Chapter 8: When the Bells Toll and the Nuts Fall
Deep beneath the cobbled streets of the city, beyond the sewers and sunken crypts, where even the bravest rats dared not tread, Barog stood shrouded in shadows. The torchlight flickered across the walls, revealing crimson runes etched into stone with fresh blood—some old, most new. A pit, wide and deep, gaped open behind him, filled with a dark, sloshing ichor that pulsed in time with his breath.
The cultists knelt in a wide circle, hooded and silent, their chanting hushed but fervent. A dull red glow throbbed in their eyes as they whispered praise to Barog, their apostle, their herald of ruin.
"It is almost time," Barog murmured, staring at the archway of bone and blacksteel he'd constructed from the remains of knights and priests. A Gate to the Abyss.
With a twisted smile, he caressed the obsidian surface, now humming with infernal energy. "The moon rises soon, and with it, so too shall He. The Bloodhound... A myth of the Tenth Rank. A beast born from hatred and bound to massacre."
A devotee approached, trembling. "My lord... the sacrifices are prepared. Thousands gather above for the festival."
Barog grinned. "Then let the blood flow. Let the city drown in screams. I want their panic. Their hopelessness. Only then shall the gate open fully."
He spread his arms wide, laughter echoing through the chamber, dark and unholy.
Elena POV – City Guard Camp
The reek of sweat, iron, and oil filled the large guard barracks as Elena and Bernard stood before a sea of armed men and women. Hundreds of garrison troops stood at attention, their armor gleaming dully under torchlight. Most were between Rank 3 and 5—career soldiers, city-born and battle-tested. A few scattered among them wore heavier armor and bore the insignia of Rank 6.
But what caught the eye most were the knights standing apart in pristine formation.
They stood like an unbreakable wall, a thousand strong knights forged not just in battle, but in blood-sworn loyalty to Duke Valen Roseviver himself. Each bore the house's sigil stitched in black on crimson cloaks that fluttered behind immaculate blacksteel plate, enchanted and layered with defensive runes.
Their armor gleamed under torchlight, but their auras shone brighter. Rank 7s and 8s, they were the peak of human martial might before one stepped into the realm of monsters and legends. Their presence alone choked the air with raw aura, making even seasoned guards straighten in unease.
These were the "Crimson Vow," known throughout the Eastern parts of the empire as House Roseviver Guardians.
The Duke stepped forward, his voice echoing across the camp.
"Soldiers of the city. Knights of my house. You stand on the edge of a storm."
He motioned to Elena and Bernard. "This is Imperial knight Bernard, a rank 9 Legend blademaster, and this is Princess Elena of House Evergreen. What they say must be heeded as if from my own mouth."
He paused.
"A cult stirs beneath our feet. A madness that seeks to drown our streets in blood. We believe they will act tonight—soon. And when they do, you will not hesitate. You will protect the people. Hunt down these cowards."
The murmurs began. Tension filled the air.
"Most of their members are weak, untrained," Bernard said calmly. "But some among them are monsters in disguise. You'll know them when you see them."
Elena stepped forward, her voice sharp.
"They aim to cause chaos. Fear. They want confusion. We will deny them that. Stay in formation. Work in units. Don't be a hero. Be a wall."
A horn sounded from the far wall, followed by the low, ominous toll of a massive bell.
DONG. DONG. DONG.
The bell of the eastern tower. The alarm bell.
The Duke's face hardened. "Move out!"
And then—
BOOOOOM!
The bell tower exploded in a ball of red flame, smoke billowing into the sky.
Elena's eyes widened as embers fluttered like black snow.
She whispered coldly, "And so it begins."
A Few Minutes Earlier – Eastern Bell Tower
Guard Corporal Frein stumbled up the tower steps, blood pouring down his temple, his left arm hanging limp and useless. Behind him, heavy footsteps pounded, growing louder. Closer. They were coming.
His hand clutched the railing. Step after painful step, he climbed. Behind him, his comrades were already dead—ambushed by cultists who emerged from the darkness like wraiths.
He reached the top, his breathing ragged, his heart near bursting.
The bell. Just one strike.
With the last dregs of mana in his body, he raised his Right hand to the rope and pushed his essence into the crystal-embedded mechanism.
CLANG.
It rang. Once. Loud and piercing.
A blade pierced through his shoulder.
Frein cried out, coughing blood, falling to his knees. The cultist behind him sneered, but his smile vanished as Frein grabbed a discarded spear and drove it through the cultist's gut. The cultist fell immediately, screaming in pain.
Panting, Frein heard more rushing feet on the stairs. He knew he had seconds.
He pulled out a scorched mana scroll, muttering the activation phrase as his vision blurred.
"Go to hell, you robed bastards."
He laughed—broken, bloodied, but victorious—as the door burst open.
The last thing he saw was fire.
The top of the tower vanished in a flash of white-red light.
Back in The Streets.....
The city erupted in chaos.
Cultists poured from alleys and sewer grates, blades in hand and faces twisted in ecstasy. Screams filled the air as they slaughtered civilians indiscriminately. Blood sprayed against cobblestones, staining the roads crimson. Homes and shops were set ablaze, fire licking the skies in grotesque orange flares.
Guards fought back, but they were scattered. Mercenaries scrambled to regroup. Adventurers battled in pockets, overwhelmed and outnumbered. The scent of burning flesh and charred wood filled every breath.
A woman ran through the smoke-choked streets, clutching her wailing child to her chest. Her dress was torn and bloody, her eyes wild with panic. Behind her thundered a hulking demon, its jagged claws scraping stone, its twisted mouth howling.
She spotted a lone figure ahead, cloaked and unmoving.
"Run!" she screamed as she passed him. "There's a demon!"
The man didn't move.
Then he raised his hand—and removed his cloak.
Leon's golden short hair, tousled and spiked, as he cracked his knuckles, oozing smug confidence. He turned his glowing eyes toward the demon, practically vibrating with anticipation.
The demon roared—and Leon moved.
With one casual punch, he launched the beast clean through a wall. Debris rained down in chunks, followed by the muffled sound of glass breaking and someone inside yelling, "My soup!"
From a nearby rooftop, the Black Dragon Knight groaned and scribbled in his notebook.
"Building #77: Destroyed. Cause: Leon. Still not over the soup incident."
The mother and child looked on, awestruck.
"You're... incredible," the woman whispered.
The child grinned. "Punch him again, mister!"
Leon winked. "Kid, you're about to witness art."
The rubble shifted—the demon was still moving, limping, growling.
Leon clapped his hands together. "Time to end this with dignity."
He paused dramatically.
Then struck a ridiculous pose, arms stretched skyward as if summoning divine judgment.
"ULTIMATE MOVE: DEMON DESTROYER 3000: FINAL NUT EDITION—INFERNAL CASTRATION: GOD MODE!!!"
The world held its breath.
Leon sprinted forward—in slow motion, because he chose to.
The demon's eyes widened in panic, its clawed hands flailing in front of its groin.
"No," it croaked.
"Yes," Leon whispered.
His foot connected with a cosmic clap of doom.
A ripple of force expanded from the impact zone. Pigeons exploded into feathers. Windows cracked. Somewhere, a bard fainted.
The demon let out a sound like a kettle squealing in agony, then collapsed into a lifeless heap.
Dead. From shame. And pain. But mostly shame.
On the rooftop, the Black Knight lowered his notepad slowly.
He looked into the distance. "I trained in the shadows... for seventeen years... for this?"
He stared at Leon, who was now flexing at a burning building like it was a camera.
Then the spy whispered, "I can't... I can't live like this," and quietly evaporated into a puff of despair and secondhand embarrassment.