Chapter 327: Practice Makes Perfect

The three of them followed a narrow path in the underworld, descending deeper and deeper, while the Son of the Night God trailed behind them like a relentless shadow, drawing closer with every step. Finally, they reached the elevator leading to the lower levels, managing to leave their pursuer far behind.

Inside the elevator, the two watched their backs nervously, remaining silent. A dreadful sense of pessimism hung over their temporary team.

This was only their second opponent, yet it was already so terrifying. What kind of horror awaited them in the third battle? If they were defeated, wouldn't that mean they could never return to the real world? Instead, they'd be trapped forever on the Thorned Path of Death, suffering eternal torment.

As Hoffa contemplated this, the elevator slowly descended. Eventually, he and Little Barty found themselves back on the filthy, dark island of the pancreas. Compared to the frenzied, chaotic Eternal Arena they had just escaped, this place was eerily quiet, as if it belonged to an entirely different world.

Whether it was because the flesh had already decayed or because the spirits had left to watch his game against Death, the spectral entities that once controlled the frenzied corpses were nowhere to be seen. The rugged, pitch-black island was now inhabited only by worm-like creatures, swaying gently in the wind like a vast, eerie grassland.

From a distance, it had an oddly mesmerizing beauty.

"So this is Helheim? It's certainly bizarre," Miller murmured.

Hoffa remained silent and followed Little Barty back to the entrance of the underground chamber where they had first encountered Aglaia. But this time, the entrance was sealed shut by a solid iron door, completely immovable.

"How do we get in? Do you have a way?" Hoffa asked Miller, pointing at the door.

"Don't you know how to knock?" Miller asked mockingly.

"She probably won't open it," Hoffa muttered.

"Hah! So even you have moments like this," Miller sneered before raising Hoffa's right hand and pointing it at the iron door.

"Alohomora."

A gray spell shot toward the door but disappeared without a trace, as if it had sunk into an abyss.

"No good. This door is probably made of some kind of anti-magic material. Spells won't work on it," Miller remarked.

Hoffa frowned.

"Look, Bach."

Little Barty nudged Hoffa and pointed into the distance.

Following his direction, Hoffa saw a tall tower with a crack opening at its peak. Fresh bodies poured out of the opening in a continuous stream, tumbling down to the ground below.

Like flies drawn to rotting flesh, a sparse number of ghosts flitted toward the bodies, slipping into them one by one, reanimating the corpses. However, the majority of the bodies remained lifeless, wasted.

"What the hell is this?" Little Barty asked in shock.

"We can enter from there."

Little Barty pointed at the crack at the top of the tower. "It should lead inside."

"Let's go."

Hoffa nodded.

Ignoring Miller's confusion—and with no one stopping to explain anything to him—Hoffa and Little Barty quickly scaled the crumbling tower and slipped into the narrow slit where the bodies were being transported. Not long after they entered, the opening behind them sealed shut, plunging them into darkness.

Miller raised his right hand. "Lumos."

A dim glow illuminated the deep corridor. In the faint light, they could see severed limbs scattered along the passage, slowly decomposing into writhing worms.

"Disgusting. Are you sure Aglaia lives with this every day?" Miller muttered, glancing around with distaste.

Hoffa didn't respond, but he felt just as unsettled.

The ground trembled. A piercing roar echoed from outside, shaking the entire tower.

The Son of the Night God had caught up. But he was too late—the opening had already closed behind them.

Hoffa's heart pounded. Wasting no time, he quickened his crawl through the tunnel. They soon emerged into a dimly lit chamber filled with towering stone golems. Each golem was as massive as the statues on Easter Island. Moving sluggishly in the darkness, they worked like assembly line laborers—scrubbing stone troughs, stirring cauldrons, and transporting worms and stones.

At the farthest end of the cavern, a pipe gushed an unknown transparent liquid, cascading down like a waterfall.

"What is this, an underworld factory?" Miller whispered.

"If you don't know, then shut up."

Hoffa and Little Barty climbed cautiously along the overhead pipes, careful not to attract the attention of the golems.

