These subtitles, formed from dust, were primarily in Earth's script, with the specific content as follows:

  This Reincarnation Scenario:

  『《The Legend of Ansel IV: Battle of Sacred Blood》』

  This Reincarnation Mission:

  『Time limit 96 hours, kill Bennu, active deep within Laughing Canyon, and obtain its heart』

  Rewards for completing this mission:

  『Upon mission completion, all team members will each be rewarded with one 4-star scenario gem and 10,000 Reincarnation points.

  Note: This is an assessment mission; upon mission completion, the Lone Wolf Squad (Normal) can advance to the Lone Wolf Combat Team (Elite)』

  Penalty for not completing this mission:

  『Mission overdue, all members annihilated』

  Participants in this Reincarnation Mission:

  『Dueng, Suhan, Qunce, Loneng』

  Whoosh—

  The lines of subtitles floated for half a minute before slowly dispersing, turning back into ordinary dust and pebbles as they fell to the ground.

  "Battle of Sacred Blood... tsk, I didn't expect us to be dropped into this world this time.

  Fortunately, I have detailed intelligence on this series in my collection; otherwise, we'd be in serious trouble."

  Among the four, a bald youth named Suhan—wearing a peculiar multi-layered mechanical circlet with eight bundles of black and red tubes inserted into the back of his head, and a Hebrew letter symbol marked on his glabella—quickly pulled a sleek, near-future laptop from his black robe. He began rapidly browsing through data while addressing the others:

  "There are countless worlds chosen by the Divine, as numerous as the stars in the sky. Even though I've archived over a million works including games, books, movies, and manga, it's still never enough. Luckily, this time we actually have the data."

  Beside him, a burly man in black robes—his long sideburns merging into a thick beard—lazily pulled a dark brown cigar from his chest. With a sharp scratch of a match, he lit it and took a deep, raspy puff before asking: "Good work, Suhan. But based on your intel, is this world particularly problematic?"

  Suhan pondered for a moment. "Captain, this world is indeed a bit troublesome. Unlike our previous Reincarnation Scenarios, the world of 《The Legend of Ansel》 is far too vast, and the combat power scaling is incredibly high."

  The bearded captain, Dueng, frowned slightly. He reached out and patted Suhan's shoulder, speaking in a steady, deep voice: "Don't panic. We've conquered plenty of Reincarnation Scenarios before; this time will be no different."

  After reassuring his teammate, he asked: "So, what usable intelligence can you provide right now?"

  "Well..." Suhan rubbed the Hebrew letter symbol on his forehead. "Captain, the lore of this world is quite dense; I'll need to start from the beginning."

  "Fair enough." Dueng stroked his beard, exhaling a slow cloud of smoke. "Once we enter a Reincarnation Scenario, the Divine's 'perception-blurring' effect on the natives lasts for exactly 5 minutes. Use this time for a rough overview, because my gut instinct is screaming at me..."

  He looked up toward Walton on the high platform in the distance, his expression growing solemn: "The man on that platform is extremely dangerous. I'd estimate his Challenge Level... could easily hit 10-star, perhaps even a top-tier figure within that rank."

  "Hiss~" A tall, lanky youth standing further back, Qunce, clicked his tongue as he stared at the platform. "As expected of an Elite Team advancement assessment; we just casually run into a Guardian Boss from another scenario."

  He stretched his two unnaturally long, slender black fingers, vigorously stroking his green bangs as if to vent stress. Then he looked at Suhan: "Keep it brief. If the Divine's 'perception protection' wears off before we blend into the crowd and that man's suspicion falls on us, we're dead."

  "Don't worry, just a quick 'crash course'."

  Suhan chuckled and continued, "First, let me set the stage.

  This work, 《The Legend of Ansel》, originally started as a vague character system and a simple board game on some unknown parallel Earth.

  However, based on fragmented records, the Ansel board game was created on that Earth nearly twenty years before the first true video game ever existed. In fact, the mechanics and rules adopted by later video games actually originated from the Ansel board games, so..."

  "Video games?! Computer games? Maru? Marugami!"

  At that moment, the short, squat, curly-haired youth Loneng—who had been hunkered down playing his PSP—suddenly bolted upright as if triggered by a keyword. His face was a mix of confusion and fury as he craned his neck and yelled, "What are you doing, Marugami?! How can you people just know every day..."

  "Nothing, nothing," Suhan cut him off, quickly patting his head to soothe him. "Nothing happened, go back to your Marugami."

  "Oh, okay."

  Loneng nodded blankly and sat back down, returning to his meticulous gaming session.

  Dueng, the captain, watched the scene from the side. He inhaled sharply, turning more than half of his cigar into ash in a single breath. With a heavy, melancholic sigh, he exhaled a thick plume of smoke and lit a second cigar. Tilting his head back toward the blue sky, he murmured: "Karma... if it weren't for that 'Resurrection' ability, I would have long since..."

  At this moment, the green-haired youth, Qunce, vigorously rubbed his temples and asked: "Suhan, according to you, on that parallel Earth, was the earliest video game of 《The Legend of Ansel》 the ancestor of all digital entertainment?"

  "Video game?"

  "What are you doing, Marugami..."

  "Alright, alright, everything is fine."

  Suhan once again appeased the curly-haired man who had jumped up shouting, then continued, "Exactly. Moreover, as time passed, that board game evolved into a colossal franchise spanning live-action films, video games, card games, manga series, and multiple interconnected lore systems.

