Chapter 279
[Third Person's PoV]
Cid sat comfortably on the bed, watching with a quiet smile as Lukeria, Sherry's mother, gently caressed her daughter's face, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her fingers moved tenderly, parting Sherry's hair before she lowered her head, pressing a soft kiss onto her forehead.
Sherry's eyes fluttered shut, her nose wrinkling slightly as she felt the warmth of a touch she had once lost—a mother she never thought she would see again.
The moment was touching, but Cid suddenly felt a sharp sensation—an intense stare burning into him. Slowly, he turned his head to the side and met the wide, frightened eyes of a little girl who was supposed to be asleep. She lay stiff in bed, silently staring at him as if he were some terrifying specter.
Cid sighed before pressing a finger to his lips, tapping it lightly with a wink.
The girl took a deep breath, her chest rising as if she were about to scream. But before she could, Cid's hand flickered across her face in an instant. Her eyes rolled back, her small head lolling to the side as her tongue hung out. A thin trail of drool slipped from the corner of her mouth before the soft sound of snoring filled the room.
'Am I really that scary?' Cid wondered to himself.
With a quiet chuckle, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a few gold coins, slipping them beneath the girl's pillow.
Then, the shadows stirred. Like sentient beings, they swirled around him, writhing eagerly as they awaited his command. The darkness stretched and swallowed him whole, dragging him—and those he chose—into the shadow realm.
Unbeknownst to him, this small, seemingly insignificant act of leaving gold under a child's pillow would one day turn into legend, earning him the infamous title of the Tooth Fairy.
---
The Kingdom of Shadows
As they arrived in his domain, Lukeria turned toward Cid and bowed her head deeply, holding Sherry close.
"Thank you, O Great Monarch," she whispered, sincerity filling her voice. "Thank you for watching over my daughter."
Sherry clung to her mother, trembling slightly, but not out of fear—out of the overwhelming relief of knowing that this time, her mother wouldn't disappear again. She stole a glance at Cid, reassurance settling in her chest. 'As long as he's here… nothing will go wrong.'
---
Meanwhile…
Across the world, the members of Shadow Garden moved like ghosts, sweeping through cities, towns, and kingdoms alike. Their mission was absolute. Their targets—unforgivable.
The Cult of Diabolos would be no more.
A lone cultist stood inside a dimly lit shop, gripping a glass bottle as a strange sensation prickled the back of his neck. His breath hitched. Slowly, he turned his gaze downward—his eyes locking onto a shifting shadow cast across the floor.
Dread settled in his gut.
He didn't dare look up.
Yet, against his better judgment, he did.
His blood ran cold.
A figure stood upside down on the ceiling, its glowing eyes piercing through the darkness.
Panic surged through him. He threw the bottle aside and bolted, shoving shelves and furniture in his path in a desperate attempt to flee.
It was futile.
The shadow flickered. A whisper of movement.
And then—
Slice.
His head left his shoulders before his body even realized it had been cut.
Elsewhere, similar scenes unfolded. The members of the cult, no matter how high their rank or how deep they hid, found themselves helpless against the silent executioners of Shadow Garden.
There was no time to react. No time to beg.
No mercy.
By the time the world realized what had happened, the Cult of Diabolos would be nothing more than a distant nightmare.
Beta stood atop a lonely hill, gazing down at the sprawling city below. The wind howled around her, but she remained still, an ominous figure against the moonlit sky. With a slow, deliberate motion, she raised her hand, and from the viscous shimmer of her slime, a magnificent longbow took shape—elegant, intricate, and deadly.
A cold mist seeped from her palm, curling around her fingers before cascading downward like a frozen waterfall. The very air trembled as the frost thickened, crackling with unrestrained energy.
She lifted the bow, drawing back the ethereal string. A pulse of raw magic and ice coalesced at its center, condensing into a crystalline arrow, impossibly sharp, its surface glowing with a haunting, cerulean light. The temperature plummeted.
Beta narrowed one eye, calculating, adjusting. At the last moment, she tilted the bow slightly upward, her focus shifting beyond the city—to the heavens themselves.
With a whisper of displaced air, she released.
The arrow tore through the sky, an azure streak of death. The sheer force of its departure shattered the sound barrier, sending shockwaves rippling across the clouds. As it ascended, it carved through them effortlessly, leaving jagged holes in its wake. At its apex, the arrow hesitated, suspended in time—before tilting downward, gravity seizing its form.
