The forest, unusually dark and ominous under the heavy clouds, was alive with noise.

Perhaps it was the approaching rain, as the wind swept harshly through the leaves, amplifying the sinister and chilling atmosphere.

The danger of a forest at night isn’t just the darkness—it’s the way the wildness inherent to the forest seems to intensify.

However.

“–This weather is perfect for hiding,” a man muttered.

To someone like him, this ominous, feral environment felt strangely familiar. Lying on a rock as if it were a cozy bed, he seemed utterly at ease.

Drip, drip.

The rain began to fall lightly at first but soon grew heavier, with drops striking the earth in a steady rhythm. Yet, even the rain was welcome to him, erasing sound and traces alike.

“Today, luck seems to be on my side,” he murmured, relishing the scent of rain-soaked earth and the forest as it permeated his senses.

Squish.

“So, enjoying your alone time?”

The sound of footsteps splashing through mud announced the end of his solitude.

He wasn’t startled, having been aware of the approaching steps long before they arrived.

“You’re back. Took you long enough.”

“…You’re too much. Some of us are working, while others just relax.”

“Everyone has their role.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“…….”

He didn’t bother rebuking his companion’s insolence; he was used to these complaints, hearing them as routinely as the chirping of sparrows.

Of course, his patience didn’t extend to everyone.

“You brought it, then?”

“Only a corpse.”

“Still, it’s impressive. Well done, Number Two.”

She had retrieved the priest’s corpse, which they had thought irretrievable after it was buried underground.

Even in death, the priest’s body retained a divine energy that made the effort and risk worthwhile.

For someone with ability, he always showed appropriate recognition and kindness—it was his principle.

Although, the recipient of his kindness didn’t seem too thrilled.

“Call me the Second Apostle. That old title is outdated.”

“Oh, has it already been that long?”

Time flies…

He muttered softly, more to himself than to her, and the woman called the Second Apostle shook her head.

At times, he seemed more like a scholar or a devout priest dedicated to acts of salvation than a member of their organization.

His intelligent eyes and gentle demeanor didn’t fit the group at all, and his faint smile made him seem all the more charming.

Anyone unfamiliar with him might find themselves drawn in, feeling a sense of trust and warmth upon meeting him for the first time.

But if they did…

Drip… drip.

The sound of falling droplets shifted. Slower, heavier, and far more unsettling.

“How many did you kill?”

“Isn’t it better to ask how many survived?”

“…True.”

The ominous sound came from blood dripping off what had once been human flesh, now reduced to chunks of meat.

He looked at the grisly remains as dispassionately as if examining clumps of mud.

It was as if, to him, taking lives wasn’t an act of murder, but simply playing with “talking clay” that happened to bleed.

‘I’ll probably always be terrified of this man,’ the Second Apostle thought.

Even after causing such a massacre, he remained so composed, his tone gentle, his expression serene.

If they weren’t allies, she would never willingly associate with such a chilling person.

As she reflected on this, he asked:

“Is the Fourth Apostle—Drak—dead?”

She responded without hesitation, brushing aside her earlier unease.

“We couldn’t retrieve the body. Either it was completely obliterated, or he was captured alive.”

“Which do you think is more likely?”

“The latter. If it were me, I’d take him alive to extract information.”

“Really? If that’s the case, then it’s fortunate.”

“You mean he’s expendable?”

“Don’t twist my words. It’s merely a coincidence.”

“…Sure.”

Her scoff was met with an exaggerated shrug of feigned innocence.

Drak, one of the Twelve Apostles in their organization, had been tasked with a critical mission over a decade ago—to grow forces and monsters in a secluded tunnel.

But in reality…

‘…He was just abandoned.’

Drak’s violent and radical tendencies had caused no end of trouble, making it safer to keep him isolated under the guise of a mission.

And as a result…

‘The information he has is outdated by ten years.’

Ten years was enough time for the organization to transform completely, rendering whatever Drak knew practically useless.

‘Even if they torture him for information, it won’t matter.’

At best, they might glean details about the Apostles or the Blood Cross Army, but even that held little value.

“If Drak saw us now, he’d be shocked. Just the changes to our faces, bodies, and voices would surprise him—and let’s not even mention how our genders have completely switched.”

“…You’re probably right.”

Even he, ever composed, paused for a moment of reflection.

When the Second Apostle had suddenly reappeared as a woman, even he hadn’t been able to mask his surprise.

“Why are you staring? Am I too pretty?”

“…….”

“…Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Anyway… it’s time to head back.”

The rain was letting up.

That meant the smell of blood would soon spread, drawing unwanted attention.

“Let’s return.”

“Gladly.”

“Oh, did you close off the passage?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Good. Then…”

The man turned his gaze toward the bodies scattered around the area, which he had ignored until now.

Slowly, he spoke:

“–Leave your final words. You don’t want any lingering regrets in this world, do you? After all, you’re all headed straight to hell.”

He offered what seemed like mercy—a final chance for them.

But what was he saying to corpses already cold? Was he mocking them?

And yet, the man muttered softly,

“Is that so? A shame there’s no reply.”

Even when given a chance, they failed to seize it.

As his quiet murmur ended, a black mist began to billow from his body, rising and swirling ominously.

The amorphous mass merged with the rain-soaked earth, gradually taking the shape of a beast.

Fwoosh!

[------.]

The moment the beast fully formed, its glowing eyes pierced the darkness, and—

“W-Wait! P-Please, spare me! I beg you…!!”