  The core of this world's design is the pursuit of balance and complexity. It incorporates an incredibly diverse range of fantasy elements while maintaining a strict equilibrium.

  For example, our current scenario, 'Battle of Sacred Blood,' is an open-world role-playing game based on the Ansel universe, which also happens to feature RTS elements.

  In a way, it’s similar to 《Warcraft》, which was once a phenomenon in the space-time of my home world. That was the height of my youth..."

  Before he could finish, noticing the captain's and the green-haired youth's impatient expressions, Suhan shrugged helplessly. "Fine, fine, I forgot you aren't familiar with Warcraft.

  To get back to the point, the 'Battle of Sacred Blood' scenario primarily encompasses the numerous archipelagos bordering the two rival factions: the Sea of Blood and the Glorious Kingdom."

  He gestured toward Walton, who was still delivering an eloquent speech on the high platform several hundred kilometers away. "In the game, players initially choose from several low-level classes: a Holy Church Legion soldier, an apprentice mercenary, an ordinary farmer, a pirate, or even low-tier monsters like ghouls, specters, or strange beasts.

  Also, it seems the creator of this franchise was quite partial to the concept of Witchcraft. The entire world of Ansel revolves around these 'witches'; almost every powerful individual is somehow tied to Witchcraft."

  "Witchcraft? Witches?"

  Qunce’s tone turned skeptical. "Are we talking about the kind of witches you find in the Harry Potter world?"

  "Not quite." Suhan shook his head. "The Witchcraft system in Harry Potter doesn't prioritize raw physical destruction; it’s more utility-based for daily life. However, certain high-level spells involving fundamental laws—like time, space, and causality—are exceptionally potent, take the Time-Turner for instance. You're the specialist in that field, so I won't bore you with details.

  That said, Ansel's world does share one similarity with the Harry Potter universe."

  His expression grew solemn. "And that is the saturation of supernatural power.

  In our previous Reincarnation Scenarios, supernatural forces usually remained hidden from the public eye, and ordinary humans still dominated the world's surface.

  But the world of Ansel is different. Here, the supernatural is everywhere—from provincial knights in small rural towns who can shrug off modern firearms, to high-tier witches capable of leveling mountains with a flick of a wrist.

  Whether judged by the density or the sheer intensity of powerful individuals, this world is utterly terrifying.

  Mortals devoid of supernatural abilities are nothing but ants; even if tens of thousands are slaughtered, no one bathes an eye."

  "Get to the point, Suhan."

  Dueng, cigar clamped between his teeth, kept his eyes on the distant platform. "The Divine's 'perception blur' is about to expire."

  "Understood."

  Suhan flashed a quick smile. "Apologies, my habit of rambling flared up again. Let's move to the main objective: the creature known as Bennu.

  This bird is an extreme rarity in the world of Ansel, found almost exclusively in a few isolated 'dead zones' within the Sea of Blood.

  As luck would have it, our hunting ground, Laughing Canyon, is located at the edge of Andrew Island, the seventh largest landmass in the Sea of Blood."

  "That bird definitely possesses some unique trait," Qunce stated confidently. "Otherwise, the Divine wouldn't have made its heart the target for our advancement mission."

  "Correct."

  Suhan’s brows furrowed. "According to intelligence traded from other Reincarnation squads, while the Bennu’s raw combat power isn't overwhelming—usually manageable for a few level-seven reincarnators—it has one incredibly frustrating ability: 'Brilliant Resurrection'.

  Once triggered, even if the bird is blasted into microscopic dust, it will instantly reform by absorbing external Primis energy. Worse yet, it will simultaneously teleport to a random location hundreds of kilometers away."

  "What a disgusting ability!"

  Loneng, still squatting on the ground, suddenly roared with bulging veins, "When you die, just stay dead! Stop coming back! Damn it, I'm out of healing items, you son of a...!"

  The three looked down to see him still hyper-focused on 《Marugami》. On the PSP screen, the boss he had just defeated had stood back up, entering its second phase with a full health bar.

  "Continuing on," Suhan said, ignoring the outburst. "In the 'Battle of Sacred Blood' lore, there is a specific side quest—optional but crucial for us. Completing it yields a cursed weapon called the 'Blade of Lamentation'. This blade can temporarily nullify the Bennu’s immortality, preventing its resurrection."

  *Tap ~*

  He struck a key on his laptop.

  With a flash, the device used a built-in projection system to display five nearly solid 3D holographic images.

  These were not people, but specific landmarks and structures:

  A massive, bone-white cathedral that radiated an eerie gloom; a jagged mountain range scarred by deep, smoking pits; a multi-layered dungeon beneath an active volcano, dripping with molten lava; a grotesque amusement park constructed entirely from blood, black flesh, and yellowed bone; and finally, a dark, narrow canyon swarming with black crows.

  "Based on all available intel and my own data models, I’ve calculated a viable mission path."

  Suhan pointed to the white church. "First, we head to the Bone Chalice Church to find the ghoul merchant and purchase a Witchcraft Secret Potion called 'Blood of Sorrow'."

  Next, he pointed to the smoking pits. "From there, we descend into the Blood Steel Tunnel to secure raw Blood Steel ore."

