CH: 12: Coming

{Chapter: 12: Coming}

The weight of time pressed heavily upon Salt's shoulders. He was well aware of his own circumstances—his body was still in its prime, but he understood that time was a ruthless predator, ever lurking, waiting to strike. In another decade, the vitality he now possessed would inevitably wane, his strength declining, his sharp mind dulled by the creeping passage of years. If he did not secure a way out of his current precarious existence now, it would soon be too late.

Thus, when he first heard whispers of the Crown Prince's ambitions, he saw an opportunity—one he could not afford to let slip through his fingers. Without hesitation, he put himself forward, carefully maneuvering into Prince James Woz's inner circle, demonstrating his arcane prowess and the depths of his knowledge. His efforts bore fruit. The prince, seeing value in what he offered, allowed him to remain, trusting him with a task that could shape the course of the war itself.

To Salt, this was not merely a matter of loyalty or ideology. No, his ambitions were far more personal. He was a man of intellect and talent, born into squalor but possessing the mind of a scholar and the power of a sorcerer. He believed that with the right protection, with the right backing, he could elevate himself to a station worthy of his abilities. And what better way to ensure his own survival than to embed himself within the royal family's favor?

If this gambit succeeded, he would have his noble title. A new identity. A place in the upper echelons of society, away from the wretched life of an outlaw sorcerer.

The idea was not only bold but entirely feasible. The royal family had the power to rewrite a man's history, to erase past sins and baptize him anew. With their influence, he could shed his current persona and be reborn as a nobleman, his past misdeeds wiped away like dust before the wind.

But now—

Now, something had gone terribly wrong.

The summoning ritual, his grand gamble, the fruit of all his accumulated knowledge and careful planning, had not yielded immediate results.

This was a disaster.

Salt could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on him. The cavalrymen in the distance. The prince himself. Baron Duke. They were waiting, watching. Expecting. And every second that passed without a result gnawed at his credibility.

How could this be happening?

The magic book had been explicit. The summoning ritual, when performed precisely according to the ancient steps, was supposed to be foolproof. The text had promised that failure was virtually impossible. And yet—

Nothing had happened.

Salt's heart pounded. The sweat beading on his forehead turned cold. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to remain calm, but the weight of the prince's silent scrutiny was suffocating.

There was no choice. He had to try again.

He began reciting the incantation once more, his voice steady despite the dread curling in his gut. As the words left his lips, he prepared contingency plans in his mind—ways to deceive the prince, to shift blame, to salvage his standing should the spell fail a second time.

Then—

A flicker.

A faint red glow sparked to life within the ritual circle, like embers catching in the wind.

Salt's breath hitched.

The glow intensified, pulsing as if a heart had begun beating beneath the earth. A low vibration thrummed through the ground, barely perceptible at first, then steadily growing in force.

Something was happening.

The air thickened with an unnatural energy, pressing down on the gathered soldiers like an invisible hand. A suffocating sense of dread spread through the clearing, an instinctive warning that rippled through every living being present.

The world fell silent.

Then came the first signs of true panic.

The warhorses—trained beasts that had known the chaos of battle, that had faced blades and fire without flinching—began to tremble. Some stomped their hooves restlessly, their ears pinned back in alarm. Others, the most sensitive among them, refused to move at all, frozen in place with eyes wide in pure, unthinking terror.

The wild animals of the forest reacted even more violently. Birds erupted from the trees in frenzied flocks, their panicked cries shattering the unnatural silence. Small creatures bolted from their burrows, heedless of their usual caution, desperate to flee whatever horror was about to emerge. Even the insects, which had been droning lazily in the undergrowth moments before, ceased their endless buzzing, as if collectively holding their breath.

Baron Duke, a hardened warrior who had fought through countless battles, struggled to steady the warhorse beneath him. The beast, though disciplined and conditioned to withstand the horrors of war, was quaking so violently that its legs nearly buckled.

Duke swallowed hard.

