In Midland, faith is forged in blood.
The Tower of Conviction rises like a spiral of stone—a hundred meters tall, shaped like the Tower of Babel. Its base sprawls across the hillside, housing knights and clergy. But now, it's surrounded by tens of thousands of refugees. War, famine, and plague have driven them here. And more arrive each day.
There's no Red Cross in this world. No aid. Just desperation.
In the shadow of suffering, cults bloom. The Church responds with fire and iron. The Inquisition and the Holy Iron Chain Knights purge heretics daily. Hanging and beheading are merciful. Others are crushed, impaled, flayed, or torn apart. The methods grow ever more inventive.
But despair doesn't just breed rebellion—it breeds indulgence.
With no drugs to numb the pain, people turn to flesh. Nobles and peasants alike seek comfort in brothels. Ironically, the Inquisition's presence deters organized trafficking, making the camps safer—for now.
In one tent, a nobleman from the knights lies with Luca, a prostitute with sharp eyes and a calm voice. She's no ordinary girl—she leads her group with quiet strength.
Just as they reach climax, a bandaged head pokes through the flap.
"AAAAHHHH!"
The nobleman screams.
"AAAHHHHH!"
The bandaged girl mimics him, pitch-perfect.
Luca shoves her out. It's just Casca—mentally broken, wrapped in cloth to hide her identity. The nobleman, rattled but smitten, hands Luca a sack of grain and a pearl necklace.
"I'll come back for you," he says. "Once I inherit my title."
Luca smiles softly. "I won't hold my breath. But I'll be waiting."
After he leaves, she gathers her girls, divides the grain, then snaps the necklace—letting pearls scatter across the floor.
"Luca, why?" one girl gasps.
"We share everything," Luca says. "We're walking a razor's edge. If jealousy breaks us, we're done."
"But that was your gift," another protests.
Luca shakes her head. "We're alive because we took risks. If envy creeps in, we'll tear ourselves apart. Poverty makes people cruel. We have to be smarter. Kinder. United."
The girls fall silent, then embrace her. They don't know someone's watching.
Jack Harper and his team have planted a hidden camera. They're tracking Casca.
Evander Marlowe points at the screen. "She's not some goddess with powers—she's real. Heart and grit that shine through suffering."
Jack chuckles. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious," Evander says. "She's like Nausicaä. No magic. No status. Just courage."
Flora nods. "I've trained to impersonate women like her. But none were this selfless."
Jack doesn't argue. Luca's path is different. They're watching her because she's sheltering Casca—the story's heroine.
Casca, after fleeing the blacksmith's home, wandered until Luca found her. Unable to work, Casca was disguised as a leper. Luca claimed she had syphilis. It worked. What Luca didn't know was that Casca was guarded by demons. Anyone who tried to harm her was devoured.
Jack's team arrived ahead of Guts, choosing to observe.
That night, one of Luca's girls, mentally unstable and infected, joined a cult. She brought her boyfriend to a ritual involving hallucinogens—and human flesh. He panicked and fled, tumbling off a cliff.
Luca followed, witnessed everything, and pummeled the girl into unconsciousness. But she didn't abandon her. With maternal fierceness, she forgave.
Then Casca wandered into the scene.
The cultists, aroused and unhinged, tried to assault her. Her trauma triggered a demonic surge. Black monsters erupted, devouring the cultists.
Luca realized she'd taken in a witch. If the Church found out, they'd all be executed. But she still chose to protect Casca.
The next day, Guts arrived—dusty, armed, and accompanied by Elliot Gray, the fairy Puck, and a monkey-faced boy named Isidro. Isidro, impressed by Guts' swordsmanship, had tagged along hoping to become his apprentice.
They entered the camp and saw knights arresting a prostitute as a witch. Guts, fearing for Casca, attacked them, demanding to know if they'd seen a girl with a brand on her chest.
The girl was one of Luca's group. She told Guts about Casca. But when they returned to the tent, Casca was gone—taken by the cult girl, who feared punishment.
Meanwhile, the cultists, believing Casca was a divine witch, tried to reclaim her. Isidro and Puck followed them to a cave.