  He then shifted to the macabre amusement park. "Then, we infiltrate the Corpse Amusement Park to track down a monster known as 'Grandma Wolf', slay it, and harvest its fangs."

  Pointing to the volcano's dungeon, he continued: "We take these components—the ore, the Blood of Sorrow, and the wolf fangs—to the Exiles' Prison. There, a prisoner blacksmith can forge the 'Blade of Lamentation' for us."

  Finally, pointing to the crow-infested canyon, he concluded: "We bypass those venomous crows, push to the end of the canyon, and execute the Bennu. That is how we clear this mission."

  "Alright! Let's do it!"

  Loneng excitedly pounded his PSP buttons, his breath coming in jagged hitches. "I dare you to resurrect! Go on, do it again! Hahahaha!"

  The three teammates glanced down at the screen. Somehow, through a method known only to him, the curly-haired youth had just utterly decimated the Boss during its transition to the second phase.

  "Truly magnificent," Dueng remarked, clapping his hands in genuine praise. "Suhan, our team made the absolute right call in appointing you as our strategist."

  "Heh heh," Suhan rubbed his glabella with a tired smile. "It’s simply a matter of 'knowing yourself and your enemy to win a hundred battles.' Making decisions based on hard data and cold intelligence is always superior to relying on blind intuition."

  At that moment, Qunce’s voice sharpened: "The perception blur is about to expire."

  "Hmm?" Dueng and Suhan exchanged a knowing look. They immediately moved to grab Loneng, who was still hyper-fixated on his device.

  Curiously, the moment they laid hands on him, the curly-haired man’s demeanor shifted. He looked exactly like a middle-schooler caught by a teacher in the middle of class—his manic enthusiasm vanished instantly, replaced by a somber, deathly pallor. He mechanically shoved his PSP into his back pocket and followed his teammates, blending seamlessly into the growing throng of mercenaries.

  ...

  Whoosh— Whoosh—

  Blood-red clouds soared; gales swept through the heavens.

  The colossal Holy Church Fortress, as if hoisted by the hands of an invisible titan, surged with a terrifying, raw power as it 'waded' through the boundless Sea of Blood.

  The crimson sea surface, which usually remained in a state of perpetual boiling, was suddenly subjected to the fortress’s passing. The effect was akin to the detonation of tens of thousands of high-yield bombs. The sea rumbled and erupted in a chain of explosions that stretched for tens of kilometers.

  The violence of the movement was staggering—as if ten thousand colossal hands had descended from the heavens to fiercely gouge into the turbid depths of the Sea of Blood. Tons of vitalized blood were hurled into the sky, splashing in every direction and sending massive, rolling tidal waves across the expanse.

  Yet, this was merely the secondary effect caused by the fortress's displacement, observed from a distance above the sea surface.

  If one were to zoom in on the cross-section of the pháo ?ài's foundation, they would find thousands of silent, house-sized apertures arranged in a precise grid. These vents were rhythmically 'breathing,' inhaling the endless Primis energy and atmospheric gases from the outside world.

  Inhale— Whoosh—!!

  Exhale— Whoosh—!!

  The high-frequency respiration of the fortress’s base created a localized atmospheric environment that resembled a permanent, apocalyptic-level hurricane. It was terrifyingly unnatural.

  Towers of thick, visible air currents—like hissing white serpents—continuously coiled and twisted around the massive structure. They churned with such ferocity that the already chaotic aerial domain became a nightmare of turbulence.

  Through some unknown mechanism, these thousands of distorted, kilometer-long torrents of air would suddenly condense into rings of blazing white, semi-solid wind.

  The moment these wind rings formed, they would detonate with a deafening CRACK, transforming into concentric waves of destructive force. Like howling demons, these shockwaves blasted outward in all directions.

  It was this constant, violent field of air explosions that granted the Holy Church Fortress its illogical suspension and its overwhelming propulsion, allowing it to maintain a cruising speed of over 1000 km/h.

  While this speed was still shy of the sound barrier, the sheer mass of the object was what defied reason. The Holy Church Fortress weighed in excess of billions of tons.

  If this structure were ever launched in a reckless, self-destructive strike against the Eurasian continent, the resulting devastation would dwarf the impact of a Tsar Bomba.

  "This isn't just advanced technology; it's blacker than black-budget science," Suhan muttered under his breath.

  Peering through the barrier of the fortress wall at the terrifying explosion field outside, he typed furiously on his laptop, his brow furrowed. "This completely violates every law of aerodynamics. How do you create a chaotic, uncontrollable airflow of this magnitude? What’s the physical principle? Where is the power source? What framework handles the energy transmission? Even if we ignore the physics, it should be impossible to 'hold up' something this heavy, let alone fly it at these speeds!"

  "That is the majesty of Witchcraft," Qunce remarked, leaning against the bulkhead with a smirk, as if he personally shared in the achievement. "It is the art of turning the impossible into the probable—into miracles and myths."

  "That is the specific effect of the Ansel Witchcraft system," Suhan countered sharply. "What does that have to do with your particular discipline?"

  "Your perspective is too narrow. So-called Witchcraft is simply the technique of utilizing supernatural forces to influence or dominate people, events, and objects," Qunce replied, casually flicking his long bangs. "Even if the systems differ, they remain interconnected at a fundamental level."

