand, muscles contorting as he transformed—

But before the process could finish, Zeta flicked her arm, slicing through his neck with a single, effortless motion.

Petos' head flew through the air, his eyes wide with shock, before landing upside down in Zeta's outstretched palm. Blood gushed from his severed neck like a broken pipe, painting her crimson.

"Eh? That's it?!" Zeto exclaimed, clearly disappointed.

"No," Zeta murmured, an eerie grin forming on her blood-drenched face. "Now we take him to our Lord and have him revived—so I can make him my plaything endlessly."

Zeto gave her a strange look. "Uh… I don't think Aniki would like it if you made another man your 'plaything.'"

Zeta turned to him, expressionless. Without a word, she lowered Petos' head and started walking away.

"Just for that comment, I'm increasing your training tomorrow."

"Huh!? No, wait! I'm sorry! It was just a joke! Please!!" Zeto pleaded, clinging to her leg.

Zeta remained indifferent to his struggles as they made their way out.

---

Meanwhile, deep underground, near Spellblade Academy...

Sherry stood surrounded by towering ogre-like creatures, their hulking frames blocking every escape route.

Despite her small stature, she weaved between them with graceful precision, her short sword gleaming with blistering heat. She had been training for war, knowing that firearms alone wouldn't be enough when the time came.

Her back bore a pair of white wings as she moved through the battlefield with brutal efficiency. With a single stroke, she decapitated one of the ogre-men. Another swung a massive sword toward her, but she activated her God Rune of Humility, forming a protective barrier around herself. The moment the heavy blade made contact, it shattered in half.

She maneuvered past another strike and soared upward, despite the low ceiling. Stretching out her hand, she conjured force fields around the heads of the remaining enemies.

Her gaze was cold and unwavering as she clenched her fist.

The force fields tightened.

The pressure crushed their skulls instantly, painting the barriers with gore.

With an indifferent glance at the fallen bodies, Sherry dismissed the shields and landed. She stepped over the corpses and approached a massive metal door. As she pushed it open, she entered a vast room lined with testing tubes filled with monstrous entities—creatures identical to the ones the Monarchs had unleashed upon Cid.

At the far end of the room, leaning against a desk, stood a handsome young man with snow-white hair. His arms were crossed, his sword resting at his side.

Fenrir.

"Tell me," he mused, his tone casual, "for research purposes—how strong were the ones you fought? 45% was the highest concentration of monster essence they could handle before losing rationality."

Sherry shrugged. "They were decent, I suppose. But I've fought stronger."

Fenrir chuckled. "Really now? Well, if anyone understands that appearances can be deceiving, it's me."

Her eyes narrowed. "I have a question of my own."

Fenrir raised a brow. "I suppose that's fair. Since you answered mine, I'll answer yours."

Sherry's voice was cold. "Were you the direct superior of Sir Gaunt—Lutheran Barnett?"

Fenrir frowned in thought. "Lutheran Barnett… Was there someone with that name in my command?" He tapped his chin. "Forgive me for not answering right away. There are so many members it's hard to keep track… but I'm pretty sure there was."

Sherry gave a firm nod. "As his superior, you will answer for his crimes."

Her tone was ice-cold.