CHAPTER IV: THE GOSPEL OF FLESH
"Let's begin."
Lionel's words hung in the frigid air like breath made manifest. Outside the base, flanked by Donna Beneviento—silent as a sepulcher—and Karl Heisenberg—grinning like a wolf at winter's door—he surveyed his army. A pack of Lycans. Waiting. Watching. Wanting.
Their breath misted in rhythmic clouds. Patient predators.
"Remember!" Lionel's voice cut sharply through the cold. "Don't kill. Don't consume. Just—" He paused, savoring the word. "—injure them. The more people touched, tainted, traumatized... the better."
The Lycans shifted, muscle rippling beneath mangy fur. Anticipation made animals of them all.
From within his coat, Lionel produced an infected crow—borrowed from the first floor, cultivated with care. It looked normal. Pristine, even. No telltale signs of sickness, no betraying tremors. The perfect spy wearing a plague inside its hollow bones.
He released it skyward.
The bird beat black wings against blacker sky, spiraling toward the village below. Lionel closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Connected.
Hive Mind.
The skill slithered through his consciousness like oil spreading across water—smooth, inevitable, all-encompassing. A gift granted to Viruses, this beautiful binding. Vision shared. Hearing synchronized. The crow's eyes became his eyes. The crow's ears, his ears.
He saw.
The village square sprawled beneath him—cobblestones worn smooth by generations of shuffling feet. And there, center stage in this theater of deception, stood the Hag.
Miranda in disguise.
Her performance was exquisite.
"The bell heralds danger! Danger, danger, DANGER!" She shrieked, voice cracking like kindling in fire. "They're coming! Coming! COMING!"
Mad laughter bubbled from her throat—a sound like drowning, like choking on joy and terror together.
The villagers stared. Sneered. Their disgust was palpable, delicious.
Perfect, Lionel thought. The plan unfolds like a flower blooming in fast-forward.
"Mother Miranda is angry! Angry, ANGRY!" The Hag cackled, spinning in circles, arms windmilling wildly. "The bell tolls for us all! They're coming again! Again! AGAIN!"
A few passersby laughed—nervous, uncertain sounds.
One man, bolder than the rest, stepped forward. Sun-weathered face. Cruel eyes. The kind of cruelty born from small power in smaller places.
"Mother Miranda, huh?" He hawked phlegm and spat sideways. "Does she accept devotion in gold coins, you old Hag?"
He stooped. Found a pebble. Hurled it.
The stone struck Miranda square in the forehead—crack—and her head snapped back. For one heartbeat, two, she stood perfectly still.
Then her eyes opened.
Red.
Burning, brilliant, bloody red.
Through Hive Mind, Lionel felt her fury like heat against his face. "Do NOT engage!" His command sliced through their shared consciousness. "Miranda. Stand down."
She held her position, trembling. But when she spoke, her voice threaded directly into his skull: "May I request the Lycans especially kill this man?"
Lionel studied the stone-thrower through corvid eyes. Measured him. Memorized him.
"Alright," he whispered into the Hive. "Just the man. Understood?"
The Hag looked up—directly at the crow circling overhead. A single, sharp nod. Then she released the doll clutched in her gnarled hands.
The porcelain figure dropped, plummeted—
—then giggled.
Its laughter was wrong. High-pitched and hollow, like wind through broken pipes. The doll arrested its fall mid-air, levitating, limbs dangling at unnatural angles as it flew back toward the base.
Lionel opened his eyes. Withdrew from the crowd's perception. Returned to his body.
"Alright, Lycans!" His voice boomed. "That's the signal! Wait for the doll's return—you have a special target!"
The Lycans growled. Low and long, a sound that vibrated in the chest, rattled in the ribs. Anticipation made animals anxious.
Lionel dove back into Hive Mind. Grasped the image of the stone-thrower—cruel eyes, weathered face, that smug smile—and thrust it into every Lycan skull simultaneously.
Him. Hunt HIM.
Seconds ticked by like heartbeats.
Then the doll returned, giggling-giggling-giggling as it flew through the air and latched onto Donna Beneviento like a lamprey finding flesh. It clung there, porcelain arms wrapped around her neck, still laughing that broken-pipe laugh.
The Lycans roared.
One voice made many. Many voices made legion.
They charged.
Heisenberg shifted his weight, hammer rising—
"Wait." Lionel's hand shot out, halting him. "Not yet. We need to panic first. Proper panic."
He closed his eyes once more. Plunged into the crow's vision.
And smiled.
The first Lycan hit the village like a meteor wrapped in muscle and malice.