  "I only put my faith in data and precise, measurable principles," Suhan said, shaking his head in a humble but firm refusal. "If I can’t explain it now, it’s simply because my current technology isn't advanced enough to grasp it."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  In response, Qunce pulled out a mysterious, black-bound volume he had acquired from somewhere and began to flip through it leisurely. Judging by the intricate script on the vellum pages, it was clearly a local Witchcraft grimoire.

  "Oh?" Suhan remarked, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "They originate from entirely different power systems; will studying that actually be of any use to you?"

  "It never hurts to broaden one’s horizons," Qunce replied, his voice calm and detached.

  As they spoke, the Holy Church Fortress completed its transit across hundreds of thousands of miles within the Sea of Blood, finally coming to a halt. It now loomed like a divine shadow over a colossal, obsidian-black island.

  At that precise moment, the Glorious Empire’s grand offensive against the Sea of Blood officially commenced.

  In a breathtaking display of mechanical and arcane mastery, the Holy Church Fortress—this celestial city—began to 'bloom' like a predatory rose.

  While its massive core remained stationary, the fortress’s four-sided ramparts, thick and impenetrable, suddenly fractured into a web of glowing fissures. Along these lines, the entire structure 'unfolded' in rhythmic layers. Hundreds of thousands of colossal 'petals'—engineered from reinforced stone and enchanted steel—extended outward, spanning the horizon in every direction.

  These 'petals' were intricately etched with shimmering, high-tier runic patterns. Each one served as a launch platform, bearing dozens of ship-shaped warships that flickered with the dazzling spiritual radiance of Witchcraft.

  Through the reinforced portholes of these vessels, one could see the silhouettes of armored legions standing in rigid formation. These soldiers radiated a surging, violent momentum, their spirits honed to a razor's edge, ready to be unleashed upon the world below.

  On the 'petals' situated toward the rear, the mercenaries participating in this Sacred Blood Campaign were assembling in a chaotic rush.

  Though their gear was a mismatched patchwork and their discipline paled in comparison to the regular Holy Church Legion, their individual life auras were markedly superior. Unlike the rank-and-file soldiers who relied heavily on Witchcraft armor to survive, these mercenaries were true practitioners—witches in their own right, with even the lowliest among them meeting the Apprentice standard.

  "It begins."

  Walton maintained his measured, cautious smile as he stood at the fortress's zenith. He occupied the Commander’s Square, a sanctum reserved exclusively for the elite high-ranking officers of the Holy Church Legion.

  He peered down at the armada of hundreds of thousands, an entire world of military might under his absolute command. His chest swelled with a cold, intoxicating ambition.

  "Patience... this is merely the prologue."

  The blonde youth’s lips curled into a faint smirk as he whispered to his own reflection. "In the not-too-distant future, scholars will spend lifetimes studying my history—the legendary rise of an unparalleled icon. Hahahaha."

  Swept up in a tide of emotion, Walton began to softly hum an old, half-remembered tune:

  "When a millennium has faded, and the world still bears my name... unable to tenderly hold your hand, or lightly kiss your brow~"

  As the slightly distorted lyrics left his lips, his form, encased in heavy Witchcraft armor, suddenly blurred into a shimmering cluster of radiant light.

  Hum—

  The light expanded rapidly, evolving within seconds into a complex geometric formation covering hundreds of square meters.

  Crystalline cracks echoed—

  The massive light formation shattered into brilliant dust, which dissipated into the howling gale. From the ruins of the light emerged twelve identical figures, dressed in identical robes—twelve Waltons.

  This was a forbidden Secret Art he could only sustain through his super-brain chip: Muse's Enigmatic Smile.

  Walton had acquired this technique during his first foray into the third-grade level, discovered while participating in an extra-dimensional expedition to a shattered Outerworld Secret Realm.

  That realm had been a broken, tragic place—a graveyard of a world. It was nothing more than a vast, putrid swamp filled with green, rotting corpses. It had clearly been plundered of its dignity; monsters, treasures, and lore were almost non-existent.

  Yet, Walton had endured the lethal toxins and the overwhelming stench, wandering that mire for weeks until he unearthed an ancient Secret Art inscribed in a cryptic, alien script.

  Upon deciphering the text through Witchcraft, he found the technique had only one function: the Doppelganger.

  It created a flawless, controllable duplicate—from the soul's will to the physical vessel and even the mana reserves. When activated, all attributes—mental power, life force, and combat capabilities—were distributed equally among the individuals.

  They shared a single hive-mind: one perception, one memory, one consciousness.

  Supported by the chip's near-infinite computational power, Walton had effortlessly bypassed the mental hurdles that typically crippled an Apprentice witch. He was only ten years old at the time.

  From then on, his ascent was meteoric. The title of 'genius' was no longer confined to mortal realms; it echoed through the highest circles of the Witchcraft elite.

  But this art was a trap for the unworthy. It demanded nothing of talent but everything of computational ability, total mental power, and spiritual will. The higher these three peaks, the more duplicates one could manifest.

  However, every doppelganger acting as a sensor in the world collected a staggering amount of sensory data. Those with inferior minds would quickly suffer from 'ego-fragmentation,' leading to an irreversible collapse of the personality.

  Even with a heaven-bestowed super-brain chip, Walton could only stabilize twelve selves. A single duplicate more, and his psyche would have detonated instantly.

  "This great war..."

  The twelve Waltons spoke in perfect unison, their voices overlapping in a haunting chorus. "Will be the furnace that tempers my power once more. Ah... ah ah ah!"

