AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello, lovely readers.
This chapter is different from the others. After Percival, Fanaza, and Rwaine vanished from the carriage at the three-junction, each of them was transported into a different unknown place. There, they must face their own demons and defeat Lazarus Zominick.
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The loud sound of war cries shook Percival awake. His ears rang with the clash of steel and the excruciating screams of dying men. When he opened his eyes, he was not in his chambers or in the carriage with Fanaza. He was lying in mud, soaked with blood that was not his own.
Before him was a war ground—chaos and carnage. Soldiers tore each other apart like wild beasts, blades ripping into flesh, shields shattering under the force of axes. The stench of burnt skin and blood filled the air.
Severed limbs littered the dirt, and horses screamed as they fell, dragging crushed riders beneath their hooves.
"What is this place?" Percival muttered, staggering to his feet, his head spinning in confusion.
"Fanaza?" he called out desperately, but there was no response.
Instead, blood splashed across his face. He stumbled back when a man was cut down right before him.
Percival's stomach twisted as an unshakeable sense of dread settled deep inside him. His eyes widened when he saw the man; it was Stefan.
The truth hit him like a punch to the gut. This was not a dream; his kingdom was at war with a rival, and from what he saw, they were losing badly.
"Stefan!" Percival shouted, rushing forward as Stefan fell to his knees; a blade was buried in his side. He caught him and lowered him to the ground. "Stay with me! You'll be fine; I'll stop the bleeding!" He pressed hard against the wound, blood pouring between his fingers. His hand shook as he applied more pressure to the wound.
Stefan was on the ground, coughing up blood with red bubbles foaming from his lips.
His eyes filled with hate even as his strength faded; the man who was filled with loyalty now burnt with venom and disgust, and he struggled to speak.
"This… is your fault," Stefan said, his voice sharp despite the blood choking him. "You led us here. You led us to our death."
Percival froze, his hands trembled. "What are you saying? No… I don't understand."
"You deserve to die!" Stefan's words cut deeper than any sword.
"This isn't real," Percival muttered to himself, shaking his head. He had no idea what was going on, but he remembered clearly; it happened in a twinkle of an eye. He was in a carriage, and now he was in a battlefield.
"It is real! "It is real!" Stefan screamed with his last breath, his voice echoing in Percival's ears.
Percival looked down at himself. His hands were slick with more than Stefan's blood—they were already painted red. His chest heaved as he realised he was wearing full war armour, his gauntlets dented and stained. In his hand was a sword.
A soldier came running towards him with a spear. Without thinking, Percival swung. The blade cut through his flesh and bone, splitting the man from shoulder to hip. Blood splashed everywhere, and the body collapsed at his feet.
Panting, Percival staggered back to Stefan. "Please stay with me!"
Stefan shook his head weakly. "You are the only one left… bring the kingdom… to freedom."
Before Percival could reply, pain ripped through his back as a sword slid between his ribs. He screamed, turning around. Fuelled by instinct, he roared and drove his blade straight through his attacker's stomach, ripping upward until his internal organs spilt across the ground.
The battle swallowed him whole. One after another, men came at him, their faces twisted with bloodlust. Percival fought them all, his sword moving quickly. His arms shook, but his strikes grew wilder and more savage. He cut throats and sent limbs flying, and the ground became a sea of blood beneath his boots.
As he was close to victory, something unexpected happened.
The ground trembled. At first, Percival thought it was an earthquake. But then he saw it. Something sinister and out of this world.
The dead were moving on the ground. Bodies across the battlefield began to shake, dragged by an invisible force. Broken arms reached each other, severed heads rolled, and ribcages clattered against the mud. One by one, the corpses were pulled together, fusing bone to bone, skull to skull. Blood soaked into marrow, flesh rotting away as something evil was born.
Before Percival's eyes, the remains of hundreds of fallen soldiers knitted together, forming a colossal shape. A skeleton the size of a tower rose into the smoke-choked sky. Its eye sockets glowed with intense fire, and its jaw opened with a screech that sounded like a thousand souls crying out in pain.
The gashadokuro rose, and from between its massive teeth came the sound that pierced Percival's soul.
"Gachi-gachi…"
Percival staggered back, his sword shaking in his grip. He had never seen something this huge and eerie. The monster stood above him, its bony fingers long as spears, its teeth gnashing like blades.
"You are a failure, and failures deserve to die." The gashadokuro roared; its voice was made from the cries of the countless dead.
The skeleton attacked, its hand crashing down to crush Percival, and he was quick to roll aside, but the impact shattered the ground where he had stood.
He screamed and charged, attacking its leg. His sword bit into the bone, but the gashadokuro barely flinched. It kicked him, sending him flying into a pile of corpses. Percival coughed blood and struggled to rise.
The giant slashed Percival across the back, the blade tearing through his armour and flesh. Hot blood flowed, stinging his face. Before he could recover, another strike ripped across his cheek.
The monster threw back its head and laughed, a deep, cruel sound that echoed like thunder. Then, with one massive hand, it held Percival's neck, squeezing until he gasped for air. With a violent jerk, the giant dragged him across the battlefield, his boots scraping uselessly against the ground.
Percival choked and clawed at the grip, but the creature only tightened it, lifting him like a ragdoll. With brutal force, it tied him with a rope to a black horse.
"Move!" the beast growled, slapping the horse's flank.
The horse bolted forward. Percival's body slammed against the dirt, rocks, and broken spears littering the battlefield. His back tore open again and again as he was dragged through blood-soaked mud. His vision blurred, and every bump against the earth was another type of agony, but he endured the pain.
