It had been three days since Cipher's apparent demise. All that remained of the once-formidable entity was a viscous, inky glob that writhed its way through the forest undergrowth. Its surface caught stray beams of sunlight, glinting like oil on water, but the creature was far from at rest. Drained of power, it drifted ceaselessly among fallen leaves and moss, desperate to find a fresh vessel in which to renew its strength.
Then, at last, it scented opportunity.
—
Cipher's fall had been both sudden and ignominious: betrayed by his former apprentice-ally, Drago, and felled by mere human steel. Rage and humiliation churned within him, fueling a black determination to exact vengeance. Now, reduced to little more than the dregs of his once-mighty essence, he slithered onward along a dirt trail, sidestepping the burrows of lurking beasts. Every inch of his formless body pulsed with hunger—for life, for power, for revenge.
After an hour's crawl he caught another scent on the breeze: smoke and blood. Memories of slaughter ignited something deep inside the ooze. Blood… fire… bodies… His amorphous shape convulsed with malignant excitement. A crooked gape formed where a mouth might have been, as close to a smile as Cipher could muster in his weakened state.
He followed the scent downhill, out of the denser woods and into a clearing littered with charred wagon debris. Twisted iron and splintered wood lay strewn about like the wreckage of some nightmare. Most bodies were little more than ash-browned husks, but then he saw her: the corpse of a young woman, her blouse torn, her skin mottled with bruises and slick with her own blood and… other fluids. Her torn undergarments lay discarded beside her, a horrible testament to the violence she had endured only moments before.
Cipher's darkness rippled with eager anticipation. Gender mattered nothing to him—only the promise of vitality. He oozed over the broken ground until he covered the woman's chest. He hovered, observing every bruise, every tear in her flesh, committing each horror to memory. This body was still fresh, still warm with the echo of life. Perfect.
Without hesitation, the inky substance dissolved itself into her, seeping into ruptured veins and hollow bones. A moment later her finger twitched. A soft shudder ran through her chest, and then she drew breath. Slowly, painfully, she sat up, grey eyes clouding with recognition of herself as something new.
Cipher—now firmly ensconced in this stolen form—looked down at slender arms that were once not his. She flexed her fingers, a manic grin splitting her lips. "At last," she crooned, voice hoarse but filled with triumph. She rose, cracking her neck as if stretching the stiffness from a long sleep.
Smoke curled through the trees; embers danced in the air. Cipher found a charred wagon still flickering at one end. She lifted her hand, palm up, and summoned a spark of black mana. The orb swelled between her fingers, a miniature storm that siphoned wind into its maw. Red arcs of energy flickered around it. Then, with a savage joy, she flung it at the wagon. The explosion rocked the clearing, splinters of wood and metal raining down. A shard nicked her arm—but the wound sealed at once, flesh knitting itself back together.
Cipher laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the ruins. "Weak," she muttered, admiring her closed wound, "but not for long. Soon I will reclaim all my power." Her gaze drifted downward. The corpse's tattered garments left little to the imagination. Muttering a curse, she scanned the wreckage for something more fitting.
A few paces away lay the body of a man, fully clothed. Cipher wasted no time: in moments she had stripped him down and pulled on simple, loose trousers and a tunic. It was hardly fashionable, but it would have to do.
She straightened, surveying the devastated clearing one last time. Her eyes hardened with cold purpose. "Drago," she whispered, voice like ice. "You'll regret ever drawing blade against me." With that, she vanished into the forest, the promise of vengeance burning brighter than any blaze.
After hours of what felt like an endless journey down a desolate road, the distant crunch of wagon wheels and the steady rhythm of horses' hooves caught Cipher's attention.
She turned her head slowly, her gaze shifting toward the sound. "... Humans, perhaps?" she murmured, pausing mid-step, her body tensing in wary stillness.
The noise grew louder, closer—undeniably approaching. In the distance, a faint silhouette appeared, small at first, then expanding with each passing second until the shapes sharpened into clear figures. Two riders led the way, flanking a wagon steered by another. But more lingered inside; she could already detect their mingled scents drifting toward her on the breeze.
Her guard rose instantly, suspicion tightening her stance as she lifted a hand, fingers curling in preparation for a spell. Yet before she could act, the men spotted her, their eyes widening in sudden recognition.
"Azazel!" they shouted, urging their horses faster.
