Silage Visabar. He had been the Hemomancy professor for the first-years during their first semester. Simon remembered him vividly; he was the very first professor from Kizen he had ever met, the one who had ferried them to Roc Island on the Nether Whale for the entrance ceremony.
But that man’s name...
’Why is Professor Walter using it...?’
A dark premonition slithered through him.
"What did you do to Professor Silage?"
"A fitting question."
Walter’s lips curled into a sneer.
"I ’am’ Silage."
A third voice, deep and resonant, echoed from Walter’s throat, and Simon stared, his face slack with disbelief.
"But Professor Silage was on a mission..."
"Indeed. A mission required me to leave Kizen," the man mused, clearly savoring the moment. "However, for the Apostle’s Birth Project, I had to remain at the academy by any means necessary. So, after arranging for my disciple, Walter, to take my place—"
He placed a hand over his heart, his smile widening.
"I ate him."
"And then I returned to Kizen in his body. I simply cannot thank my precious disciple Walter enough."
The pieces slammed together in Simon’s mind, forming a picture so monstrous it stole the air from his lungs.
’I’m not sure what he means by ‘ate,’ but it’s clear Silage has taken over Walter’s body.’
That explained why the handwriting analysis had identified a different person. Walter’s signature and the one written by Silage in his stead could never be the same.
All the disparate, nagging questions began to lock into place. The Blood Cult, this promotion exam—the mastermind behind it all wasn’t Walter. It was Silage, the first professor Simon had ever met.
Simon’s fists clenched until his knuckles were white.
"Why would you do this? They’re your students! Kamibarez is among them, and you cherished her!"
"Oh, I did cherish them," he conceded. "Kamibarez, with her rare Ursula blood, and you, with your SM-1 blood. But..."
His smile was devoid of all warmth.
"They are but stepping-stones toward my true purpose: the advent of the Apostle. Every single first-year, including you, will become a sacrifice for this great work. We required a great number of young, vibrant cores and hearts."
A cold dread snaked down his spine, and Simon’s face became a mask of stone.
"Sacrifices?"
"Those statues you saw outside are their final forms. They are prepared to offer their hearts."
He pictured the petrified forms of Meirin, Toto, and Hector. The shock of it was a physical blow, freezing his body and his thoughts.
"Then you’re—!"
"You are a very astute student."
Walter—no, ’Silage’, wearing Walter’s form like a suit of flesh—cut him off.
"Trying to suppress that boiling rage of yours to buy time for the professors outside to intervene?"
Simon remained silent.
"Useless."
His finger gestured toward the bloody ring stretched across the sky.
"That ring of blood is the masterpiece of my research, honed over hundreds of years. No living being can breach it. Not Bahil, not Jane, not even Nephthys herself."
Simon knew he was telling the truth. Nephthys had dispatched Silage, a master of Hemomancy, precisely to destroy the ring of blood sealing the dungeon. The irony was suffocating: the creator of the lock had been sent to pick it.
’More importantly, he said hundreds of years of research.’
Simon’s eyes scanned the body Silage now inhabited.
"Just how long have you been committing these atrocities?"
"A foolish question. Do you count the meals you’ve eaten in your lifetime? I have existed for a very, very long time. I am a monster, just like your precious idol, Nephthys."
He spread his palm wide.
"My name is Silage Visabar. An immortal necromancer in pursuit of truth, and—"
His eyes flashed with fanatical light.
"The Archbishop of the Blood Cult."
The ring of blood pulsed, and the crimson glow bathing the basin intensified. Simon fought to quell the boiling in his own blood, tightening his grip on his greatsword.
"This is a separate dimension. Intrusion from the outside is impossible. All first-year students have become sacrifices. It seems you are their only hope."
Simon raised the Greatsword of Ruin.
’My opponent is a Kizen professor.’
Sweat slicked his hand on the hilt as he faced Silage, who stood unmoving, radiating an aura of pure jet-black.
’And the Archbishop of the Blood Cult. Can I win, even while wearing Pier?’
A direct confrontation was suicide. There was only one other way.
Simon’s gaze flickered to the side, to where the Dungeon Lord hung limply on Silage’s red spear. He hadn’t killed it; he had sealed it.
’If I kill the Dungeon Lord, this dungeon will collapse. The professors will be able to intervene!’
His plan formed, Simon dug his right foot into the ground. The stone beneath him fractured. Kicking off with all his might, he charged.
’I have to draw his attention, no matter what!’
Silage merely watched him, his expression impassive. He didn’t move his hands, nor did he conjure a magic circle.
’What is he planning?’
As the question raced through Simon’s mind, he saw it: a tiny, almost invisible particle of blood hovering in the air.
Without a flicker of hesitation, Simon skidded to a halt, instinct screaming as he threw himself aside.
The droplet detonated in a bloody explosion large enough to swallow two men whole.
"Hoh."
A flicker of interest sparked in Silage’s eyes.
"To think you could counter that. You’ve experienced this technique before."
There was no point in hiding it. Simon scrambled to his feet, circling to a flank clear of the deadly droplets.
"The Blood Cult’s attack on the holy train in the Holy Federation!" he roared.
The white greatsword sliced down, aimed for Silage’s back.
"I was the one who defeated your bishop there, Archbishop!"
Instantly, the blood droplets in front of Silage zipped behind him. They detonated first, the force of the blast deflecting Simon’s greatsword.
"Clever," Silage noted, his head turning. "Trying to pin my attention with brute force and shouting, while you set this little scheme in motion behind my back."
