Chapter 174: Choosing Sides

  Burt held his ground in the cemetery, his fists clenched as the robed figure loomed before him, eight red eyes glowing like embers, beneath the darkness under his hood.

  “You should feel honored,” the man said, his voice layered with an eerie echo. “Few get to witness the form divinity has gifted me. But soon, the people of your town will embrace it too. The grace of my deity extends far and wide, and through its blessings, we will all become something greater.”

  Burt exhaled sharply, his patience running thin. He had no interest in the fanatical ravings of a madman. His focus was on one thing—knocking this bastard into the dirt.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  With a burst of unnatural speed, enhanced by his magical bracer, Burt dashed forward, his fist surging with force, and aimed a brutal strike at the robed figure’s chest.

  The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the air, forcing the man back a few steps, but not much further.

  The figure barely flinched.

  Then he grinned.

  “You’re strong,” he admitted. “For a mere mundane.” He adjusted his posture, straightening, and the grin widened. “But strength alone will not be enough to withstand the transformation of this world.”

  Then, from beneath his robe, there was a sickening tearing sound.

  Burt’s eyes widened as eight grotesque spider-like legs burst from the man’s back, each one covered in thick black bristles.

  The tips of the legs were hollow, pulsating with dark energy, as if something vile was brewing within them.

  “You see,” the figure continued, his voice layered with disturbing reverence, “our world is shackled, limited by the frailty of human flesh. But our deity… our true god… has shown us a path beyond that weakness.”

  Burt gritted his teeth, his muscles tensing.

  And then, the eight legs reared back—and from each one, a torrent of dark purple mucus shot out, hurtling toward him like a rain of death.

  Burt dodged, weaving between the streams, his body moving on pure instinct. He could hear the mucus sizzling as it hit the ground, corroding the very earth it touched.

  He rolled, pivoted, then leapt forward—his tail lashed out, striking with deadly precision.

  A sharp gash appeared just beneath the hood of the robed figure, dark ichor seeping from the wound.

  The man snarled, stepping back.

  “You…” He touched his wound, examining the black fluid dripping from his fingers. Then, he laughed—a low, guttural sound. “I underestimated you. It seems this town has more resources than I thought. Two artifacts?” His eyes gleamed. “Once we take this place, I’ll enjoy picking through your little treasures.”

  Burt didn’t let the words shake him. Instead, he watched carefully as the robed figure shifted his stance.

  The spider legs began to move in eerie synchronization, the pulsating holes at their tips now merging together, converging into a single point at his back.

  Burt’s instincts screamed at him—Move!

  A massive dark purple mass formed at the center of the tangled limbs, pulsing with ominous energy before launching forward with terrifying speed.

  Burt’s tail lashed out, striking the projectile in midair—

  BOOM.

  The mass detonated, unleashing a thick purple mist that expanded like a living thing.

  Burt stumbled back, coughing violently. His vision blurred, and his limbs grew heavy. His breath hitched—there was something in the air, something that clawed at his lungs, at his skin, at his mind.

  Poison.

  The robed figure tilted his head, watching him struggle. “It’s over. Only a magical flaming power greater than mine can nullify the effect… and trust me, I've never met someone with a fire as potent as my poison”

  Burt clenched his fists, his body trembling. He tried to move, but his legs felt weighed down, his thoughts sluggish. He was still conscious, but his strength was fading fast.

  From the distance, the sounds of battle raged on—his lieutenants fighting the horde, Reinhart fighting for its survival.

  He couldn’t fall here.

  Not like this.

  Then—

  A voice rang out from the side, smooth and deliberate.

  “Now, that’s just rude.”

  The robed figure turned sharply, his glowing red eyes narrowing.

  From the shadows, a young nobleman stepped into view, his posture relaxed, but his eyes glinting with something far more dangerous.

  Burt forced his gaze upward, blinking through the haze.

  Hector.

  Dressed in fine noble attire, Hector looked completely out of place in the middle of this battlefield. But there was no mistaking the sharp confidence in his expression, the way he carried himself as if this situation was nothing more than an inconvenience.

  The robed figure frowned.

  Burt, despite his exhaustion, felt a flicker of hope.

  Whatever was about to happen next, he knew one thing—

  Hector Murman wasn’t someone to be ignored.

  Burt’s mind reeled at the sight of Hector standing there so casually as if he weren’t facing a monster in human skin.

  He had known that Abel claimed the Murman family was now on their side, but to see Hector, Ike’s own son, standing here like some kind of protector of Reinhart was a strange sight. Over a month ago, he was just another spoiled noble brat.

  And yet—here he was.

  Hector adjusted his noble coat, the fine embroidery glinting under the light. He offered Burt a sharp nod before turning his attention back to the robed figure.

  “Abel knew something was off,” Hector said, his tone as casual as if they were discussing business over drinks. “So, he sent me to help.”

  Burt coughed, still struggling against the lingering effects of the mist. He didn’t know what to make of this.

  The robed figure let out an irritated huff, his eight red eyes narrowing beneath the hood.

  “And who are you supposed to be?” the figure sneered.