Then, it fell.
Spinning like a deadly drill, it gained momentum, slicing through the clouds once more before plummeting toward the city below. The descent was terrifyingly silent.
Within the grand hall of a towering fortress, a man—one of the esteemed seats of the Round Table—stood at the edge of a balcony, observing the rigorous training of his subordinates. A seasoned warrior, a man of power and prestige. And yet, something compelled him to look up.
His instincts screamed too late.
The arrow struck with surgical precision, drilling straight into his forehead. A beat passed. Then, the explosion erupted.
A tempest of ice radiated outward, freezing every soul in the vicinity in an instant. Frost devoured flesh, crystallizing figures mid-motion, their final expressions of shock forever encased in ice. The silence was deafening—until the first crack split the air.
One by one, they shattered, collapsing into glittering shards, as if the world itself had decided to erase their existence.
Back on the distant hill, Beta exhaled softly, the faintest wisp of condensation escaping her lips. She adjusted her glasses with a single, practiced motion, the lens catching the moonlight.
"One seat down," she murmured.
…
Gamma hovered effortlessly atop her broom, suspended high above the jagged cliffs of a desolate mountain. Below, nestled within the rock like a parasite burrowed deep into flesh, lay a hidden research facility—the wretched Cult of Diabolos.
Her dragon-like eyes gleamed in the darkness, pupils narrowing into slits as her vision pierced through layers of stone and steel. Beyond the barriers, she saw horrors concealed from the world—grotesque, inhuman experiments, twisted rituals of cruelty carried out in sterile rooms. Rows of lifeless figures, children who had once clung to the promise of rescue, now reduced to mere husks. Puppets. Corpses. Forgotten test subjects.
Gamma's expression turned to ice.
She raised two fingers to her face, her breath slow and measured. A single black speck flickered into existence between them, swirling ominously. It grew, expanding into a perfect, abyssal sphere, a black hole rimmed with a molten orange glow. The very fabric of reality twisted around its edges, light bending and space warping under its immense gravity.
Without hesitation, she extended her hand.
The singularity shot forward like a harbinger of oblivion, a ravenous force spinning through the air. The moment it touched the mountain, devastation followed.
Rock crumbled, walls collapsed inward, and the very structure of the facility began to distort as matter was stripped away, sucked mercilessly into the void. Screams echoed—brief, panicked, then cut short as bodies disintegrated, flesh and bone spiraling into the abyss, consumed without mercy. Desperate cultists fought against the pull, grasping at walls, clawing at the air. But their resistance was futile.
The entire cliffside groaned, splintered, then dissolved into nothingness, drawn into the singularity's endless hunger.
Then, with a final pulse, the black hole contracted—shrinking, inverting—before vanishing completely at Gamma's silent command.
In its wake, only a barren, featureless plateau remained. No rubble, no ruins. No trace that anything had ever stood there.
Gamma exhaled, tilting her head toward the sky. The moon cast its pale glow upon her, illuminating the cold determination in her eyes. Her witch's hat fluttered gently in the wind.
"One of the seats has been destroyed," she reported.
…
Delta stood knee-deep in a pool of crimson, the thick scent of iron saturating the air. Blood clung to her skin, smeared across her hands and lips, a testament to the carnage she had wrought. Around her, the remains of her enemies were strewn haphazardly—severed limbs, shattered bones, and exposed entrails forming a grotesque tapestry of slaughter.
Vacant eyes stared up from decapitated heads, their expressions frozen in the last moments of sheer terror. A symphony of death, painted in shades of red.
With a casual hum, Delta reached down, gripping a freshly severed head by its matted hair. She tilted it, inspecting it with mild curiosity. Whether the deep crimson hue was its natural color or simply a result of the blood-soaked battlefield, one would never know.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she spat to the side, then grinned—a wide, feral expression that sent a chill through the silence.
"Delta has gotten a head as a trophy," she mused, her voice lilting with eerie satisfaction. She lifted the head higher, admiring her prize before letting out a soft chuckle. "This shall be Delta's reward for taking down one of the seats."
The moonlight flickered through the window against the glistening blood, casting long shadows over the macabre scene. And in the heart of it all, Delta stood, reveling in the destruction she had left behind.