  Ooh—!!

  A deep, soul-shaking horn blast erupted, causing the sky and the sea to resonate in a low hum.

  In an instant, the Holy Church Fortress and its tens of thousands of battleships ignited with a blinding, celestial light. The eternal dark clouds and the suffocating blood mist were vaporized by the sheer intensity of the Glorious Kingdom's fury.

  Light returned to a world of shadow.

  Hum—

  A second later, the armada descended. Accompanied by deafening, majestic hymns that shook the atmosphere, the warships thundered toward the islands below like a million falling suns. They targeted the jagged rock forests and the cursed, bioluminescent jungles of the Sea of Blood.

  At the same time, the Waltons laughed in unison and transformed into streaks of light, plunging toward the archipelago. The mercenary groups followed in their wake, using flight spells, enchanted relics, or ritualistic tools to trail behind the primary warships.

  On one of the fortress's outer 'petals,' Qunce—who had been quietly absorbing the contents of his Witchcraft grimoire—casually extended a finger. He whispered a single command:

  "Levitation Spell."

  Hum—

  A localized gravity-defying field enveloped the four reincarnators. They lifted gracefully from the steel platform and began a controlled, spiraling descent.

  Since the Holy Church Fortress was cruising at an altitude of only two to three thousand meters, the improved spell brought them to the surface in mere moments.

  The four reincarnators touched down safely. Their landing site was a nightmare landscape of towering, grotesque stone forests that jaggedly obstructed their line of sight. Between the silent, monolithic pillars, a thick, predatory atmosphere hummed with danger.

  "Roar!!"

  Suddenly, seven or eight gaunt, feral ghouls lunged from behind a jagged bend in the stone monolithic pillars, charging with predatory ferocity toward the four reincarnators.

  But the group showed not a flicker of panic.

  Qunce calmly peeled off a black glove, fully exposing his left hand to the humid air.

  The sight was grotesque. Once the glove was removed, his fingers immediately elongated, twisting into five slender, dark-brown appendages covered in intricate, pulsing patterns.

  They were not fingers, nor were they branches.

  His left hand had been surgically and arcancely replaced with five slender, living wands.

  In the same heartbeat, he raised his arm, leveling it toward the panting ghouls rushing from several dozen meters away.

  Hiss— Pop—!!

  The sickening sound of tearing flesh echoed. Qunce’s forearm suddenly split open, revealing five distinct, tooth-filled mouths embedded in his muscle.

  The five mouths began chanting five different incantations simultaneously, a discordant cacophony of forbidden tongues. Each of the five wands flickered with a unique, surging mana signature.

  "All turn to stone."

  "Flesh to dust, bones to sand."

  "Fall into a daze."

  "Blazing flames."

  "Heart and bones hollowed out."

  BOOM—!!

  Red, black, and ash-gray mana converged into a devastating torrent of destruction that instantly scoured the path ahead for several hundred meters.

  The seven or eight unfortunate ghouls, along with the towering, obsidian-hard stone pillars around them, were instantaneously pulverized into steaming, scorched dust and fine debris.

  Even the sodden, muddy patches of earth beneath them cracked and vaporized, leaving behind only a trail of parched, shattered ground and scorched pits.

  "Tsk ~"

  Dueng slowly retracted three shimmering, silver-like claws etched with divine patterns that had emerged between his knuckles. His raspy voice chuckled, "Qunce’s reflexes are as lethal as ever."

  He then glanced at Suhan, who was already hunched over his laptop. "Is that church on this island?"

  "Yes," Suhan replied with a curt nod. "Approximately thirty kilometers ahead."

  With that, Suhan raised his arm and tapped a metallic, robotic wristband.

  Hum—

  Amidst a localized ripple in space-time, a sleek, disc-shaped craft resembling a silver UFO—roughly the size of a master bedroom—manifested in mid-air ten meters ahead.

  The other three expressed no surprise at the sudden appearance of the vessel. They followed Suhan's agile lead toward the craft, which hummed with a faint, pulsing laser-light.

  The four boarded via the gangway. Ten seconds later, the craft ignited with a brilliant flash and leaped into the sky, streaking toward the horizon toward the Bone Chalice Church.

  ...

  Meanwhile, several thousand kilometers away from the outer archipelagos of the Sea of Blood, an unexpected storm battered the coastline of the Glorious Kingdom.

  Whoosh— Whoosh—

  The wind howled; the waves raged in a chaotic fury.

  A massive fleet of dozens of troop transports, laden with thousands of soldiers, had long since cleared the harbor. Now, they battled the unnatural heavy rain as they forged deeper into the dark ocean.

  Each vessel bore a prominent emblem on its hull: a longsword superimposed over a round sun shield—the Holy Sword Sun. This fleet belonged to the Glorious Kingdom, currently en route to reinforce the Holy Church Fortress.

  Rumble—!!

  Lightning tore through the blackened sky.

  Whether it was raindrops or ocean spray swept into the heavens, the water poured down in a thunderous roar upon the massive ships below.

  Under the cover of this tempest, a phantom of light—accompanied by a serpentine bolt of lightning descending from the clouds—struck the sea surface just behind the fleet.

  BANG—!!

  Water geysers erupted violently. Within the spray, the light phantom suddenly solidified.

  The figure was none other than Seraphine.