Fortunately, the golems appeared mindless, focused only on their monotonous tasks. They paid no attention to the two figures moving above them.

Following the pipes, they passed through the industrial-like cave and entered a spiraling passage leading downward. Eventually, they reached the end of the tunnel, where the space suddenly opened up.

They found themselves above a familiar underground chamber. It was still as grand and ruined as before, with rows of stone cabinets and scattered belongings. A towering, motionless stone golem stood in the center, but the massive cauldron they had seen previously was missing, making the space appear larger than before.

A translucent, silver-haired ghost floated in the room, quietly sifting through the stone cabinets.

Seeing that figure, Miller gasped sharply. "My God… how many years has it been…"

BOOM!

The tower shook violently. Dust rained down from the ceiling of the chamber.

Even from a distance, Hoffa could feel his physical body violently slamming against the cavern walls outside. The situation was becoming more dire by the second.

There was no time for Miller and Aglaia to reminisce. Hoffa leaped down from above and rushed toward the silver-haired spirit.

"Aglaia! Aglaia!"

He raised his hands cautiously, not wanting to startle her. "Listen, it's me. I know I look different, but you've created so many bodies—you should understand. It's just a shell."

But the silver-haired ghost didn't look at him. She continued rummaging through the cabinets, completely ignoring the three of them and the tremors shaking the cavern. Her cold indifference was chilling.

Hoffa spoke quickly. "I'm participating in Death's game. I have to defeat three opponents, and I'm already on the second one. But I've run into some problems.

I need your help. Can you prepare a septic potion for me? If you need time, Miller and I can buy it for you. If you need materials, I can have Little Barty"

"Move."

The silver-haired specter drifted through Hoffa's body without much emotion, her movements neither warm nor cold. As she shifted her arms, the stone golems in the room followed suit, moving objects around the underground chamber.

"Aglaya, I don't have much time. I know you're skilled in alchemy—"

"Move."

The silver-haired specter interrupted Hoffa again, her tone unchanged.

Even with all his patience, Hoffa couldn't help but stomp his foot in frustration. "I'm trying to save you! Can you just talk to me properly for once?" He nearly lost his mind, circling around the specter.

Miller suddenly spoke up, "You're not Aglaya."

"What?" Hoffa was taken aback. "What nonsense are you spouting?"

"The person I knew wasn't like this. She was passionate—more driven than anyone. So much so that it annoyed me. But even then, I couldn't help but admire her." Miller continued, "You're not her. That kind of trait, imprinted in the soul, can't be changed. You're far too indifferent."

"What?"

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat. He quickly turned to look at the silver-haired specter.

For once, she stopped what she was doing and met Hoffa's gaze. In her ghostly blue eyes, there was a flicker of something indescribable.

"No."

After a brief moment of stunned silence, Hoffa shook his head slowly. "I know exactly who she is. Even if she turned to ashes, I'd still recognize her."

"Then why doesn't she react to me at all?" Miller protested indignantly. "Hey, I was her best friend's little brother! I was there for everything you both went through—"

Bang!

A sickening crunch echoed through the chamber as a pair of blood-red hands forced their way through the iron door. Bulging with veins, those hands wrenched the metal apart with brute strength.

The heavy iron door of the cave stood between Hoffa and Miller—but it didn't stop the Son of the Night. Miller fell silent. Hoffa and Barty pressed together, raising their right hands. In this cramped space, faced with that monstrous figure, they had nowhere left to run.

"You two, take ten steps to the left. Go behind the cabinet."

The silver-haired specter gave the order without even looking up.

"What?"

Barty hadn't even processed the command. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes."

She replied succinctly.

"Hey, what's with your attitude?" Barty grumbled. "I'm pretty sure Mr. Bach came all the way to this godforsaken place just for you! Could you be a little nicer?"

"Shut up."

Hoffa immediately clamped a hand over Barty's mouth to stop him from talking. Then, he had a strange feeling—was it just his imagination, or did Aglaya's tone sound a little softer than before?

Without knowing why, he trusted her. He grabbed Barty and led him behind the cabinet.

