The temple doors burst open as a bloody wind laced with the stench of charred death swept inside.
Shrill screams ripped apart the chants and mantras, shattering the gilded hall.
Blood rained, soaking sandalwood altars, silk banners, and the solemn faces of divine statues.
At the lotus base, streams of blood reflected the statues' downcast eyes, as though unable to watch the collapse of human sin.
Moments later, silence. Only the candles flickered.
The head monk opened his clouded eyes, trembling.
Bloodshot gaze swept the hall… he alone remained standing, the others torn to pieces around him.
Blood traced the marble's grooves, pooling into a crimson lake.
His robes clung heavily with blood to his frail body.
Even the statues were stained scarlet, blood dripping like divine tears.
"I... survived?"
The monk muttered hoarsely, dazed with disbelief. He raised his head toward the great statue.
For an instant, he thought its eyes lowered, a shadow of sorrow crossing its merciful face.
"Wha..." His throat worked painfully. "Even the Buddha... closes his eyes..."
"Heh."
A soft chuckle came from the corner, tinged with mockery and chill. A golden-haired girl stepped from the shadows, green eyes glinting faintly in the gloom.
"Because—" she said gently, "They finally saw a pure world, and closed their eyes in peace."
"You..."
The monk staggered back, startled that the demon still lingered.
"Or perhaps they just found this blood too filthy."
"..."
The monk said nothing, shutting his eyes again.
Zeroy's gaze fell on him. Seeing his posture of surrender, she smiled kindly.
"Relax. I won't harm you. Surprisingly, I sense no {evil} from you."
"...Evil?"
The monk opened his eyes, confused.
"That's all. I have other places to be. This city still crawls with vermin."
"..."
The monk watched the lively, natural girl, so unlike a Gastrea, yet capable of worse.
He finally whispered, "Why..."
Why spare him? Why kill the others? Why do this?
"Why?"
Zeroy tilted her head, puzzled—then seemed to understand.
"I said it before: all who bear malice, all who harm others, must pay with their heads. I wasn't joking. I kill the guilty."
"Think of them as criminals. By your own laws, they are criminals."
"So why, should be my question. Why are there so many criminals in this city? Why are they not in prison?"
"..."
Alone in the temple, the monk shut his eyes toward the door Zeroy left through.
"Ah... such a... Māra Papiyas..."
...
The Purge lasted seven days.
When Patchouli crossed snowy mountains, the air carried a faint stench of rot. She searched, found nothing. The stench lingered.
Following Zeroy's coordinates, after ten minutes she found her.
And even the centuries-old witch was rooted in place, breath caught. Her calm, distant mask cracked. Amethyst eyes widened like a child's first glimpse of death.
"You... how many have you killed?"
Her voice was dry, trembling. Her grimoire slipped from her arms unnoticed.
On the horizon, corpses piled into a hundred-meter tower, casting a shadow that swallowed her.
Blood and limbs gleamed dark red under dusk. The air reeked of iron, even the wind mourning death.
Zeroy sat atop the tower, blade stuck in the corpses, golden hair stirring in the breeze, green eyes cold and clear—a god of slaughter incarnate.
Hearing Patchouli, she tilted her head, gaze dropping.
She leapt down, landing before her, crushing a skull beneath her boot.
"I thought you'd say, 'well done.'"
"—!!"
Patchouli flinched back, trembling, fists clenched beneath her robe like a startled cat.
"Patchouli?" Zeroy blinked innocently, tilting her head.
She stepped forward. Patchouli retreated again.
Zeroy's face fell, eyes wounded. "You really meant to step back? That hurts. You know I'd never harm you."
"..."
Patchouli drew a deep breath. "Sorry... but it's not my fault. It's yours. You know that, right?"
"Mmm..."
Zeroy glanced at the tower. "Maybe... a little scary? Still, I thought you'd be braver."
Her lips curled playfully, as if the massacre were nothing more than a sandcastle.
"How many did you kill?"
"About 3.13 million. Small city, but a lot of criminals."
"..."
Patchouli clutched her chest, pained.
Her asthma flared.
...
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