  "World of Ansel... Realm of Phantasm..."

  Hovering above the surging waves, Seraphine, in her dreamlike, ethereal form, offered a faint, chilling smile. "I have finally arrived."

  "However..."

  She lowered her gaze to her translucent hands, a note of dissatisfaction coloring her voice. "Tsk. I am currently little more than a ghost or a wandering spirit, devoid of a physical vessel.

  Furthermore, my energy reserves are pathetic—barely equivalent to an Evershield Body. Hmm... I require 'rations' to fuel my growth."

  Seraphine slowly raised her head, her eyes flickering with a predatory light as she watched the distant transport ships ahead.

  "Weariness... anxiety... sorrow... Yes, the surging, volatile emotions of wrath are almost overflowing from those hulls.

  And yet... they are all suppressed. Smothered by their own timid hearts? Haha, that simply won't do."

  With a thought, Seraphine's form dissolved into a brilliant, needle-thin thread of cutting wind. With a sharp whoosh, she streaked toward the troop transport that was currently groaning and rocking in the violent waves.

  Whoosh—

  As this unnatural wind drafted through the hull, a faint voice—reaching directly into the soul—began to resonate:

  "Release the pressure. Do not hesitate; do not fear. Open the gates and unleash the demons within; let them scream, let them roar."

  Crack! Crack! Crack!!

  Thunder erupted in a violent cadence as the torrential rain hammered the steel.

  In many ways, the contrast between the raging storm outside and the stifling, quiet warmth of the cabins served only to deepen the crew's melancholy.

  The soldiers aboard this rear transport were no exception.

  They sat in restless suspension, waiting for the evening meal to be served so they could finally drink themselves into a stupor and crawl into their bunks.

  However, since dinner was delayed, the men huddled together in their cramped quarters, killing time with idle gossip and stained decks of cards—clinging to this fleeting tranquility before the inevitable horror of the front lines.

  But while the soldiers endured the silence, the galley at the stern of the vessel was a scene of brightly lit chaos.

  The chefs and kitchen staff were engulfed in a frantic, bone-wearing labor, their feet barely touching the grease-slicked floor. They were tasked with fueling thousands of sailors and the massive contingent of infantry—a Herculean feat of logistics.

  A sailor might be satisfied with a simple biscuit, but soldiers destined for the trenches of the Sea of Blood required hot rations; there could be no delay.

  Consequently, the young head chef—the captain’s own son—was in a state of volatile irritability. His once handsome features were twisted into a mask of anxious fury.

  He stalked the galley, bellowing orders to keep the staff moving at a breakneck pace.

  A newly recruited apprentice, still clumsy and unfamiliar with the high-pressure environment, found himself the primary target of this wrath. "You're hideous and your work is pathetic!" the head chef roared. "You're nothing but a mutated slug!"

  Whirling around, the chef turned his venom on the apprentice's mentor, a squat, balding old man. "Is this the trash you’re training? You’re serving oysters without properly cleaning them? If the legionnaires get sick, who answers for it? Will you take the fall? Well?!"

  "I will discipline him, please, sir, don't be angry," the old man stammered with an awkward, subservient chuckle. He turned and delivered a stinging slap to the apprentice's face. "What are you staring at, you idiot? Get to work!"

  The apprentice merely scratched his head, offering a hollow, forced smile to the cold chef and his fuming master before scurrying back to the oyster bins.

  Once the head chef had finished venting and stormed off, the old man wiped the spittle from his cheek and lunged at the boy again. "Can you stop making me look like a fool every three days? Are you truly brain-dead? Pay attention! Do you hear me?!"

  The apprentice simply lowered his gaze, his voice a dull monotone: "Yes, yes... I'll be more careful. I won't slip up again."

  "You’re all talk and no talent. If your uncle hadn't begged me to take you on, I’d have thrown you overboard months ago!"

  "Yes... you're right. I'm sorry."

  The old man shook his head in disgust and hurried back to his station, leaving the boy alone.

  The apprentice sat on a rickety small stool, hunched over a massive iron basin. He began washing the oysters one by one, his face obscured by the flickering overhead lights, his expression unreadable.

  In the middle of his mechanical labor, a voice—seemingly distant yet piercingly intimate—suddenly invaded his ears.

  It was a sound that bypassed every layer of his psychological defense, plunging directly into the darkest, most hidden recesses of his consciousness.

  The voice spoke with a chilling, clinical precision:

  "You are a picture of mediocrity. Weak of frame, small in stature, slow of mind... an orphan with nothing to his name. You cannot find passion in anything, because you are too terrified to try.

  For years, no one has cared for you; and of course, no one has truly loved you. You have no skills, no legacy, no single achievement to call your own.

  You feel utterly incapable, a soul weighed down by a leaden weariness. So you have built a cage, locking yourself away in a tiny, pathetic world—endlessly fueled by self-loathing and resentment."

  There was a demonic, hypnotic quality to the tone. From the very first syllable, the apprentice began to tremble violently. He felt spiritually naked, as if his very essence were being dissected and exposed under a harsh, unforgiving light.

  "Amidst this cycle of self-blame, a desperate, powerless yearning for change gnaws at your vitals.

  You are lonely, and you see no hope for the future—not a single glimmer.

  You believe you are destined to rot at the bottom of the world, trapped by a fate you cannot escape.

