Chapter 483: Madness
“Dead,” Death muttered with relief. “Like I thought. Just a mor—”
His words stopped mid-sentence, and a chill like no other raced up his spine.
Fear.
Yes… he felt it.
Not the kind mortals feel.
No. This was instinctual, primal. The gut-deep awareness of something that should not be happening.
Without wasting any time, he got to his knees and stared at Julian’s body with wide, shocked eyes. His hands trembled as it reached out, fingers touching the cold skin… and… he froze again.
“Fucker…” Death cursed, horror creeping into his voice. “He’s dead—but his soul… it’s not here.”
He clenched his jaw, every fiber of his body revolting against him.
“Where is it?” he growled. “WHERE IS IT?!“
His gaze swept around the chamber, but there was nothing. Just a hollow absence that screamed louder than presence itself.
With a roar, he lunged his arm forward, summoning the same void spear that had once ended Julian Easvil. The weapon cracked the air as it formed, casting everything with a deathly, red glow.
He hurled it forward, not at anything in particular—but everywhere. Again. And again.
“FUCK—FUCK—FUCK!!” He howled, his voice tearing through the room.
The pain of his energy revolting—once so absolute, now betraying him—was unbearable.
Impossible.
And yet, it was happening.
The furniture shattered, wood splintered midair. Marble cracked, stone ripped from foundations. Chandeliers crumbled into dust as the castle walls tore and split, suffering from the fury of an angry god.
Aryl and Shayla, who were lost in their dreams, snapped awake, their bodies still weak from their act with Julian. Gasping, their hearts thundered at the oppressive aura as it blanketed the very air.
Their eyes locked instantly on the figure floating midair, radiating an aura that defied comprehension.
“W-Who are you?!” Aryl cried, grabbing the nearest cloth to cover herself.
The figure didn’t move.
Didn’t see them.
Death stood in the heart of the wreckage, completely absorbed in his rampage—his eyes wild, mouth twisted in maniacal rage. Another spear formed in his hand, and he flung it to the far wall, tearing through it as if it were paper.
“WHERE DID HE GO?!”
***
Somewhere in the unknown land, a vast grassland stretched as far as the eye could see. The grass stood tall, almost human-sized, and swayed gently in the warm breeze.
Dotted across the landscape were clusters of rocks and shallow ponds, where some strange creatures moved freely. Some nibbled at the towering grass; others sprinted playfully.
“Rokky! Where are you?” A young boy’s voice echoed through the field.
The creatures nearby froze for a moment, startled by the sudden sound, before scattering into the sea of grass.
The boy stood still, panting lightly. His skin was tanned, and his short brown hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. A thick wooden staff hung across his back, and his clothes were simple and rough. He turned in a full circle, eyes scanning every ripple in the field, trying to catch any movement.
“Rokky!” he called again.
swoosh… swoosh
Only the wind replied, making the tall grasses flutter in the breeze.
The boy frowned. “Come on, not now… You said you’d help me find the treasure today.”
He took a few careful steps forward, parting the grass gently with his fingers.
“Father will be mad if I’m late again to the village gathering,” he muttered, his voice laced with both worry and frustration.
He stood still for a few more seconds, hoping—just hoping—he might hear a rustle or anything from Rokky.
But there was nothing.
Before him lay the dense inner region of the grassland. It stretched endlessly, and the grasses there were even thicker than anywhere else.
Every child in the village knew what it meant to step in there.
Danger Zone. Forbidden by the Elders.
The old stories spoke of beasts that could mimic voices. Of shadows that walked without bodies. Of brave men and women who entered… and never came back.
The boy clenched his fists. “Stupid Rokky… Why do you always run off here?”
Still, no answer.
Letting out a deep sigh, he turned away from the tall wall of grass. “I’ll get scolded again,” he whispered to himself.
And with heavy steps, he began walking back toward the distant silhouette of the village.
It was modest but well-kept, encircled by a wooden fence made of thick logs. The boy dashed through the main gate and sprinted past the smaller huts, heading straight toward the largest structure at the village’s heart.
It was a bulky, tall house, built from dark timber and reinforced with stone at its base.
The door stood open, and from inside came the soft murmur of voices.
Rael stepped in, his breathing heavy, and quickly assessed the room. The small hall was crowded. People sat cross-legged on the floor, some chatting in hushed tones, others already silent. All their gazes occasionally drifted to the raised platform at the front.
On top of it stood two figures.
An old man, hunched and weak, with a beard that reached his chest and hair the color of snow. His wrinkled hands rested on a wooden staff that helped him stay straight. He wore a long robe and had a symbol of something stitched near the collar.
Beside him stood a woman, slightly younger in appearance, with a few strands of white in her dark hair.
Rael quietly found a spot in the back and slid down next to a man whose features mirrored his own—broad nose, thick eyebrows, strong jaw. His father.
“Father… I am sorry,” Rael whispered, keeping his eyes low.
The man turned slightly towards Rael, his tone calm but firm. “Rael, you’re here. We’ll talk about this later. For now, listen to the chief.”
Rael nodded, swallowing his nervousness, and turned his attention to the front just as the old chief raised his staff and tapped it twice against the wooden floor. The room fell completely silent, every villager now focused on the man who held their past, present, and future in his frail hands.
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