Knock, knock, knock.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound of knocking echoed through the manor—steady at first, then growing harsher, heavier, until it was no longer knocking at all but pounding, like fists trying to smash the door apart.
Hiltina wordlessly gripped the hilt of Morningstar of Dusk, her gaze fixed on the door trembling violently under the blows. She readied herself for battle; the energy she'd spent using her Night Blade earlier had already been fully restored by her brief sleep.
She didn't know who—or what—was knocking. But her Chariot Sequence intuition, that supernatural Hyper Instinct, was screaming danger loud enough to make her blood run cold.
There was no doubt. Whatever stood outside that door was beyond her understanding—something that no longer belonged within the realm of human reason. Perhaps something that could no longer even be called human.
She knew only one thing about it, from Rast's brief mention and the records buried in the Night World archives—
"The Iron Cross Plague."
The pounding suddenly stopped.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then—
Scrrraatch… scrrraatch…
A new sound filled the air. Something sharp was scraping against the wood, again and again, like fingernails clawing along the doorframe. The high-pitched screech set Hiltina's teeth on edge.
Amid the noise, she thought she heard faint breathing… and a muffled laugh. As though someone were trying desperately to hold in manic laughter, trembling with the effort not to let it burst out.
The scraping went on, unbearably long—until Rast exhaled softly beside her.
And then—
BOOM!
With a sharp crack, the wooden bolt shattered. The door slammed open, slamming against the wall.
Hiltina finally saw what stood on the other side.
The man's face was pale and ashen. Beneath his blood-soaked coat, his left arm was nothing but mangled flesh—splintered bone jutting through shredded muscle. The jagged end of the exposed bone was streaked with wood dust; he had broken the door open by grinding through the bolt with his own shattered arm.
In his right hand, he held a bloodied spine—thin and fragile, still streaked with bits of torn flesh. It looked almost like a butcher's cut of ribs—except this spine clearly didn't come from any animal.
And on his face, seared into the skin, was a massive iron-gray cross that split his features in two.
He looked into the manor. Beneath the iron cross, his lips twisted into an inhuman grin—something no sane person could ever make.
"I knew it… ha… you two were still here."
Even in this grotesque atmosphere, the man began to laugh—wild, unhinged, hysterical.
"So… which is it? The private detective? Or your cheating wife? Hahaha… not that it matters."
He raised the spine in his hand and pointed it toward Hiltina. "If I use her spine as a whip, it'll be a hell of a lot better than this little brat's."
A wave of nausea and horror surged through Hiltina.
That voice… that face… she knew him.
He was the coachman—the one who'd driven them here.
And that fragile spine he held… belonged to his own child.
Beneath the cross-shaped scar, his bloodshot eyes gleamed with an almost delighted cruelty. His body tensed—preparing to lunge.
But—
BANG!
Rast fired first.
The bullet spun through the air and tore into the man's left chest.
For a moment, it seemed to hit true—until a heavy, metallic thud followed. The bullet hadn't passed through. It had lodged inside, as though he'd fired into solid steel.
Through the torn hole in the man's coat, Hiltina could see the dense, muscle-like plating over his chest—coiled and rigid as iron. The armor of flesh had caught the bullet; cracks spread from the impact point, but it hadn't pierced the heart.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Five more shots fired in rapid succession. Each one hit the exact same spot—the precision unnervingly perfect.
Crack.
At the final shot, the ironlike flesh finally gave way. The muscular barrier shattered, and the heart behind it burst into a mist of blood.
But even that wasn't enough to kill him.
The coachman staggered, clutching his chest, and looked at Rast. His lips stretched into a grotesque smile, as though about to speak—
A flash of silver cut him off.
The knight's rapier struck in a blur, faster than the eye could follow. Sparks flew as steel clashed against bone—then the resistance vanished. The silvery blade pierced through cleanly, and the man's head flew upward, still wearing that frozen, ecstatic grin.
The blade trembled once, and a faint silver glow rippled along its surface. The blood that stained it evaporated instantly, leaving the sword immaculate.
Hiltina sheathed Morningstar of Dusk, her brows slightly furrowed.
Even with Rast's bullets having destroyed most of the man's strength, she'd still had to use seventy percent of her full power to pierce his throat. His flesh had been hard as steel.
If she'd faced him alone, she thought grimly, this single corrupted being might have been enough to put her in real danger.
If she wanted to end a fight like that quickly, she'd have no choice but to invoke the Night Blade.
But how many times could she use it in succession?And more importantly—how many of these plague-born monsters were still lurking in Deep Blue Harbor?
Yet what unsettled her most wasn't the man's strength. It was his malice.
He had still possessed reason. He could speak, think, even laugh. And yet he was no longer human. Not really. He was something else—something wearing a man's skin, a beast masquerading as a person.
She looked down at the lifeless corpse and couldn't reconcile it with the kindhearted coachman who'd once driven their carriage here. She remembered the way he'd chatted cheerfully on the road, talking about his family—his wife, his children.
How could that same man… do this?
Quietly, she asked, "Did he… have a bad relationship with his children?"
Rast's voice was calm, almost too calm. "No. In the last cycle, I actually invited their family to dinner at the Golden Stag Inn."
"They were happy. Ordinary. The wife was gentle, made handicrafts to supplement their income. They weren't rich, but they lived comfortably."
"Their two sons were bright boys. The older one worked at a newspaper. The younger one had just been accepted into a university inland. They were saving up for his tuition."
Rast's eyes softened faintly, as if seeing that memory. "That night, after drinking too much, the coachman patted my shoulder and said the proudest thing in his life was his two boys."
"He said he'd drive carriages all night if he had to—just to give them a better future. And if anyone ever tried to hurt them, even a city councilor, he'd smash a bottle over their head."
Rast's tone never wavered.
"I know he meant every word of it."
Then, after a pause:
"But in the eyes of an Evil God, that means nothing."
"All the good in a person's heart… all the sincerity, love, and devotion…"
"…are twisted into pure destruction and sadistic desire, until the person becomes nothing but a thinking beast."
He looked down at the corpse, voice quiet and cold.
"That is the curse known as the Iron Cross."