As he was pulled closer to the main city, he forced his swollen eyes open. The whole place was burning. Roofs caved in as flames devoured them, spilling sparks into the night sky. The air was thick with smoke and ash, turning the sky black. People screamed in terror—men, women, and children—running for their lives. Some were cut down where they stood, their cries turning into gurgles.
Bodies lay everywhere, twisted and broken, their blood running into the dirt like rivers. The stench of burning flesh choked the air.
This wasn't the once peaceful and happy Macabre.
Through it all, the monster's hollow eyes burnt down on Percival, glowing like coals from within the empty sockets of its skull.
He was dragged to the palace, but it was no longer the place of gilded banners and marble halls he remembered. It had turned into something else—walls cracked and blackened, flames crawling up the pillars, the air thick with smoke. The great chamber reeked of ash and blood, and the once-proud throne stood wreathed in fire, like a seat carved straight out of hell itself.
The Gashadokuro loosened him from the ropes, and Percival's body slumped to the ground. Every muscle screamed in pain; his skin was torn from being dragged. Blood soaked into the stone floor beneath him as the monster yanked him upright again.
The monster shoved him down hard before the throne, its hollow eyes burning with pure satisfaction. "Bow to me. Bow to your new king," it growled, its voice echoing off the ruined walls.
Percival spat blood and let out a bitter scoff, even through the stabbing pain in his chest. His defiance was weak, but it was still there.
The monster's expression changed. With a snarl, it raised its massive weapon and slammed it against Percival's ribs. The crack of bone echoed as he collapsed, gasping in agony.
"Bow," the creature roared again.
Through the haze of pain and smoke, Percival's blurry eyes caught some few movements. He froze and saw his mother being dragged by soldiers, her gown torn, her face pale with terror as she was being pulled toward the throne. Her cries filled the whole room.
The giant's hand stretched toward her as if claiming his prize.
"Percival… I am sorry," she whispered.
Then, with one swing of a massive skeletal hand, the beast snapped her neck, and her lifeless body fell to the ground with a loud thud.
"NO!" Percival screamed out. He does not understand what's going on anymore. He was weak and on the verge of death. Everything was happening so fast, and it all felt unreal.
The gashadokuro's voice mocked him. "You didn't even cry. Not a single tear."
Then some soldiers dragged Fanaza to the monster. Immediately Percival saw her, and his heart shattered into a million pieces.
"Don't you dare hurt her!" Percival roared, his voice breaking and his body becoming weaker with each breath he took.
He couldn't do anything; he couldn't even stand from where he was. The pain won't let him.
The gashadokuro only laughed—a terrible rattling sound of bone grinding bone.
It swung again. Percival raised his sword with both hands, blocking the blow, but the sheer force sent him skidding back across the blood-soaked ground. His palms split open, blood dripping down his grip.
"This… isn't real," Percival muttered, his eyes wide, refusing to believe all he knew was he would never lose this war.
The gashadokuro bent low, its skull close to his face. "Boy… it is real."
"You're not real!" Percival shouted.
"Prove it."
The monster's hand came down like a hammer. Percival caught the blow, and with a scream, he drove his sword upward, stabbing into the gashadokuro's palm. The creature shrieked as Percival ripped his blade free.
Then he saw it—something glowing deep inside the monster's chest. It wasn't just a flicker of light; it pulsed like a living heart, shining through the cracks in its ribs. Every beat lit up the bones around it, like fire trapped inside a cage.
Percival's breath became heavier. His hands shook, but he gripped his sword tighter. That's it. That's its weakness.
He charged with everything left in him. His sword slammed against the creature's legs again and again, breaking bone with each strike. The gashadokuro howled, the sound rattling the battlefield like thunder. Its massive body swayed, cracks spreading across its towering frame until it finally dropped to its knees.
The glowing heart throbbed brighter now, as if daring him to strike.
Percival roared, lifting his sword high. He drove the blade deep into the monster's chest, piercing the light. The gashadokuro screamed out in pain, so loud it shook the ground. Its bones began to split and fall apart piece by piece. The glow flared wildly, then dimmed until it went out like a dying flame.
With a deafening crash, the giant skeleton collapsed. Its bones shattered across the battlefield, scattering like debris. Dust and ash filled the air as the last of its strength faded.
Percival staggered back, covered in blood, sweat, and smoke. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. He had killed it. He had survived.
But as the dust settled, a strange silence fell, and he saw that there was nothing left again; everything was destroyed. He walked towards the door, and when he opened it, he was transported back to the battlefield.
Then he saw the victory flag from afar and went towards it.
He reached for it and realised the cloth was torn, but the emblem was clear. On it was a crest of the carriage association, something that wasn't related to their victory flag during war.
He was lost in thoughts? Why wasn't the kingdom's flag on the battlefield, or was the war for another kingdom? Then his blood ran cold when he saw the name stitched into the flag.
Lazarus Zominick
Percival's eyes widened. "This war… It was never mine. It's Lazarus."
And then he felt it. The air grew heavy, the smoke parting as if making way for someone. A figure stepped out of the haze. Percival couldn't see him clearly; he only saw a tall faceless man dressed in a suit of war armour that was torn and tattered.
Lazarus.
His smile was crooked, cruel, and far too calm for the burning world around him. He walked slowly, the sound of his armour echoing in the silence. When he reached Percival, he lowered his hand and pressed it against Percival's head.
It was cold—so cold it burnt.
"Good boy," Lazarus whispered.
Darkness rushed in all at once. Percival's legs gave out, and he collapsed.