After all, Belial had once been human and had received a proper basic education. Helping out would not cost him much effort. Even if he was no longer human, it had not been that long since he arrived in this world, and he had not thrown away all his morals yet.
As long as humans did not provoke him, he tried to restrain himself. "Though I do not know if they would trust me."
He was very aware of his appearance. A dragon dozens of meters long rushing in and slaughtering all the monsters could easily be seen as the real culprit. The only humans he had met before still left a strong impression on him.
The biggest problem was that he had not solved language or writing issues at all. Communicating with humans not even as tall as his finger would be difficult. He also did not know why these monsters were attacking the city so crazily, and their deranged behavior felt wrong.
"Maybe I should just watch from the side first. Hm?" Something lit up in Belial's mind.
"Special power detected. Template downloading, 1 percent to…" "Please download it again in a place with better network."
"…" Belial snapped his head toward the city, his expression turning fierce. "Looks like I have no choice but to go take a look."
"Praise be, for we shall return this world to the true heavens…"
The man was not tall, looking to be in his thirties or forties. The sealed space was dim, lit only by eight oil lamps that cast stubborn light and barely revealed things beyond normal endurance. He faced a heap of flesh piled into a shape that defied description and slowly reached out his hand.
Skin, muscle, and bone moved like clay as his hand slipped inside with ease, his fingers weaving through flesh, teasing blood vessels and avoiding bone. He spoke in an operatic tone, his steps like a dance, murmuring as if using his soul to pluck at vocal cords, gently probing into the warm chest cavity. Then he closed his hand around the heart.
"Lament, for we still gaze upon the false and fallen highest heavens…"
"Ah…"
His hand fluttered like a butterfly, black vapor forming thin needles that pierced skin and meat, moving between bone and muscle. He moved as if conducting an orchestra, using his hands as batons to pour emotion into the flesh. Even as low moans escaped, he squeezed the heart, pushed aside intestines, tapped each segment of the spine, and discarded all excess.
Yes, more perfect.
He guided muscle fibers and blood vessels, weaving them into a more reasonable and flawless form, leading them to cling again to bones shaped with greater beauty. The work was so fine it felt like carving patterns on a single grain of rice. His voice rose as he spoke of the imminent return and offered layered praise.
His expression grew feverish as his hand brushed over the body, and the blood obediently flowed back inside. The cut flesh closed like petals folding shut, wet and intact. Screams followed, stretched and broken, then reshaped into something rhythmic.
The rebuilt senses, amplified beyond measure, were awakened, and the perfected creation let out sounds that were almost pleasant. They were cries of pain, yet carried a strange order, as if everything had been arranged in advance. To him, it was singing, guided by a score he had written himself.
As he enjoyed the howls that pushed the soul toward collapse, the man admired his work once more. What had been twisted and ugly had shed impurity under his hands and become something more worthy of existence. Things that once rejected each other now fit together in full harmony.
He always looked forward to this moment after each creation. What could be more satisfying than turning ugliness into splendor with his own hands? With complete sincerity, he said, "I am an artist."
He repeated his familiar speech to yet another piece born from him, a scene replayed so many times he had lost count. He spoke of paintings, sculptures, and buildings he had seen, his tone casual. As he spoke, he poured Magic into a strange device beside him that seemed to breathe.
Vein-like energy channels gathered at its center, slowly flowing and lighting up unknown runes. The device extended countless needles connected by soft tubes, and deep within the gears, even rotating eyeballs were visible. All of it plunged into the mass on the ground.
"In the end, I realized those things were far too shallow," he said. "How long did it take humanity to be born and understand the idea of the self?"
He operated a massive instrument like a pipe organ, its controls merged into black and white piano keys. His ten fingers played as the machine pumped mixed fluids, unknown reagents, and strange blood into the body. The thing on the floor, once barely human, began to whimper with sounds that belonged to something else entirely.
Its body swelled as violent changes took place, showing many obvious traits, some even human. The octagonal pattern on the floor pulsed with faint light, rising and falling like breath. Seeing this, he nodded in satisfaction and continued in a high tone.
"Hundreds of years, thousands, or more?" he asked. "Wrong. All wrong. Everything we do is nothing but clumsy imitation of supreme art that already exists."
He kept the machine running as gears meshed and pistons pumped, dark red flesh visible within. Together with the massive ritual altar carved into the floor, the twisted spawn was further elevated. A power beyond the scope of magic filled the dark space, guided by the ritual to push it toward the limits of human understanding.
"What is the answer? It is obvious," he declared. "It is life."
"Yes, life," he continued. "Even measured in tens of thousands of years, how many such ages did the world need to shape life, the greatest miracle and the greatest artwork?"
"Human understanding takes up too little of that scale," he said. "What humans call art is only a tiny extension of life itself."
Realizing how worthless human-made art was, how could he be content? His voice overflowed with excitement and madness, and cracks spread across his body. Each crack looked like a mouth, with teeth and tongues trembling inside, along with organs that should not exist there.
It was as if he might shout with hundreds of throats at once, something writhing beneath his skin. In the end, he still kept his outward form intact and continued his rambling, gesturing wildly with his single visible mouth. He spoke of a brilliant idea for pursuing higher art, then suddenly paused.
Someone was knocking on the door outside, exactly as his preparations had predicted. The interruption displeased him, breaking the flow of his creation. Still, he believed an artist should have composure, so he dressed in a black wool jacket, put on a small top hat, took a cane, and lit an oil lamp.
He left the basement slowly. "This should be private land," he muttered as his head twisted slightly in place while he climbed the stairs. He recalled that the new addition to himself had relatives, perhaps children, and he had neglected those ties.
No matter, he thought. Anyone who interrupted such beautiful work could be used for practice. He adjusted his collar according to his new memories, sealed the hidden passage, and erased the last traces with flowing black light.
His shoes tapped the floor on purpose as he struck the cane. "I did not inform the guards of any visitors today, so that uninvited guest…" He passed a lifelike stag head carving and stopped at the door. "Who are you?"
There was no answer, only urgent knocking that shook the wooden door. His brow furrowed as unease crept in. He pressed the octagonal talisman deeper into his clothes and expanded his senses.
"…Icelis, don't…"
Outside, two people seemed to be arguing. From the sounds, he could tell they were two girls. Based on height and bone structure, he judged them to be fifteen or sixteen, with only one showing any Magic.
"Hmm?"
Before he could probe further, an icy cold seized his body, as if frozen water surged from his heart. His sensing field shattered like thin ice. Instinctively, he stepped back.
A thunderous crash followed as soul-freezing cold spread out. Massive ice lances burst through the ground and door, faster than snow, covering him in an instant. The entire house and ceiling were lifted by glaciers erupting upward, while a vortex of ice element surged above.
Suspended in the air was a girl with ice-blue hair, colder-than-snow eyes, and a detached expression as she looked down. Beneath her, the man was buried under layers of ice. From within, a many-fingered giant hand made of fused limbs broke free, its clenched fist opening like a blooming flower.
Still smiling and even adjusting his clothes, he looked up at her. "My lady, allow me to introduce myself. I am the most cutting-edge artist of this era. My name is…"
She did not respond. With a wave of her hand, a freezing torrent poured down like a waterfall.
The man's mouth split wide, tearing from the corner to his neck, countless throats beneath his clothes chanting together. "Salva Dorest greets you."
The ground shook as glaciers cracked, and innumerable limbs tore out from the earth.