  Hector smirked, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off stiffness. “Me?” His tone was light, almost amused. “Just a man trying to live a life without unnecessary struggles.”

  That made Burt’s brow furrow. No struggles? What the hell is he talking about? He’s a noble. He’s never had to struggle a day in his life.

  But something about Hector’s words felt different. There was an edge to them, a weight Burt couldn’t quite place.

  The robed figure clicked his tongue, clearly unimpressed. “Then I suggest you stay out of this. Do not create enemies you cannot handle.”

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  Hector sighed, stretching out his arms. “Unfortunate,” he mused, his body shifting as his right arm transformed into a gleaming metallic shield and his left into a sharp-edged blade. “But fear not. You, my friend, are not someone I can’t handle.”

  The robed man stiffened in surprise. “Another pseudo?” His fingers twitched as his pulsating spider legs shifted in agitation. “Fool. You will die for interfering with my deity’s will.”

  Hector’s smirk didn’t falter.

  He hated this power. He hated what it meant, what it had done to his body. But if using it meant keeping himself out of that wretched flower-covered hellhole, then so be it.

  Abel had saved him, pulled him from that nightmare, and if Abel said this was his role, then who was he to question?

  Besides… he had just finally finished hiring staff for his estate. It was comfortable again. He had luxury, warmth, and fine wine.

  He had no intention of losing all that.

  With an easy roll of his neck, Hector positioned his shielded arm in front of him, his sword-arm flexing.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said flatly as if already bored with the conversation.

  The robed figure hissed, his hunched body shifting forward in an unnatural motion, spider legs tensing like they were about to lunge.

  Burt, still weak from the poison, forced himself upright, clutching his bracer. He wasn’t out of this fight yet.

  Hector spared him a glance. “Be careful and stay alive, yeah?”

  Burt, still processing what was happening, nodded dumbly, stepping back just enough to regain his focus.

  He wasn’t about to sit out completely—he’d take down any of those cursed zombies that still crawled from the graves.

  Because whatever this cult was planning, he wasn’t going to let them overrun his town.

  …

  Lena stood firm in front of Elliot, her sharp feline eyes locked onto the robed man. His long, unnatural fingers twitched and shifted outside of his robe, moving with an eerie, almost hypnotic rhythm.

  The air between them was tense, crackling with an unseen pressure. The man’s eight glowing red eyes fixated on her with a gaze that held both amusement and irritation.

  “You’re making a grave mistake,” he rasped, his voice layered with something almost inhuman as he proceeded to heave and spit out a slimy green spider that scuttered away leaving a trail of slime behind. “This is your last chance to step aside.”

  Lena scoffed. “Yeah? How about you shut up instead?”

  Without another word, her body began to shift. Sand-colored fur erupted across her skin, muscles thickening with raw power.

  Her already tall frame became even more imposing, her stance one of a true apex predator. Her mane flared with a sandy gold glow, radiating an intense aura that pushed back against the cultist’s oppressive presence.

  The man’s red eyes widened slightly in surprise as he felt the shift in the atmosphere.

  He had expected a Pseudo, yes, but this… this transformation was seamless, potent, unlike the crude, unstable mutations he had seen before. She wasn’t just a pseudo—she was a peak pseudo without a doubt.

  His expression darkened. “Impressive. But no matter how powerful you think you are, devotion to my lord surpasses all. The gifts I have been granted ensure my victory.”

  Lena tilted her head slightly, feigning deep thought. “Hmmm. Is that so?”

  Then she lunged.

  Her movements were a blur, faster than he expected. He barely twisted out of the way as her claws slashed through the air, tearing through the space where his torso had been just a second ago. He let out a breath of relief—only to feel the sting of pain rip across his chest.

  A wooden sword had materialized mid-air—a phantom weapon that he hadn’t anticipated. It struck with deadly precision, carving a deep gash into his chest, drawing thick, inky blood that dripped onto the cracked stone beneath them.

  His breath took a pause. He stared at the female werelion wielding the long wooden sword. Where did that come from?

  Lena didn’t hesitate. She pressed forward.

  The man twisted, his unnaturally flexible body flipping and contorting in ways that should have been impossible, barely dodging the follow-up strike.

  Her speed was relentless, her attacks unpredictable. He could feel it now—she wasn’t just strong, she was dangerous.

  Pain pulsed from his wound, his mind racing.

  This shouldn’t be happening. Abel—the greatest anomaly of this town—was supposed to be gone. The timing was perfect. We accounted for every pseudo in the area…

  Yet this woman—this beast—had appeared from nowhere, throwing everything into chaos.

  Had they miscalculated? Had their research on Reinhart not been as thorough as they had thought?

  His red eyes narrowed. No, this wasn’t the time to fight to the bitter end. Taking Elliot alive might be harder than anticipated, and with Abel returning at an unknown time, their window was closing fast.

  The robed man took a sharp breath, exhaling in frustration. “Tch. It seems… our plans won’t be coming to fruition today.”

  Lena snarled, sensing his intent. She went for the kill.

  But before her claws could tear through his flesh, his entire body scattered into a million tiny spiders, each one skittering away in different directions, their countless legs clicking against the pavement in a disturbing symphony.