The cult's ritual was interrupted—not by Guts, but by the Holy Iron Chain Knights. The boyfriend who fell off the cliff had survived and reported them.
Casca's presence summoned more demons. The cultists, possessed, gained strength and attacked the knights. Chaos metastasized.
Amid the chaos, Jack's team watched from a distance.
"Should we intervene?" Lilith and Caelum asked, itching to test their new powers.
"Not yet," Jack said. "If Guts doesn't arrive in time, we'll clean up."
Evander explained, "In the original story, Guts arrives, kills the cultists, avoids fighting the knights, and escapes with Casca. But now, he's stronger. If he arrives on time, Casca won't be captured. That's why our strategist delayed him—and we ensure the knights take her."
Flora frowned. "Why not just kill the cultists now?"
Evander pointed. "Because something else is about to happen. The Egg of the Perfect World makes its debut."
A few cult leaders tried to escape through a narrow tunnel. One wore a goat skull mask. As he struggled to remove it, a tentacle pierced his heart.
He screamed.
The others saw him return—transformed. He was now a goat-headed monster, covered in fur, hooves, and a tail.
Jack's team recognized the transformation. It was Apostle-level. But stronger than Roselyn's insectoid conversions.
Flora spotted the source—a strange creature shaped like a giant egg with limbs and tentacles. Its face was Picasso-like, with oversized features.
"That's the Egg of the Perfect World," Evander said. "A unique Apostle. Born deformed, lived in corpse pits, had no one to sacrifice. So he offered the world itself—hoping to create a perfect one."
Caelum and Lilith were stunned. "A perfect world?"
"Griffith used him," Evander explained. "The Egg became a vessel for Griffith's rebirth. A loophole in the rules."
Jack nodded. "Alright. Caelum, Lilith—clean up the cultists. Evander, follow the Egg."
Evander vanished. Caelum and Lilith summoned their Dark Gold Saint Cloths.
Lilith unleashed a golden arrow storm, piercing hundreds of cultists. Caelum leapt into melee, smashed the goat monster's head with a three-section staff, and returned to the cliff.
The cultists were wiped out. Only the knights, Casca, and the cult girl remained.
The twins, now peak Silver-tier, hadn't even used a tenth of their power. They withdrew with Jack and Flora.
The knights, unaware of their saviors, took the girls and left. Guts arrived too late, misled by Elliot. He found only corpses—and was furious.
He captured Isidro and Puck, who couldn't explain much. But Guts, a seasoned warrior, deduced the knights' involvement and headed for the Tower of Conviction.
By dusk, the tower loomed—lit by sunset through the skylight, echoing with screams. Even the knights stationed there suffered nightmares.
But for some, it was paradise.
At the top, in a prayer chamber, a white-robed priest knelt again and again. Each time, he slammed his body into the stone floor, forming a cross with his limbs. Blood soaked his knees. He didn't stop until he'd bowed a thousand times.
He rose slowly, lit by the fading sun. His face was strange—more machine than man. No hair, no eyebrows, no softness. Just rigid lines, like a robot from an old sci-fi comic.
This was Mozgus, the High Priest known as the "Text of Blood." A fanatical inquisitor who had executed countless heretics. He felt no guilt. Decades of devotion had hardened his soul into steel. He believed every act of cruelty was divine will.
From a corner, a youth in a bird-mask approached, bandaging Mozgus's bleeding knees. "Master, the knights report they've purged a cult and captured two witches."
Mozgus's stone face didn't change. His voice was gentle. "Good. Gather your brothers. Interrogating witches is sacred work. Only the faithful can resist the devil's temptations."
The bird-masked youth and his companions were Mozgus's adopted children—orphans with twisted bodies and broken pasts. Raised in isolation, indoctrinated with scripture, they worshipped Mozgus like a god. His word was law. His will, divine.
Soon, Casca was dragged into the torture chamber—a room choked with iron and shadow. Racks, spikes, wheels, cages. The air reeked of blood and rust.
Mozgus spotted the brand on her chest.