The dead—or rather, those pretending to be dead—suddenly shot to their feet.

They were immediately overwhelmed by terror at the beast’s presence. They knew how many had already perished at its hands, and they knew the beast’s ferocity and brutality.

“Why didn’t you just kill them earlier?”

“I wasn’t toying with them. Some of them fainted before the fight even began—or pretended to faint, or tried to escape.”

So, he had simply left them alone, curious to see what final words they might utter upon awakening.

“…You’ve got a twisted sense of humor.”

At the Second Apostle’s blunt criticism, he nodded lightly, agreeing.

Twisted humor—it was a fair assessment.

However.

“–Mustang de Varga, one of the culprits behind Britain’s fall. Let me ask you something.”

“Ask me anything! Anything at all, just ask!!”

Mustang de Varga, once a general of Britain, was infamous even among enemy nations for his incompetence. They mockingly referred to him as an "Honorary Pendragon Citizen." Responsible for countless defeats, he was a name that sent shivers down the spines of Britons. Yet, Mustang had always been shameless.

He would say things like, “Why blame me? It’s the soldiers’ incompetence that caused the loss!” or “Why should I take responsibility? The knights should!” His audacity infuriated not just his own people but even his enemies.

The fact that he had survived this long was a marvel, given how many people held grudges against him.

Now, on his knees, he wailed and begged for his life.

And to such a man, the figure spoke again.

“You’re quite good at surviving. Wasn’t there a man named Roy Vant? I never thought you’d abandon him as a shield and run.”

“…….”

“Seeing you carry that dying cripple, I thought you might have some sense of camaraderie. Watching you discard him proved me wrong.”

The man spoke to Mustang because it confirmed something for him:

Ah, such beings are utterly worthless.

That certainty solidified his decision.

Thus.

“I thank you, Mustang. For proving that my choice wasn’t wrong.”

“P-Please! Please spare me! I’ll do anything! Aren’t you curious about the hidden treasures of the Varga family? Or the secret funds of the British royal family? Just say the word, and I’ll…!!”

Crunch!

“Aaaaaaagh!!”

Mustang couldn’t finish his sentence.

The beast suddenly clamped its jaws around Mustang’s lower half, tearing it apart.

Though writhing in agony, Mustang found no mercy. The man simply watched, seemingly amused by the screams, taking his time to let Mustang suffer.

Crunch! Snap! Crack!

“A-Aah…! Aaaaack…!!”

The pain felt like an eternity. Eventually, Mustang’s body grew limp.

Death, the very thing he had so desperately tried to avoid, was closing in.

Drip, drip.

…The rain began to let up.

The strong winds pushed the dark clouds away, revealing faint moonlight. For the first time, Mustang saw the man’s face, illuminated by the pale glow, as he lay dying.

And then…

Gasp!

Upon seeing his face, Mustang realized something profound—a revelation akin to uncovering one of the world’s most hidden truths.

As if leaving his final words, he called out to him:

“…Crown Prince—”

“Haha, it’s been a while since I’ve heard that title.”

Crunch!

It didn’t matter, though. The beast sank its teeth into Mustang’s neck without hesitation.

Thud.

Mustang’s lifeless body slumped to the ground, his eyes wide open in disbelief.

The man shrugged nonchalantly.

“Who would’ve thought someone still recognized me? Hm, I suppose he was higher up in the ranks than I assumed.”

“Well, the Vargas were at the pinnacle of Britain’s military, weren’t they? Maybe you crossed paths at some event or another.”

“That’s possible.”

“…You’re born in Britain, yet you know less about it than I do. How is that even possible?”

“It happens.”

Crunch!

Once again, the sound of the beast tearing into flesh echoed.

The survivors met the same fate as Mustang, their throats torn out in an instant.

But the two individuals standing nearby paid no attention to their dying screams.

The Second Apostle, however, did comment.

“They spent ten years raising those half-demons. Are you sure it’s fine not to use them?”

Though it seemed a waste, he shook his head firmly.

“What use are such failures? What matters is the experimental data we’ve gathered from their bodies. With that, we can produce as many soldiers as we need. Time is on our side. Don’t worry, Second Apostle.”

“…Well, if you say so.”

Though she still seemed reluctant, the Second Apostle trusted his judgment. After all, in her eyes, he was the wisest person she knew.

Thus.

“Let’s head back, Number One.”

“Haha, always teasing. It’s First Apostle.”

And just like that, the two figures vanished, as fleeting as the clouds that had briefly darkened the sky.

Four days later, the mangled remains of the half-demons and prisoners were discovered by a hunter and reported to the knights.

…Meanwhile, Ihan was trying to suppress a sigh.

Why?

Why was he here, unable to rest, the moment he returned?

…I just want to relax.

Unfortunately.

“–This princess is disappointed!”

…The person before him seemed determined not to let that happen.

“Failure on the mission? Fine. Collapsing a tunnel? I don’t mind. But to think…!!”

Isis Elaine de Pendragon glared at him with clenched teeth.

“…You struggled to a draw against that northern bastard! How disgraceful!!”

“…It wasn’t even a draw, though.”

“You must never lose to the North in anything except vodka! And yet you dare disappoint your elder sister!!!”

“…Why is vodka the exception?”

“Silence!”

“….”

Ihan decided to hold his tongue, knowing that a superior’s scolding only ends when they’re satisfied.

As he endured, he thought to himself:

I should try Northern vodka sometime.

If even Isis acknowledged its superiority, it must be some truly potent stuff.