  But what is truly agonizing is your clarity: you know your misfortune isn't the fault of others. It is simply that destiny has never bothered to look your way.

  Yet, despite this knowledge, you are consumed by jealousy. You resent those with families, those with beauty, those with silver tongues and bright horizons.

  You know this envy is a poison, but what else do you have left? Ah, yes... you still have your stubbornness. The stubborn belief that you were born for something greater, that your life won't end in obscurity, that you will eventually find the love of your life.

  What a tragic, useless stubbornness. It is the only thing keeping you tethered to this world—your last shred of dignity, your final spark of arrogance."

  Upon hearing those words, the apprentice ground his teeth, his gaze hardening. Intense, flickering streaks of light began to bleed into his predominantly gray eyes.

  "Jealousy breeds anxiety; anxiety births sorrow; sorrow descends into grief; grief leads to isolation; and isolation... culminates in agony."

  That purely demonic voice whispered from the lightless depths of his soul:

  "So... you truly have nothing left. Why worry? Why hesitate? Since you believe this world is indebted to you, reach deep down, tear out the pain festering within, and hurl it with all your might at the source of your suffering."

  Hiss— hiss—

  Amidst a wet, gurgling sound, the apprentice suddenly snatched up an unwashed oyster, prying the shell open with his bare fingers.

  Crack!

  The jagged, razor-sharp edge of the shell failed to leave even a scratch on his skin.

  He brought the raw oyster to his mouth, slurping and devouring it. He completely ignored the overwhelming stench of brine, eating with a mindless, frantic hunger.

  "You envy the head chef. You loathe his insults. Since he branded you a 'slug,' then embrace that power... and retaliate with all the fury of the earth."

  The demonic voice faded into the shadows.

  As the apprentice continued to gorge himself on oysters, several dark, visceral holes split open on his exposed arms and legs.

  Moments later, a dozen thumb-sized slugs, trailing a path of murky slime, crawled rapidly out of his flesh and tumbled into the large iron basin.

  Gurgle— gurgle—!

  Upon hitting the water, the slugs fell upon the oysters with a predatory greed, draining every drop of fluid with a single, sickening bite.

  In a flurry of bubbles and wet sounds, the entire basin of oysters withered and shriveled, their vitality utterly consumed.

  These were no ordinary creatures; they were blood-sucking, venomous parasites.

  Hiss—!

  Suddenly, the apprentice kicked his chair aside and stood. Without a word to anyone, he walked out of the kitchen.

  With every step he took, his downcast eyes flushed deeper with red, until they were the color of fresh blood. Within those crimson pupils, a tyrannical and maddened malice began to stir.

  Simultaneously, that same demonic voice echoed within the minds of the hundreds of thousands of souls aboard the massive vessel. Under its influence, a chaotic and violent transformation began to take root in their thoughts.

  Ten minutes later.

  Inside the captain’s quarters.

  Captain Andrew sat back in his reclining chair, savoring his pipe.

  At fifty years old, his life had been defined by the sea. He had started his career as a sailor before he was twenty, struggling for decades until finally, five years ago, he earned the rank of captain.

  Once this final mission—transporting the Holy Church Legion troops—was complete, he could retire with honor and return home to his grandchildren.

  "I hope the voyage remains uneventful," the old captain muttered to himself.

  While he was lost in visions of his future, the first mate suddenly burst through the door, his expression frantic.

  The captain’s face immediately hardened. He sat upright and asked in a low, commanding voice: "Report. What has happened?"

  The first mate stammered, his voice trembling: "Your son... he... he was found dead on the deck, sir."

  "What?!" The captain’s world spun; he nearly collapsed from his chair.

  The first mate rushed forward to steady him. "Captain! Are you alright?"

  "I am fine," the old captain wheezed, his voice turning hoarse with grief. "Help me... get me to the deck at once!"

  The first mate hesitated, his eyes filled with dread. "I strongly suggest... that you do not go, sir."

  "Oh?" The captain stared at him with hollow eyes before roaring, "I cannot even see my own son?!"

  "No, sir, it’s not that," the first mate shook his head quickly. "It’s just... the manner of his death. It was horrific. His entire body was riddled with holes... he was drained, sir. Every drop of blood... sucked dry."

  "Ugh..." Upon hearing those words, the captain’s eyes rolled back, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  At that precise moment, the half-closed door was violently kicked open. A grizzled sailor, his face a mask of primal fury and drenched in fresh blood, stormed in clutching a jagged blade. Upon sighting the stunned captain and first mate, he let out a guttural roar:

  "You two have spent years breaking my back! Stealing my wages! Denying me rest! Keeping me from my home! I'll carve the life out of you both! DIE!!"

  With the beast-like howl of a man lost to madness, he fell upon them. Within seconds, the captain and first mate were hacked into unrecognizable remains upon the cabin floor.

  Before the old man could even draw a ragged breath, a young sailor, his face twisted into a manic, wide-eyed grin, lunged into the room. He wielded a splintered mop handle like a spear and drove it deep into the old man’s back. One strike was not enough; he lunged again and again—seventeen, eighteen times—until the elder collapsed in a heap. The youth shrieked with a high-pitched, ferociously sharp edge:

  "You old parasite! You cheated me of every coin, even used my name to scam money from my own mother! You never taught me a thing; you were never a master, just a leech! Rot in hell!"

  He punctuating his words by driving the makeshift stake into the corpse with rhythmic, savage force.