Cipher's brow arched. Azazel? She halted, reassessing. Some acquaintances of this body, then. A dry thought followed. What an unfortunate name.
The wagon rumbled to a stop beside her, and the riders dismounted hastily, their expressions a tangle of relief, concern, and something deeper—something that made her instincts coil tighter.
"We—we thought you died!" One of the men spoke up, his voice laced with worry as he raked a trembling hand through his hair.
"We saw Rudeus and Colt's bodies back there… along with the others." Another man interjected, his expression grim. "We couldn't find yours. We feared those bastards had taken you—hauled you off to sell you to slavers."
"Nikko was stripped bare," the driver muttered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the reins. "Those animals… killing him wasn't enough. They had to humiliate him even in death."
Cipher fought back a smirk.
They hadn't realized.
Of course, the fools wouldn't recognize these clothes—stolen from the dead boy they called Nikko. She'd needed something to wear, and the corpse had no further use for them. Still, she remained silent, her face a carefully crafted mask of emptiness.
"Enough of that," the first man cut in, forcing a strained smile. "We've recovered their bodies. It's a relief—a godsend—that you're alive, Azazel."
"Let's just return to the village," another muttered, mounting his horse. "The others are in chaos after the raid. They need to see you."
The second man hesitated before adding, "Your wife, Freia… she's not well." His voice dropped, thick with unspoken dread. "She needs you now more than ever."
Ah.
So, this corpse has a wife.
Cipher arched a brow. Interesting.
And judging by their unease, the bandits had left more than just corpses in their wake. Rape? Torture? Humans were predictable like that—driven by lust and cruelty. It was their sin that had once fed her, back when she still wore the mantle of Pride.
But now, she was weak.
And pretending to be this dead woman—Azazel—was her best chance at survival.
"...Very well," Cipher murmured, layering her voice with false concern. "I was already returning to Freia. I pray she's unharmed."
The men exhaled in relief, oblivious to the predator in their midst.
As the wagon lurched forward, Cipher's lips curled—just slightly—into a cold, knowing smile.
—
After hours of traveling through the dense woods, they finally emerged from the thicket and came upon an open field. Rows of crops stretched across the land, their golden hues a stark contrast to the devastation that lay beyond. A small village, nestled beside the fields, had been reduced to smoldering ruins. Huts and shacks lay charred and broken, little more than skeletal remains of what they once were.
A makeshift camp had been erected at the village's edge, where the wounded groaned in agony and the survivors moved like specters among the living. Women and children wept openly, their sobs mingling with the quiet murmurs of the men who stood by, their faces etched with silent grief. Some dug graves, their hands blistered and worn, while others simply knelt beside the fallen, whispering final farewells.
The men accompanying Cipher wore grim expressions as their wagon rolled forward. The horses came to a halt as the reins were pulled tight, hooves stamping against the ash-strewn earth. The driver beside her gestured for her to dismount, and she obeyed without a word.
Around her, the men dispersed—some leading the horses to what remained of the stables, others carrying wrapped corpses toward the freshly turned soil. A man with weary eyes motioned for Cipher to follow him toward the wounded.
"Your wife, Freia..." he began carefully, as though measuring each word. "She was badly injured in the raid. Her body is in a catatonic state—likely from the shock, and... what those bastards did to her." His voice carried a quiet caution, as if uncertain how she might react.
Cipher nodded solemnly, her face a mask of practiced sorrow. Inside, however, she couldn't care less. This wasn't her tragedy—not truly. After all, she was merely wearing another woman's skin, her stolen face a tool for survival.
"I understand," she murmured, her tone appropriately grave. "I'll go see her."
Satisfied with her response, the man dipped his head and trudged away, rejoining the others in their grim tasks. The moment his back was turned, Cipher clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes.
Typical luck.
Suppressing a sigh, she pushed aside the tattered cloth that served as the tent's entrance and stepped inside.
Gods, it fucking stinks.
The stench of blood, bile, and something unnameably putrid assaulted her senses. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she surveyed the dim space.
Near the far end of the tent lay a young woman—Freia, presumably—her light brown hair matted against her sweat-drenched forehead. A ragged cloth covered most of her face, her arms swathed in makeshift bandages. Her bed, if it could be called that, was little more than a threadbare rug. Beside her sat an old bucket filled with murky water, the metallic tang of blood clinging faintly to the air. Strewn around it were bloodstained clothes, hastily discarded.
Cipher arched a brow, examining the woman with detached apathy.