[Ah!]
Herseva, who had been stealthily approaching the sealed Dungeon Lord, froze in surprise.
"Run, Herseva!"
Chains of blood erupted from all sides, lashing out to capture her. She shrieked and shot into the air.
In that same instant, Simon’s greatsword clashed with Silage’s blood droplets again. The hemomancy was infuriatingly efficient, serving as both offense and defense.
’I can’t break through these explosions!’
"That jet-black I feel from your Bone Armor... and that strength, which soars far beyond that of a mere student."
A slow, knowing smile spread across Silage’s face.
"There is only one necromancer capable of commanding an uncontrollable Ancient Undead. Isn’t that right, traitorous Commander of the 7th Legion?"
Simon let out a ragged breath and offered a grim smirk. The Archbishop of the Blood Cult and the traitorous Legion Commander. Now that their true identities were laid bare, only one path remained: one of them had to die.
"If you are a Legion Commander, then I suppose I shall have to get a little serious."
Silage snapped his fingers. The Dungeon Lord’s body was sucked into the red spear piercing its chest. The spear then morphed into a complex magic circle that burned itself onto a nearby rock wall.
"A seal that none can break unless they kill me. And..."
Silage held his palm open, elbow tucked at his side.
Over a thousand red droplets bled into the air, staining the world crimson. Every single one was a miniature bomb.
With a flick of Silage’s wrist, all thousand droplets shot toward Simon.
A sharp crack echoed from Simon’s clenched teeth.
’Harder!’
He stomped his right foot down. Simultaneously, he angled his greatsword, presenting its flat side.
’Not a slash, a gale!’
With a guttural roar, Simon twisted his body, pouring all his rotational force into the blade before unleashing a mighty swing. A ferocious gale erupted from the sword’s path, blasting the swarm of droplets back in the opposite direction.
Silage countered instantly. The droplets, buffeted by the wind, rapidly converged, merging into a colossal sphere of blood ten meters in diameter. Two of these massive orbs—a churning crimson core rimmed with an oily black corona—plummeted toward Simon.
[I’m dodging! Boy!]
Locked in place by the recoil of his swing, Simon could only rely on Pier, who moved his legs for him. Just as Simon leaped clear, the sphere of blood slammed into the ground, triggering a cataclysmic explosion.
"Ah!"
It was a fury of blood that could level mountains. The ground cracked open, and the very air seemed to boil. In the distance, an entire ridge collapsed from the shockwave.
"Kugh!"
Having dodged by a hair’s breadth, Simon staggered and dropped to one knee.
[Boy! Another one is coming!]
Piercing the crimson haze, a second sphere descended.
’The whole space is—’
His body screamed in protest, but he had to push through. Gritting his teeth, Simon spun.
’The sensation of cutting!’
The Greatsword of Ruin carved a long, straight scar across the sky. The sphere of blood caught in its path split with a sickening crack and detonated.
He had cleaved the sphere, but its outer shell, not its core, shattered into smaller droplets that rained down on him.
’The fragments!’
[Kid!]
Herseva zipped in front of Simon. At the same time, the droplets exploded in a deafening, rolling cascade, engulfing Simon’s body. This was no longer an attack made from human blood; it was a force of nature.
Silage watched the terrain-altering devastation with a placid expression.
Soon, the dust settled. Simon stood encased in a protective shell of golden structures and the Overlord’s body. With a grating shriek, the Overlord’s armor cracked, revealing Simon’s eyes through the fissures. It had sustained critical damage.
Simon recalled the blades and rose to his feet.
He drew Herseva, holding her in his unprotected left hand. The moment he gripped her, the ethereal form of a golden robe began to weave itself around his body.
"Herseva," Simon said, his voice grave. "I’m using the Third Authority. Is that okay?"
[It is absolutely not okay!] Herseva shrieked. [I almost got annihilated during that duel evaluation! I never want to use it again! You even said you were going to seal it for a while!]
"But if this continues, we’ll both be destroyed."
[Ugh.]
’Clap. Clap. Clap.’
The sound of applause echoed through the basin. Simon scowled, his gaze falling on Silage, who was clapping slowly, a smile on his face.
"Excellent. Truly, it’s a shame to have to kill you." He lowered his hands. "I will erase everything you’ve done until now. Come with me."
"What?"
"As it happens, Walter’s position is now vacant. Become my disciple. Become a bishop of the Blood Cult. If you simply pretend you saw nothing here, your life..."
Silage trailed off. Simon was laughing. It was a hollow, strengthless sound. Then, just as quickly, the laughter died, replaced by an icy calm as he let his wrist fall.
"You make me sick."
The atrocities he knew the Blood Cult had committed were countless. They lured citizens of the Holy Federation into unstable core-opening procedures, turning the failures into grotesque Blood Zombies after horrific experiments. They kidnapped passengers from the holy train. They were now trying to sacrifice innocent Kizen students for their dark rituals. They sought to shatter the peace between the Dark Alliance and the Holy Federation, to ignite another great war that would send millions more to their deaths.
At least Saint Flema, the instigator of the Saintess incident, had acted out of a twisted loyalty to her Goddess and her nation.
But the Blood Cult, Silage...
"I’m not a fan of simplistic dichotomies of good and evil."
Simon raised the Greatsword of Ruin and Herseva in unison.
"But you," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction, "are the purest, most despicable evil this continent has ever known, Silage Visabar."
Silage’s smile turned sly and vicious.
"I think so, too."

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