Глава 14

No matter how many tricks they have up their sleeves, they cannot conceal the blood.

I have removed the Confessarius illusions.

Once we go over there...

We'll find the real altar.

The truth is within reach.

However...

The shadow is also approaching.

It's cold. Way too cold.

You feel the temperature abruptly change again. Before you know it, you are surrounded once more by a thick, swamp-like fog.

...Sudaram!

How are there this many...?

This is the Nachzehrer's last line of defense in front of the true altar.

This is where Nezzsalem intends to stop us. He does not want us to get any closer.

The lament of the dead fills the air above the battlefield. The Nachzehrers' power... is almost at its very peak.

I have seen the dark clouds of death hanging on the horizon.

If the scorching sun no longer shines, I shall cast the light that pierces the fog here.

We will...

Cross over to the other side.

Find Salus, and destroy the Blood of Teekaz.

May the wails of the dead find some quiescence.

Logos lifts his hand and points to the other side of the canyon.

The congealing mist parts once more.

––'Ferry'.

Brief, yet powerful.

Logos seems to both be describing a physical action and uttering an incantation at once.

Originium crystals surge like waves in front of you, stretching all the way to the other side of the canyon until they form a narrow, but stable bridge.

The Nachzehrer King will come for us, and someone has to hold him back.

I will stay behind.

Logos! Just you, alone?

Amiya, do you still have the package I left with you before? Please give it back to me.

Of course, but––

Good. With this, there won't be any problems.

Now, go.

Death is pursuing you.

You run with all your might. Maybe it's Amiya who's pulling you, Mon3tr who's dragging you along, or Logos who's pushing you ahead with his incantation––

You hardly even feel your feet touching the ground, but it is as if a thousand bony hands are growing from the mist, trying to latch onto your ankles.

But, the aura of decay fails to reach you in the end. A formless barrier envelops your body, keeping the haze at bay.

You know that Logos's incantation is taking effect. In this moment, the Banshee's 'curse' feels so gentle and warm.

You hear something collapsing, and look in its direction.

The bridge has disappeared, just as quickly and cleanly as when it appeared.

The thick fog once again teems forth, impatient.

You search for that familiar figure, but perhaps because he is too far, or perhaps because the fog is too thick, you cannot see anything at all.

Is Logos in danger?;I'm a bit worried...

Doctor, this is the decision that elite operator Logos made.

He has the right to make his own tactical judgments based upon the situation at hand. He believes that it would be most beneficial for us to head to the real altar while he faces the Nachzehrers head-on.

Answer me, Doctor. Do you trust him? Do you trust elite operator Logos?

Yes.;I trust him.

Then, you should also trust that he will regroup with us when we are in need.

I understand your desires, scion of decay.

But, death should not be so cacophonous.

Quiet.

The whistle pierces through the thick fog, the incantation spreading in ripples.

Nothing needs to be spoken, nothing needs to be written...

The concealed dead have nowhere to hide. the Sudaram's piercing shriek forms into a longsword that shuttles through the fog.

The words from the whistle quiver, and the Banshee's song resounds––

Within the ancient bloodlines of the Sarkaz, in a valley choked with Originium, amidst the lamentations of countless people who fell in battle...

Flaming shells and witchcraft-imbued rounds intertwine in the skies above the battlefield.

A high-speed battleship crashes into a witchcraft bastion.

A small number of Victorian soldiers charge head-first into an entire squad of Nachzehrers.

The song grows louder and clearer.

When that song reaches its climax, the Nachzehrer soldiers fall into silence and stop attacking one after another, like motionless flags.

They no longer hunt.

At last, death has returned to the land.

War has come to answer your song.

The withered branches retreat in unison. They coil, then lie down, returning once more to their long-deceased forms.

The most hideous and ancient among them still seem to be struggling unwillingly, finally twisting into a scepter.

The tip of the scepter strikes the ground, and a figure emerges from the depths of the dense fog.

Aefanyl... The master of the Elegiac Court.

You chose to stay behind and face me alone.

The corners of his clothes flutter, as the fog disperses.

The Sudaram's white robes are scattered across the dense white hills of withered branches. Longswords lie fallen and shattered, like grass in a forest.

The young Banshee sits sideways atop the hill, his bloodstained fingers plucking at the bone whistle in front of his lips...

Gentle. Melodious.

No, Nezzsalem. There is no such master here.

Only Logos, elite operator of Rhodes Island, dressed to greet our guest.

I have crafted this opus upon death's motif, and I dedicate it to you.