Location: Yangtze River Drowned Temple 7:30 AM
Katzuki's vision flickered in a haze of black and red, the edges of his consciousness fraying with each step. He staggered through the ruins of an ancient city its once-grand towers now crumbling into the earth, swallowed by the relentless flow of the river. The air around him felt thick, oppressive, as though the weight of ages had settled on his shoulders. The cries of the damned wailed in his ears, but they were not his burden anymore. Not yet.
The Drowned King's Herald, a grotesque, bloated abomination, sank slowly into the black muck of the river. Its bloated form dissolved as its rotting flesh met the cold water, and the echoes of its screams merged with the wailing winds. Katzuki didn't feel victory. He felt hunger. A deep, gnawing emptiness that clawed at his insides. It wasn't his body; no, it was something far worse. His soul, a hollowed-out shell, twisted by the plague of his past and the curse of the Echo-Steel, howled for more.
But the true nightmare had yet to emerge.
The Lord of Ghostly Calamity.
A god, once revered, now twisted into a thing of shadow and storm. He rose from the depths of the ancient temple, his presence bending the very air around him, distorting the space between worlds. His form was an amalgamation of darkness, an ever-shifting mass of void and rage. The earth trembled beneath him as if even the soil itself quivered in terror. The storm above roared to life, churning with violent winds and flashes of crimson lightning. Yet, to Katzuki, it was just another storm. A storm that would pass.
His armor, once sleek and purposeful, was now a brutal, jagged thing blackened metal streaked with veins of molten gold, a fitting reflection of his soul's corruption. The hunger within him hummed, vibrating like a weapon poised to strike.
Beside him stood the Plague Doctor a figure of silent death. The mask he wore gleamed under the storm's light, its hollow eye sockets filled with an unsettling glow. The mask was ancient, scarred with the marks of its past, yet it seemed to pulse with an energy of its own, feeding off the suffering that hung in the air like a toxic miasma.
The Plague Doctor's gaunt frame radiated a quiet fury. His voice, when it came, was a dry rasp: "I can feel it," he muttered, his hand tightening around a vial of crimson liquid. "The mask wants blood. It hungers."
Katzuki's human eye, now burning with an unsettling gold hue, flicked to him. "Let it feast," he growled, the hunger in his chest a constant reminder of the monster he had become.
The Lord of Ghostly Calamity's voice echoed through the ruins, guttural and ancient, like the grinding of tombstones: "You cannot escape what you have become, Kur-Bai'el. You cannot run from your sins."
Katzuki's lips curled into a vicious snarl. "I'm not running," he spat, his voice thick with rage. "I'm not hiding from shit anymore."
The Lord of Ghostly Calamity let out a laugh deep and malevolent, the sound of grinding stone and twisted, tortured souls. "Then die."
The world exploded.
The Lord's colossal form surged forward, his massive hand crashing into Katzuki's chest with a force that shattered the earth beneath them. A sickening crack filled the air as Katzuki was sent hurtling into the remains of a collapsed column, the impact splitting his ribcage. Pain radiated through him, raw and savage, but it did not cripple him. No, it fed him. The hunger inside him roared to life, devouring the pain, using it to fuel the growing fire within.
He groaned but didn't fall. His armor groaned in protest, leaking black ichor from the fresh puncture wound as he pushed himself to his feet.
The Plague Doctor moved. Silent, swift, and deadly. He was a shadow in the storm, a figure of retribution, his hands a blur of motion as he hurled a vial into the air. The crimson liquid exploded, sending a cloud of blood into the air like a blooming flower of death. The mask's eyes flared, glowing brighter with each passing second. The very air around them seemed to warp, as though reality itself bent to the mask's will.
With a flick of his wrist, the Plague Doctor unsheathed a dagger ancient, cursed, and sharp. The steel shimmered with an unholy light, as though it had been forged from the very essence of suffering. His arm moved with lightning speed, cutting through the Lord's soldiers like they were nothing more than straw. But each strike, each slash, was more than just a wound it was a meal for the mask. A feast of agony, devouring the life essence of each soldier with terrifying hunger.
The Lord of Ghostly Calamity recoiled, its face warping and shifting as the tormented souls within it screamed in unison. The storm raged around them, but it faltered in the face of the Plague Doctor's power.
"Enough!" the Lord roared, its voice twisting into a thousand dissonant whispers. "You cannot hope to defeat me, thief!"
The Plague Doctor didn't speak. His mask, however, responded. The blackened face contorted, warping into something grotesque. From the empty sockets of the mask, a shrill, bone-chilling screech erupted pure and primal, a cry of anguish that tore through the air like a dagger through flesh. The Lord screamed, but it was not his own scream. The mask had taken it. Devoured it.
The Plague Doctor's eyes flared, the only visible sign of his intent. "Now, it's your turn," he whispered.
Without hesitation, the Doctor lunged. The dagger, no longer just a weapon, but a conduit for the mask's dark energy, flared with an unholy light. It hummed as it plunged deep into the Lord's flesh. The blade twisted, the sound of cracking bone and tearing sinew filling the air. The Lord's body writhed in agony, the dark power within the mask siphoning the very life from him.
The Lord's eyes bulged as his essence was torn from his body. His body spasmed, the twisted amalgamation of godhood and nightmare unraveling before their eyes.
"No!" the Lord screamed, his voice splintering into a thousand voices, each one pleading for mercy. "You cannot"
But it was too late.
With one final scream, the Lord of Ghostly Calamity collapsed. His body shattered into a mass of decayed, blackened flesh, his once godly form reduced to ash. The storm ceased. The winds died. Silence fell.
The Plague Doctor stepped back, his breathing shallow, his face hidden beneath the mask. "It's done," he said, his voice cold.
Katzuki, still clutching his shattered chest, surveyed the battlefield. His armor pulsed with molten gold, shimmering like a weapon forged in the deepest pits of hell. His breathing was labored, but his gaze was focused. "Not yet," he muttered, his voice thick with defiance. "This isn't over."
He turned his gaze to the river, the sensation of the battle still pulsing through his veins. The Drowned King's Herald was not truly dead. The river would rise again.
The storm began to shift.
Something darker, far worse, was coming.
The Urz Gha'al.
The name echoed in the air, its weight settling like a curse. Katzuki's lips curled into a grim, twisted smile, the kind that only came with the promise of violence. His eyes narrowed, burning with a cold fury, his breath steady and controlled, though the storm inside him churned with an unrelenting hunger.
For a moment, everything seemed to still. The air grew thick, almost suffocating, as if even the shadows themselves were waiting for his next move. Katzuki stood there, motionless, staring at nothing, his mind calculating, ready for whatever would come next.
The silence was broken only by his voice, low and deadly, the words slipping from his mouth like poison.
"We've only just begun."
The words lingered, heavy and foreboding, like a dark promise hanging over everything. He let them settle in the space between them, each syllable carrying the weight of inevitability.
His grin widened as he stepped forward, the sound of his boots on the cracked ground sharp and deliberate. This whatever it was was only the beginning. The world was about to burn, and Katzuki would be the one to light the match.
To Be Continued…