"A witch," he said calmly. "Give her the harshest punishment."
Two disciples hauled her to an Iron Maiden. As they opened it, a shriveled corpse tumbled out. Without hesitation, they shoved Casca inside.
She didn't scream. Her mind was shattered. But her demonic child was watching.
Just as the spiked doors began to close, a surge of black energy erupted. The Iron Maiden exploded outward. Casca stood untouched, surrounded by thick, black liquid. Each droplet shimmered with glowing eyes. They merged into towering monsters and lunged at the torturers, dissolving flesh in seconds.
The ooze spread—seeping from walls, floors, ceilings. From the shadows, demons emerged.
The Church, skilled in killing men, was helpless against monsters. They fled, dragging Mozgus with them.
But Mozgus didn't run far.
"This is a test," he shouted. "A trial from God! Faith demands sacrifice. I will not beg for miracles—I will not fear evil. I give myself to God!"
His creed was simple: obey the scripture, no matter the cost. Results didn't matter. If his actions led to ruin, so be it. He was a puppet of divine will—and puppets bear no responsibility.
And his god answered.
As they reached the prayer chamber, the Egg of the Perfect World descended from the skylight like a spider. Its tentacles pierced Mozgus and his disciples.
At that moment, Guts was storming the tower, following the trail of destruction. He avoided open combat, sneaking through the shadows. But he ran into a knight—one who looked weak.
Unfortunately, that knight was Farnese, the commander.
Guts dragged her to the torture chamber, saw the carnage, and followed the trail. Farnese, terrified by the bones and squirming black ooze, followed closely.
Behind them came Elliot, Isidro, Puck, and Luca—guided by the nobleman who had gifted her the necklace.
Just as Guts neared the top, everything changed.
The Egg's power granted Mozgus and his disciples their deepest wish: to become angels. They sprouted white wings and gained strength. Mozgus, the most devout, received the greatest gift.
When the black ooze surged again, Mozgus roared and unleashed a fire blast two meters wide and dozens long. It incinerated the demons, even wounding Casca's demonic child. Casca, wrapped in the ooze, fell into Mozgus's hands.
"Let her go!" Guts charged, swinging the Dragonslayer.
One disciple, built like a sumo wrestler, blocked with a massive iron wheel. Guts shattered it and sent him flying. His strength was overwhelming—even against Apostle-enhanced foes.
But the angels had one advantage: flight.
They soared through the skylight. Guts fired his new arm cannon, wounding them, but not enough. Mozgus retaliated with another fire blast. Guts blocked with his sword, unsure if he could survive the flames.
Then, golden arrows rained from above.
Lilith Vale, in her winged Sagittarius Cloth, pierced the angels midair. Caelum Vale, riding Jack's headless warhorse, dove from the sky and drove a dark-gold lance through Mozgus's skull—snatching Casca in the same motion.
Mozgus smiled as he died. "God… I come to you…"
The twins landed. Caelum handed Casca to Guts. The lovers embraced, unaware that their branded souls were resonating—stirring ancient forces.
Below, the refugee camp burned.
The Church's cruelty, the cults' madness, and the despair of thousands had brewed a storm of negative energy. The Cycle Realm stirred.
Cursed land stretched below, riddled with bone-filled caverns. The dead couldn't escape. Their cries echoed endlessly, feeding the darkness.
Tonight, a gate opened.
The dead surged.
The Church panicked. Their leader was dead. Their commander kidnapped. They summoned reinforcements. The remaining demons, leaderless, turned on everyone.
In the camp, shadows crept into tents. Possessed refugees attacked their families. Fires spread. Chaos metastasized.
Then came the giants.
Massive wraiths, half-real, half-shadow, rose from the earth. They surrounded the tower and camp. The tower's base cracked. The hundred-meter structure trembled. Its top split into five jagged spires—like a hand reaching for the sky.
Guts, who had survived the first Eclipse, recognized the shape. It mirrored the mountain where the God Hand once stood.
Below, the fires formed a symbol: a trident piercing an open "8"—the brand of sacrifice. The same mark on Guts and Casca.
The second Eclipse had begun.