Just as they got into position, a loud crash shook the chamber. The iron door was completely torn in two. The Son of the Night squeezed through the opening, stepping inside. His gray hair framed his golden eyes, and his upper body was drenched in blood. His gaze, wild and beastly, swept across the room.

Hoffa, hiding behind the cabinet, shouted, "Aglaya! That's not me—it's Death's replica! Don't mistake it for me!"

"Are you serious? You're still thinking about her at a time like this? Have you lost your mind?"

Miller, exasperated, snapped, "How about figuring out how to survive first?!"

The Son of the Night immediately locked onto Hoffa's location behind the stone cabinet. In the blink of an eye, he lunged forward, reaching out to grab him.

"Run around the cabinet three times, clockwise."

The silver-haired specter's voice drifted into Hoffa's ears, calm and composed.

Without hesitation, Hoffa yanked Barty along and ran in circles around the cabinet.

The Son of the Night was immensely strong, but with no rational thought, he acted purely on instinct. And judging by his sluggish reactions, he wasn't very bright. When his first attempt to grab Hoffa failed, he mindlessly followed them around the cabinet, continuing the chase.

The moment they completed three laps, the silver-haired specter called out again from a distance.

"Take twenty steps to the right and stay there. Don't move."

Hoffa pulled the bewildered Barty away from the cabinet. Barty looked back in disbelief—despite them being gone, the Son of the Night was still circling the cabinet, chasing nothing. The sight was almost comical.

Twenty steps to the right led them to an old, tattered rug. The last time Hoffa was here, he distinctly remembered a massive cauldron sitting in that spot. But now, it was gone.

After running in circles for what seemed like ages, the Son of the Night finally realized his prey had vanished. Enraged, he slammed his fist into the stone cabinet, shattering it into pieces. Clenching his fists, he turned and started stalking toward Hoffa again.

However, after all the spinning, he was dizzy. His steps, once swift and deadly, were now clumsy and unsteady—almost as if he were drunk.

"What do we do next?"

Hoffa glanced at the staggering creature and turned to Aglaya for guidance.

"Don't move."

She didn't even glance at him, still rummaging through her collection of bottles and jars. Her utter lack of urgency made Hoffa even more anxious.

But then—

Thud!

With a muffled boom, something heavy fell from above, striking the Son of the Night's head with pinpoint accuracy.

Hoffa looked up—it was a massive cauldron. The stone golem had just returned it to its original spot, and coincidentally, the Son of the Night had walked right into it.

Wait… Had Aglaya predicted he would step there?

The thought unsettled Hoffa.

But surely, a mere cauldron wasn't enough to kill a body blessed by the Night God…

As expected, the cauldron trembled. Then, with a sharp crack, the Son of the Night punched through its bottom, ready to crawl out.

"Aglaya, it's getting out!"

Hoffa shouted.

"The hell is this? Do I have to do everything myself?"

Miller raised his right hand, preparing to cast a spell.

But before he could, the silver-haired specter snapped her fingers.

Crash!

The towering stone golem opened a pipe overhead.

A stream of clear liquid poured down, flooding the cauldron in seconds.

A bloodcurdling scream erupted from within. As the liquid made contact with the Son of the Night, his body began to dissolve at an alarming rate.

First his skin, then his flesh, then his bones and organs—he thrashed and roared, but he couldn't stop the process.

In less than three seconds, all that remained was a skeleton.

Hoffa stared in shock as the once-clear liquid turned crimson. The skeletal hand that had reached for salvation sank beneath the surface—silent, still, and utterly lifeless.

Barty and Miller were equally dumbfounded, unable to utter a single word.

Hoffa held his breath and stepped forward, peering into the cauldron. The bubbling red liquid still frothed, swallowing up the last bits of bone. Soon, the surface calmed, and everything was gone.

"There's Herasvelgr's gastric juice in there. Don't touch it."

The silver-haired specter warned him casually before floating away, resuming her search among her treasured cabinets.

From beginning to end, she never once turned around. Never even looked at the Son of the Night.

After a long silence, Hoffa turned his stiff neck toward Aglaya and hoarsely asked,

"Just… what have you been through?"

(End of Chapter)

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