It moved fast—faster than anything that size should move. All rippling sinew and snapping teeth. It locked onto the stone-thrower with singular focus, laser-precise, and lunged.
The man didn't even have time to scream.
Teeth found throat. Bit down. Blood burst bright and beautiful, arterial spray painting cobblestones crimson.
The man gurgled. Choked. Collapsed.
Then fifteen more Lycans swarmed.
They poured into the village like water through a broken dam—unstoppable, overwhelming, everywhere at once. Biting. Clawing. Seizing villagers by arms, legs, and hair, and hurling them like ragdolls against walls that cracked under the impact.
The screams were symphonic.
High-pitched terror harmonizing with guttural agony, punctuated by the percussion of breaking bones—snap-crack-crunch—and the wet slap of bodies hitting stone.
And there, in the center of the chaos, the Hag stood untouched.
She laughed and laughed and laughed, spinning in circles while Lycans flowed around her like water around a stone. Not one touched her. Not one even looked at her.
"They're praying," Lionel breathed, joy suffusing every syllable.
Through windows, behind barred doors, he saw them. Villagers on their knees, hands clasped, lips moving in desperate supplication. Watching the Hag stand unharmed in the hurricane of violence.
Making connections.
"But not enough," Lionel murmured, opening his eyes. He turned to Heisenberg. "Do your thing."
Heisenberg's grin split his face like a wound. He tipped his hat—a theatrical flourish—and extended one hand.
The air hummed.
Electromagnetic energy made visible, warping reality around his fingers. A sheet of metal—torn from some forgotten scrapheap—rose from the ground. Hovered. Steadied.
Heisenberg stepped onto it.
Rode it like a hoverboard toward the village, coat billowing behind him, hammer slung across his shoulders.
Now THIS is showmanship, Lionel thought.
He plunged back into the crowd's vision, unwilling to miss a single second.
Heisenberg arrived.
He descended into the village square like a god descending from Olympus—all swagger and steel, boots touching cobblestone with barely a whisper. The metal sheet clattered away, dismissed.
He hefted his hammer. Rolled his shoulders.
A Lycan—one of their best actors—lunged at him from the left.
Heisenberg pivoted. Swung. Connected.
The hammer struck the Lycan square in the chest with a sound like thunder breaking—BOOM—and the creature flew. Sailed through the air, tumbling end-over-end, and crashed through a market stall thirty feet away. Wood exploded. Canvas tore.
The Lycan lay still. Unconscious but alive.
Perfect.
"EVERYONE!" Heisenberg's voice boomed, commanding absolute attention. Every eye snapped to him. "PRAY to Mother Miranda! Pray for salvation so you might be saved from the hands of these wretched creatures!"
Another Lycan launched itself at him—claws extended, teeth bared, a perfect picture of feral fury.
Heisenberg danced aside. The Lycan sailed past. He spun, hammer arcing, and struck it in the back—CRASH—sending it careening through a house wall.
Timber cracked. Shutters shattered. The Lycan vanished into darkness, unconscious.
Lionel winced despite himself. "Good actors, but that's gotta hurt."
"PLEASE!" Heisenberg raised his hammer high, a prophet proclaiming prophecy. "This is your LAST CHANCE! Mother Miranda will save us ALL!"
The injured villagers—bleeding, broken, terrified—slowly, slowly sank to their knees.
Hands clasped.
Heads bowed.
Lips moved in prayer.
"Good work, Heisenberg," Lionel whispered through Hive Mind, warmth flooding the connection. "Magnificent performance."
Through their link, he felt Heisenberg's satisfaction. Pride and pleasure mingling.
Lionel sent the command rippling through Hive Mind: Retreat. NOW.
The Lycans obeyed.
They disengaged instantly, breaking off mid-attack, mid-bite, mid-everything. Even the two Heisenbergs had struck rose shakily—shaking off concussions like dogs shaking off water—and leaped. Powerful legs launched them out of the village in graceful, bounding arcs.
Gone.
Vanished.
Leaving only blood and broken bodies behind.
"What now?" Heisenberg's voice crackled through Hive Mind. "We can't just demand offerings. Too suspicious. Too sudden."
Below, the village chief knelt before him, thanking him over and over—words tumbling out in a waterfall of gratitude.
"Tell them about the wooden goat first," Lionel instructed. "Then ease into offerings. Smooth talk, Heisenberg. Seduce them with security."
Heisenberg's mental presence radiated understanding.
"No need to thank me," he said aloud, producing a carved wooden goat from his coat. "It's your newfound devotion that called Mother Miranda herself."
He pressed the figure into the chief's trembling hands.