  "KILL THEM ALL!"

  "HACK HIM TO PIECES!"

  "HAHAHAHAHA!"

  "DIE! JUST DIE!"

  A cacophony of bloodlust—screams, frantic yelling, and agonizing roars—echoed incessantly from beyond the cabin walls.

  From the claustrophobic quarters to the open deck, the scene was a vision of the abyss: the wood was slick with gore, and the remains of men lay scattered like discarded offal. Every survivor shared the same trait—eyes burning with a terminal, blood-red intensity. They wielded whatever tools of death they could find—cleavers, clubs, jagged planks, and table legs—locked in a mindless, reciprocal massacre.

  This was not isolated to a single deck.

  From the deepest hold to the highest mast, every corner of the vessel had become a slaughterhouse where men butchered each other blindly. Through this bizarre and terrifying carnage, waves of palpable fury, hatred, and agony began to condense, surging toward the heavens like a dark exhalation.

  Simultaneously, across the entire horizon, dozens of other troop transports were succumbing to the same fate. Whether near or far, every ship became a stage for a full-crew melee.

  Soldiers and sailors alike slaughtered indiscriminately, driven by nothing more than the need to vent the ceaseless, boiling wrath consuming their hearts. As these emotions peaked, they transformed into black, spectral torrents that shot into the sky.

  Rumble— Rumble—!!

  The concentrated hatred of hundreds of thousands of souls, accumulating in the boundless sky, suddenly coalesced into a colossal, spinning vortex. As the fleet below fell silent in death, the vortex solidified.

  Within minutes, the Holy Church Legion transport fleet was utterly annihilated. The vortex, now gorged on death, condensed into a single humanoid entity.

  Hum—

  A flash of cold, brilliant light erupted, and the entity took on the form of Seraphine.

  The aura she now radiated—which had been a faint, near-nonexistent flicker just twenty minutes prior—had suddenly surged, ascending to the Morningstar level. By harnessing boundless wrath and hatred, Seraphine had manifested from illusion into a physical reality, forging a body from the very essence of human malice.

  "Hoo—"

  She slowly opened her eyes, a leisurely, satisfied smile playing on her lips. "Finally, a foundation of strength. It’s a modest beginning, but tolerable... and yet..."

  Her seemingly material form descended, standing weightlessly upon the dark blue, undulating surface of the sea.

  "How fascinating! Only after truly stepping into this Realm of Phantasm—positioned at the very edge of the Sentience Realm and woven from the collective imagination of countless beings across parallel realities—have I discovered its true nature."

  Seraphine spread her arms wide, her smile deepening. "The space-time structure here is remarkably porous; the rules governing matter and energy are little more than an illusion. It is... an empty shell!"

  With a casual, fluid motion, she swept her slender palm toward the lifeless, drifting fleet ahead.

  BOOM!!

  An incredibly tyrannical surge of mana erupted from her fingertips. It thundered through the air, splitting the heavens and the sea as it tore toward the massive steel vessels.

  CRACK— CRACK— CRACK—!!

  RUMBLE—!!

  Following a deafening explosion, the entire fleet—carrying the hundreds of thousands of corpses of the Glorious Kingdom—was reduced to fine, gray powder. The impact momentarily gouged the sea surface, revealing a hideous, yawning trench hundreds of meters wide. Seconds later, millions of tons of seawater rushed back in a deafening surge to fill the void.

  "And furthermore..."

  Seraphine tilted her head back to look at the turbulent sky, where lightning and torrential rain danced across a gray firmament. Her eyes became chaotic and hollow as she began to peer into the deepest 'structure' and 'composition' of this Ansel world.

  In an instant, the winds, the rain, and the lightning were stripped away by her perception. Her sight reached the precision of fundamental particles; her super-dimensional consciousness transcended the limitations of 3D structures. Layer after layer of the world's veil—the 'Chasm Giant'—were torn away until she reached the ultimate origin.

  Molecular, atomic, sub-atomic, the nucleus—she pushed further until, at the level of fundamental particles, she finally saw the truth.

  "So that's it! So that's it!"

  Seraphine’s eyes widened, erupting with light. Her surroundings blurred and dissolved into the distance.

  Whoosh—

  Whoosh—

  Torrents of data and energy—real and illusory, present and absent—swept past her at unimaginable speeds. She felt herself standing perfectly still within a colossal current of infinite scale. Within this peculiar torrent, every millimeter was saturated with strands of materialized Information flow.

  In her meticulous perception, the entire world of Ansel, and the broader Realm of Phantasm, appeared to be a construct of this unknown current. It was like a beautifully rendered 2D animation: the characters might seem to sit serenely by a river, fishing in silence, but in essence, every movement they make is a composite of countless static drawings overlaid in sequence.

  "This torrent... is a composite of imaginary mass and materialized information."

  Space-time twisted and buckled around her. As her own physical image began to blur, Seraphine realized the final truth:

  "That's it. The matter within this torrent is imaginary mass; they are the theoretical superluminal particles—Tachyons!"

  In an instant, the fundamental architecture of the Realm of Phantasm was laid bare to her. Unlike the real universe, this realm was built upon a skeleton of endless Tachyons, with Information serving as its flesh and blood. It was only when this structure received the imaginative energy of sentient beings from 3D space-time that it could expand into a vast, seemingly tangible world.