This… this was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He forced himself to look toward the ritual site, the source of this creeping, paralyzing fear. The glow had intensified, swelling outward in thick, pulsating waves. He could feel it pressing against his skin, seeping into his bones, setting his instincts ablaze with warning.

"What in the gods' names is that…?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of screaming animals and shattering nerves.

Behind him, his men were faring no better.

Cavalrymen clutched at their reins, some desperately trying to calm their panicked mounts, others outright losing control as their horses reared up or bolted in terror. A few unfortunate riders were thrown violently from their saddles, hitting the ground with pained cries.

A number of horses, too far gone in their fear, simply refused to rise again, collapsing onto their sides and lying still, trembling uncontrollably.

And yet, amidst this chaos, Crown Prince James Woz remained composed.

Though his own warhorse had nearly unseated him in its panic, years of rigorous training allowed him to adjust quickly, regaining his balance with ease. His expression was calm, betraying no fear or unease—only sharp, calculating interest.

The prince was no mere figurehead. Though he had never waged war with his own sword, he had executed men with his own hands. He understood power, and he understood fear.

For centuries, the royal bloodline had been carefully cultivated—only the strongest warriors, the most intelligent minds, and the most beautiful women had been allowed to intermingle. Generations of refinement had resulted in a lineage that produced men like James Woz—ruthless, cunning, and undeniably powerful.

His gaze flickered toward Baron Duke, who was struggling to maintain order among the cavalry.

The Baron barely managed to approach him through the disorder, his face pale beneath the moonlight. "Your Highness, the situation is spiraling. We've lost control of most of the horses. The men—"

James held up a hand, silencing him.

His focus remained locked on the ritual circle, where the red glow had become blinding, casting long, distorted shadows across the clearing.

A slow smirk played at the corner of his lips.

"Tell me, Baron," he said, his voice smooth, unhurried. "What kind of monster do you think will step through?"

Duke could not answer.

Because in truth, he did not know.

But whatever it was—

It was coming.

And it was going to change everything.

Duke didn't fully grasp what his commander was thinking. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. After a moment of hesitation, he finally admitted, "I don't know either. I've personally slain many monsters over the years—beasts of all kinds, even creatures that breathe fire and command the winds. But I have never encountered anything that exudes this kind of presence. It feels... unnatural, overwhelming."

Crown Prince James Woz, still watching the glowing summoning circle intently, nodded slightly. "I know a little about this," he said, his voice calm yet laced with an unsettling weight. "The royal family has a collection of ancient records, some of which describe similar occurrences. They call it the 'Abyss Summoning.' According to the texts, this ritual is not meant for calling upon mere monsters. It is specifically designed to summon demons."

Duke's breath hitched at that word. His reaction was instant, as if he had seen a ghost materialize before him.

"D-Demons?!" He almost choked on the word. The moment it left his lips, his entire body tensed, his instincts screaming at him to run.

The term "monster" was often thrown around loosely, used to describe any creature of significant power or unnatural abilities. But in a more technical and precise sense, monsters and demons were worlds apart.

Monsters were creatures—wild, dangerous, sometimes intelligent, and often capable of wielding magic. However, at their core, they were still just that: creatures. Beings that could be understood, categorized, and even, to an extent, reasoned with.

Demons, on the other hand, were something entirely different.

According to the sacred scriptures of the Church, demons were not simply beings that existed within the natural order. They were forces of corruption, entities whose very presence was a defilement of reality itself. They did not hunt for sustenance, nor did they kill for survival. They existed solely to bring ruin.

Malice was their nature. Cruelty was their instinct.

They were creatures of bottomless hunger, driven by desires so twisted and insatiable that their mere existence was an affront to life itself. They sought nothing but destruction, carnage, and chaos. The suffering of the living was their feast, the despair of nations their greatest pleasure. They reveled in torment, their laughter ringing through the screams of the broken. Wherever they walked, civilizations burned, empires crumbled, and the weak were consumed in an endless cycle of violence and depravity.