"Make more of these. Distribute them throughout the village. They'll act as wards of protection—talismans against terror." Heisenberg's voice dropped, ominous and unctuous. "Anyone who breaks one will feel Mother Miranda's wrath."
The chief cradled the carving as if it were made of solid gold instead of simple wood. Tears streaked his dirt-stained face.
"Thank you! Thank you, kind sir! How can we ever repay you and Mother Miranda?"
Through the crow's eyes, Lionel saw Heisenberg's smile—sharp as broken glass, sweet as poisoned honey.
"Jackpot," Lionel breathed. "The gateway opens."
"Mother Miranda requires offerings," Heisenberg said, making it sound casual. Natural. "As another form of devotion. Fruit and livestock will suffice—simple tokens of faith."
The chief didn't hesitate. "It shall be done. For Mother Miranda."
He bowed low. The watching villagers erupted in cheers—celebrating their salvation, their safety, their servitude.
"How gloriously, spectacularly gullible these mortals are," Lionel murmured, satisfaction curling through him like smoke.
Then Heisenberg tensed.
Through their connection, Lionel felt it—awareness spiking, danger approaching.
Hoofbeats. Armor clanking. Voices raised in righteous fury.
Knights.
They rode into the village square like justice personified—all gleaming plate armor and blue-colored cloth. Six of them. Maybe seven. They dismounted with military precision, boots striking cobblestone in synchronized rhythm.
Their leader removed his helmet. Square-jawed. Scarred. Eyes burning with zealous certainty.
"Mother Miranda?" He spat the name like a curse. "Another false deity comes to challenge the Slane Theocracy?"
He strode forward. Snatched the wooden goat from the chief's hands. Examined it with obvious contempt.
"Looks like an addition to our family, Heisenberg," Lionel said through Hive Mind, excitement thrumming. "Don't kill them. Lead them here. We'll take proper care of them."
He felt Heisenberg's assent—dark and delighted.
Through the crow's vision, Lionel watched the Hag begin walking toward the knights. Her form shifted. Twisted. Bones lengthening, skin smoothing, rags transforming into black robes adorned with gold.
Miranda revealed herself—tall and terrible, eyes blazing with fury.
"Time to greet our guests," Lionel said, withdrawing from the crowd. He turned to Donna. "Let's go inside. Prepare a proper welcome."
They walked toward the base. The automatic doors hissed open—shhhhhk—and swallowed them whole.
But Lionel couldn't resist one last look through the crow's eyes.
"There are NO other gods but ours!" The knight's voice thundered. "The Six Great Gods are the ONLY powers in this world! Not any god! Not this wretched Miranda!"
He raised the wooden goat high.
Hurled it down.
It struck the cobblestones—CRACK—head separating from body, breaking clean in two.
The villagers gasped.
"You there!" The knight rounded on Heisenberg, pointing an accusatory finger. "You're a disciple of this harlot, correct? Bring us to her so we may slay your deity and prove to these people she's nothing but a whore and a—"
"Very well." Heisenberg's voice cut through the tirade. Cold. Calm. Lethal. "Follow me."
He turned and walked, hammer swinging loosely at his side.
The knights mounted their horses. Followed. Throughout the journey back, they did nothing but mock. Jeering. Insulting. Belittling Miranda and Heisenberg both with creative, colorful cruelty.
If not for the Creator's orders, Heisenberg thought through Hive Mind, they'd already be past.
Lionel felt his restraint like a wire pulled taut. Ready to snap.
"Soon," he whispered back. "Patience."
"Here we are!" Heisenberg announced, gesturing grandly at the mountain base.
The knights laughed. Deep, mocking sounds.
"This?" The leader sneered. "This is where your god hides?"
Miranda moved to exit the base, wings spreading—
Lionel's hand shot out, halting her. "No. I'll handle this." He turned to a nearby mirror. "I need to test capabilities. Starting with the mold."
He concentrated.
The mold responded eagerly. Black tendrils erupted from his skin—writhing, living things that crawled across his face, his hands, reshaping flesh like clay under sculptor's fingers. His features shifted. Changed. Became someone else entirely.
A stranger wearing Lionel's smile.
The knights stared as a hidden entrance groaned open in the mountainside—stone grinding against stone, gears turning, mechanisms activating with industrial precision. The entrance yawned wide like a mouth.
Heisenberg knelt.
Lionel walked out, white lab coat pristine against the darkness behind him.
"You're not Miranda!" the knight barked, studying him with warrior's eyes. Searching for weapons. Finding none.
"Indeed," Lionel agreed, smile widening. "But Mother Miranda has more pressing matters than dealing with measly mortals like you."