So this little harlot is in catatonia, huh? Cipher mused, her lips quirking slightly to one side while the rest of her expression remained locked in its usual disdain.
"...Pathetic," she muttered under her breath, exhaling a bored sigh before allowing her gaze to wander indifferently around the room, as though the paralyzed girl before her were nothing more than a discarded doll.
She took in the squalor of the tent—nothing but scraps of threadbare rugs clumsily stitched together. Tch. Poverty at its finest.
And then there was the stench.
Gods, what the hell is that? Her nose wrinkled in disgust. Did it come from the woman lying motionless in front of her? Disgusting.
Cipher had endured the reek of rotting flesh more times than she could count, but this? This was something else. Less putrid, perhaps, but no less revolting. Or perhaps she simply wasn't accustomed to it yet.
Suppressing a gag, she barely had time to steel herself before the flap of the tent entrance lifted, revealing an elderly woman hunched with age.
At the sight of 'Azazel', the old woman's lips parted in surprise. "Oh, Azazel, dear—you're back." Her voice carried a tremor of relief, though her eyes flickered with a flicker of uncertainty as they roved over Cipher's borrowed attire.
"You're… wearing Nikko's clothes, it seems," she murmured.
Cipher's lips thinned. So she notices. A flash of irritation crossed her features before vanishing just as swiftly.
"Indeed," Cipher replied, her tone carefully strained. "Those bandits tore mine apart. I had to cover myself somehow."
Just like that. Keep playing the role.
The elder nodded but did not press further, though her lingering suspicion was evident—how had 'Azazel' returned unscathed when the others bore wounds? Still, she turned her attention away, focusing instead on the broken girl lying atop the makeshift bed of tattered rugs.
"It's good you came to Freia first," the old woman said, her voice hardening as she knelt beside the motionless figure. "Poor child. Her face was… badly burned in the fire. And those monsters—" She cut herself off, jaw tightening as she brushed aside strands of hair clinging to the thick layers of soiled bandages swathing the girl's face.
Can she even breathe under all that? Cipher wondered idly.
She remained silent, watching as the old woman hovered over what was supposedly her wife—or rather, the corpse's wife.
After a while, the elderly woman rose slowly, careful not to strain her brittle limbs. She cast a weary glance at Cipher before sighing. "I should get going, dear. Stay here for a while and look after your wife... Our village is in a vulnerable state. Monsters will likely invade tonight." With that, she hobbled past Cipher and out of the makeshift tent, her frail figure disappearing into the dying light of dusk.
Cipher didn't move. Her eyes remained fixed on the young girl lying on the cot before her.
Disgusting.
The thought slithered through her mind like poison, sharp and venomous. The moment the old woman was out of earshot, she clicked her tongue in irritation. Like hell she'd play nursemaid and protector now. She had a fucking mission—a purpose. Some useless vegetable and a pack of pathetic humans weren't about to derail her.
Drago. That traitor. And his little human pet. Oh, she'd skin them both alive.
Yet, for all her arrogance, Cipher wasn't reckless. She knew her limits. Weakened, her power barely a fraction of what it should be, she had no choice but to bide her time. Her jaw clenched until her teeth ached, but she exhaled, forcing calm into her voice.
"Patience, Cipher," she murmured, the words a whisper of steel. "You'll reach the heavens in no time." And she would. She was the embodiment of Pride, after all. These insects would pay for humiliating her.
Hours bled together in the stagnant air of the tent. Cipher remained idle, lounging with feigned disinterest—just as the old woman had 'requested'. Then the tent flap rustled, and a young man stepped inside.
Cipher's gaze snapped to him instantly, her body tensing in warning.
The man—early twenties at most—flinched upon seeing her, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Ah... Azazel, I-I didn't expect to find you here. I thought you'd be with the others... burying the dead."
Cipher arched a brow, her stare dissecting him with cold precision. "Oh? Why would you assume that?" Her voice dripped with skepticism. "And even if I were, why should you be here?"
The man stiffened, his eyes flickering away. "Sorry, I—I should go..." He stumbled backward, letting the flap fall shut behind him.
Cipher scoffed. "Scum," she muttered, disdain twisting her lips. "As if your intentions weren't fucking obvious."
But then, humans were predictable. Greedy, weak, transparent in their desires.
And yet—irony of ironies—their very nature sustained her kind.
She smirked to herself, the fire of ambition burning in her chest.