There were no treaties to be made with demons. No bargains that could be trusted. They did not acknowledge honor or reason. There was no "controlling" them—only delaying the inevitable disaster they would unleash.

Duke shuddered as these thoughts swirled in his mind. He could scarcely fathom what kind of creature was about to be brought into their world, but one thing was certain—it would not be a friend. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face as his fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword.

James, watching Duke's reaction closely, let out a slow exhale before speaking again. His voice carried an almost eerie calmness.

"Abandon whatever foolish ideas you're considering," James warned. "The royal archives are very clear on this matter. Once the summoning circle is activated—once the glow has begun—it means the summoning has already succeeded in establishing a connection. The demon has acknowledged the call. From this moment forward, the ritual cannot be stopped—not even by killing the summoner. If Salt is slain now, the contract will break, but the gate will not close. Instead, the demon will arrive unbound and completely uncontrollable, driven only by its most primal desires."

Duke paled at the realization. He had secretly made up his mind to cut Salt down before the ritual could be completed, hoping to sever the process before it reached its conclusion. But James' words crushed that plan like brittle glass.

If what the prince said was true, then striking Salt down would only ensure that the creature arrived without restraint. Without orders. Without purpose. That would turn an already catastrophic situation into an unthinkable disaster.

A defeated sigh escaped Duke's lips as he clenched his fists. There was nothing he could do.

James, meanwhile, silently cursed himself for his ignorance.

If he had known from the beginning that Salt's so-called "summoning of a powerful monster" referred to demons, he would have never allowed himself to get involved. Demons were notorious for their treachery. Even if a summoner managed to establish a contract, the odds of controlling the creature were slim.

However, James remained composed. His logical mind quickly assessed the situation.

True, the summoning was a problem. But it wasn't necessarily a catastrophe.

Summoned demons, at least the ones called forth by lesser rituals, were temporary. They did not manifest permanently unless extraordinary conditions were met—conditions that Salt was unlikely to have fulfilled.

James knew well that history had recorded several demonic disasters, but those had only occurred when extremely powerful individuals—beings capable of single-handedly laying waste to entire kingdoms—had conducted the rituals. The kind of power required to summon a truly catastrophic demon had not been seen for over three hundred years.

Moreover, the sacrifices required to call forth a high-ranking demon were astronomical. A few dozen prisoners were nowhere near enough to satisfy such a demand. At worst, Salt had summoned a minor demon—strong, no doubt, but not beyond the means of a disciplined force to handle.

At least, that's what James had believed.

And then, within seconds, he realized how gravely he had miscalculated.

Salt, still chanting feverishly, felt a surge of excitement course through his veins as the magic circle flared to life. The reaction was unmistakable—his efforts were bearing fruit.

His voice grew louder, his words more forceful, as though willing the ritual to completion through sheer desperation. The cultists around him, witnessing what they perceived as a divine miracle, were overtaken by fanaticism. Their chants rose in intensity, their fervor surpassing even Salt's own.

As if responding to their feverish energy, the summoning circle suddenly ignited with roaring flames.

A wall of fire erupted from the ground, spreading in a perfect ring around the ritual site. The flames burned unnaturally—bright and searing, yet consuming nothing. They flickered and coiled, forming a massive archway of fire.

Salt's breath hitched.

He couldn't see what lay beyond the arch, but he could feel it.

A presence.

A consciousness, vast and unfathomable, pressing against the veil of reality. It was approaching.

Then, without warning, the flames surged skyward, towering more than ten meters into the night.

And something stepped through.

The instant it appeared, an overpowering wave of stench flooded the area. A thick, choking scent of blood—so potent, so vile—that it dwarfed the reek of the mutilated corpses strewn across the ground.

Compared to this, the stench of rotting bodies was nothing more than a faint perfume.

Duke's stomach churned. James' fingers twitched toward the hilt of his blade. Even the most hardened warriors among them felt a deep, primal terror clawing at the edges of their sanity.

The gate had opened.