  Lena froze for a brief moment, watching the grotesque escape unfold. Then she clicked her tongue, disgusted.

  “Coward.”

  Elliot, still standing behind her, was wide-eyed. His hands trembled slightly as he exhaled, feeling the weight of what had just transpired.

  “You… you saved me.” His voice was breathless, filled with disbelief.

  Lena shook her furred form before reverting back to her human self, her golden mane receding, her sharp claws turning back into normal hands.

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, dusting herself off like it was nothing.

  Elliot looked at her, still amazed at the sheer difference in power from before.

  “You’ve really… changed.”

  Lena cracked a smirk. “Took you long enough to notice.”

  She then turned, glancing toward the chaos still happening across town.

  “You need to get to safety. Now.”

  Elliot hesitated, but he knew she was right. He gave her a firm nod before turning to retreat.

  Lena remained where she stood, eyes scanning the streets.

  …

  Back at the cemetery Hector and the robed figure stood motionless in the graveyard, the eerie silence between them broken only by the distant sounds of fighting and the rustling wind.

  The robed figure finally broke the silence as it seemed like he had just realized who Hector was, his voice carrying a mixture of amusement and derision.

  “I can’t believe it,” he mused, tilting his head. “Why are you here, Murman boy? Shouldn’t you be following your father like a loyal lapdog?”

  Hector’s face remained neutral, but inside, a fire flickered. He barely even knew his father—the name Murman meant nothing to him. Yet, the sheer confidence in the robed figure’s words, the presumption that he could get under his skin so easily, was annoying.

  The figure’s laughter was condescending, almost theatrical. “What a disgrace. A Murman playing hero? You should stop fooling yourself. Do you really think someone like you—some sheltered noble brat—can change anything?”

  Hector rolled his shoulders, exhaling slowly, the metallic sword-arm he had conjured raised in front of him. He forced himself to stay calm, though irritation crawled up his spine.

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Hector said, voice cold. “If you’re going to fight, fight. Otherwise, get out of my sight.”

  The robed man let out a low chuckle. Then, as if responding to an unspoken signal, a small green spider skittered up to his feet.

  Hector narrowed his eyes in disgust as the figure casually bent down, picked up the spider, and without hesitation, swallowed it whole.

  There was a wet crunch as his teeth sank into the tiny creature’s body. Hector suppressed the urge to recoil, feeling his stomach twist at the grotesque display.

  The moment the spider was devoured, the man froze. His eight red eyes pulsed, his entire body stiff for a moment as if processing some unseen information. Then his expression darkened.

  His voice, now stripped of amusement, came out as a low, grim whisper.

  “…So that’s how it is.”

  Hector tensed. “What?”

  The man took a step back, his many glowing eyes locked onto Hector’s face as if seeing him in a new light.

  “We will face each other again,” he muttered. “But not today.”

  Then, his entire body unraveled.

  A swarm of spiders burst from his cloak, thousands of them scattering in all directions like a living tide.

  Hector instinctively swung his sword, slashing through the wave of arachnids, but the mass of skittering legs and chittering bodies dispersed too quickly, vanishing into the cracks of the cemetery and the surrounding forest.

  Hector let out a slow breath, standing still, eyes darting around, trying to see if the man had truly left.

  Silence returned.

  Behind him, Burt had just finished slamming his bracer-powered fist through the final zombie’s skull, its disgusting body crumpling lifelessly to the ground. He stumbled slightly, breathing heavily, his skin pale and damp with sweat.

  Hector turned toward him, his own posture awkward.

  The truth was, he had no real idea what kind of relationship he had with Burt. His lost memories made everything frustrating, making even small interactions feel foreign.

  He didn’t know if he was supposed to respect the man, despise him, or feel indifferent.

  For a moment, he hesitated—then he simply said, “You good?”

  Burt blinked in surprise at the genuine concern in Hector’s voice.

  “Yeah,” Burt grunted. “Just… tired.”

  Hector’s eyes flickered toward Burt’s shaky posture, the slight discoloration of his veins, and the exhaustion that was more than just fatigue.

  “You’re poisoned,” Hector stated flatly.

  Burt let out a dry chuckle. “Wouldn’t be my first time.” Then, before he could say another word, he collapsed.

  Hector caught him before he hit the ground, gritting his teeth as he adjusted Burt’s weight onto his shoulder.

  At that moment, the sound of footsteps echoed through the graveyard entrance.

  Jenny and Samir emerged, both looking worn out, bruised, and covered in dirt. Their breathing was ragged, their uniforms tattered, their weapons dripping with ichor from slain zombies.

  The exhaustion on their faces was clear, but when Jenny’s eyes landed on Burt, her worry overpowered everything else.

  She rushed forward. “Burt!”

  “He’s alive,” Hector said before she could panic. “But he’s poisoned.”

  Jenny clenched her jaw, her green eyes burning with frustration. “Damn it… these bastards really went all out tonight.”

  Samir, still holding his flickering yellow lantern, let out a slow, shaky breath, surveying the ruined cemetery, the strange symbols, the remnants of whatever dark ritual had taken place here, and the results of the battle..