And something had come through.

Salt couldn't see what was on the other side of the arch, he could only vaguely sense that an extremely powerful being was approaching here.

The next moment, as the flames in the square jumped up more than ten meters, a figure appeared outside the flaming gate.

Salt, Duke, James, and everyone else present felt their heartbeats stop for a moment. It was an overwhelming, suffocating sense of crisis, the kind that gripped the soul and refused to let go.

In just a fleeting instant, regret crashed over Salt like a tidal wave. A sickening realization settled deep in his gut—he had made a terrible mistake. He should never have come to the Principality of Marton. He should never have attempted this summoning.

And then, as if the cruel hand of fate sought to mock him, Salt discovered something even worse.

The towering being standing before him, wreathed in an aura of malice, was nothing like the summoned creatures described in the magic books. The theoretical knowledge he had painstakingly studied, the techniques passed down through hushed whispers and forbidden texts—none of it applied here. The spells of control that should have bound the entity's will to his own refused to respond.

Which meant only one thing.

He had absolutely no control over this creature.

Salt's entire body locked up as the entity—Dex—opened his eyes. The moment their gazes met, Salt felt an unspeakable fear unlike anything he had ever experienced.

Those eyes.

They were cold, devoid of mercy, yet beneath that frigid exterior lurked something even more terrifying—a glint of madness, a hunger that promised ruin.

Salt felt as though he had become prey, like a defenseless rabbit caught in the jaws of a starving lion. His pulse spiked to a frantic, erratic rhythm, hammering wildly against his ribs. His thoughts turned to static. His very ability to think was consumed by the primal instinct of fear. His limbs refused to move, his breath caught in his throat, and he could do nothing—absolutely nothing—but stand there, trembling, as terror overtook him.

Dex, however, paid him no mind.

This insignificant human was beneath his attention. A mere speck of dust on the grand scale of existence.

His first action was to take in his surroundings.

His gaze swept across the room, his sharp, predatory eyes missing nothing.

'Good. No magicians with enchanted artifacts. No priests preparing to douse me in holy water. No tiresome traitors attempting to stab me in the back.'

A genuine summoning, then.

That was rare.

But something felt… off.

His brow furrowed slightly as his gaze roamed the area again, his confusion growing.

There were bodies strewn about—some fresh, others already cooling—but aside from a few ragged-looking humans who reeked of desperation and malevolence, there was nothing else of note.

He narrowed his eyes.

'Where is my offering?'

His expression darkened slightly.

'It can't just be this pile of corpses on the ground, can it?'

Dex let his gaze drift over the bodies again, searching for anything of value.

Yet, as he scrutinized them, his confusion only deepened.

Sacrifices were an expected part of rituals like this—not necessarily required, but certainly appreciated. They were a bonus, a form of tribute, a means of showing proper respect. So where, exactly, was his tribute?

More importantly…

Where were their souls?

Sacrificing dozens of powerful warriors would have been acceptable. Even if they weren't the highest quality, a respectable number of strong souls would have sufficed to make the summoning worthy of his notice.

But these?

These bodies were nothing more than discarded husks, barely worthy of summoning even a lesser demonized creatire—let alone him.

But no matter how hard Dex looked, he did not see any sacrifice that matched his status.

Not even a single lingering soul remained.

That was absurd.

Even the weakest souls tended to leave remnants upon death, yet here, there was nothing. It was as if their very essence had been stripped away before he had even arrived.

His gaze sharpened as suspicion took hold.

Something wasn't right.

And so, with a deepening frown, he shifted his attention downward, studying the magic circle beneath his feet.

The symbols, the placement of the runes, the flow of energy—he traced them with practiced ease, deciphering their meanings one by one.

Identifying the meaning of the runes one by one.

And then he found the answer.

It was exactly as he suspected.

A possibility that was both unexpected… and deeply appreciated.

Dex's expression twisted into something unreadable as the truth settled in.

Whoever had orchestrated this summoning had made a grave mistake.

*****

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