The knight's face flushed red. "Well, whoever you are doesn't matter. We'll dispatch you easily. Then we'll kill that false deity."
He dismounted. Drew his sword—steel hissing against leather scabbard. Advanced with confident strides.
Lionel didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just smiled and whispered one word:
"U̸̩̅r̴̬̉o̴͉͠b̷͍͠o̴̳̓r̷̟̓o̸͍̚s̶̫͠."
His voice distorted—layered with something inhuman, something vast. The sound vibrated in bones, resonated in skulls, and made ears bleed just a little.
The Uroboros virus is activated.
Lionel's eyes ignited—brilliant, burning, bleeding red. Light spilled from his irises like liquid fire.
The knight scoffed. Swung his sword.
Lionel caught the blade mid-swing.
Bare-handed.
Steel bit into his palm—but couldn't cut. Couldn't penetrate. His flesh had become something other. Something more.
He bent the sword.
SCREEEEEECH—metal shrieking in protest, folding, breaking—until the blade curved like a horseshoe.
The other knights gasped. Stumbled backward.
But their leader couldn't even react before Lionel's hand wrapped around his throat.
Lifted.
The knight rose off the ground, boots kicking uselessly at air, hands clawing at Lionel's arm. Black tendrils—Uroboros manifestations—writhed across Lionel's skin, pulsing with awful life.
"Your lords," Lionel whispered, voice still distorted, still wrong, "are nothing compared to ours."
He squeezed. Just a little.
The knight choked.
"Your swords will bend—" Squeeze. "—and break—" Squeeze. "—against our weapons."
Lionel's smile widened impossibly. Inhumanly.
"Go. Tell your lords what transpired today. Tell them what waits for them here. Tell them—" He leaned close, breath cold against the knight's face. "—that their gods are children playing with toys."
Then he threw.
The knight flew. Sailed through the air like a stone from a sling, tumbling end-over-end, and crashed into the dirt fifty yards away—far beyond his companions. He rolled. Bounced. Came to rest in a crumpled heap.
Alive. Barely.
The remaining knights turned to flee—
"Sorry," Lionel said, voice lilting with false sympathy. "But you're not included in the invitation."
He spoke another word. Another virus.
"Ṁ̴͖e̵̙͛ģ̷̌a̸̛͈m̴͈̉y̶̨̿c̸͇͋ě̸̙t̴̲̅e̶̛ͅ."
The voice distorted worse. Became layered—ten voices, twenty, a hundred speaking simultaneously. Cacophony made manifest.
The ground erupted.
Massive tendrils burst from the earth like trees growing in fast-forward—, but these weren't trees. They were alive. Organic. Covered in chitinous plates and pulsing membranes, dripping viscous fluid that hissed when it touched stone.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—earth splitting, soil spraying—
The tendrils seized the knights. Wrapped around torsos, arms, and legs with crushing strength. Pulled them from their horses. Dragged them down.
The knights screamed—raw, animal sounds of pure terror—as the earth swallowed them whole. Pulled them under. Consumed them.
Their leader watched. Frozen. Unable to process.
"Go NOW!" Lionel's laugh echoed across the landscape. "FLEE! Spread the WORD!"
The knight scrambled onto his horse. Kicked his heels. The animal bolted, foam flying from its mouth, hooves pounding dirt in staccato rhythm.
Gone.
Vanished.
Silence descended like a curtain dropping.
Lionel released the viruses. Felt them retreat into dormancy, coiling in his cells like sleeping serpents. The black tendrils withdrew. His eyes faded from red to normal.
He used the mold to shift back to his original appearance—features flowing like wax, reforming, solidifying.
"Heisenberg." He turned. "The knights' fate is in your hands now. Handle them."
"And how should I handle them, Creator?" Heisenberg asked, though his grin suggested he already knew.
"Make more mechanical soldiers. Use them. Improve them." Lionel's smile turned sharp. "If you need Cadou, request them from me."
"Thank you, Creator." Heisenberg bowed.
"If I may ask—" Heisenberg straightened, concern flickering across his features. "—won't this bring many enemies?"
Lionel laughed. The sound echoed off the mountainside, multiplied, and returned as a ghostly chorus.
"Let them come. We don't have to fight." He spread his arms wide. "We can manipulate. Control. Turn them against each other. Make them dance to our symphony."
"Don't worry, Heisenberg." He clapped the man on the shoulder. "I know what I'm doing."
Inside the control room, Lionel spun lazily in his office chair, thoughts churning.
Viruses are magnificent, he mused. The developers never understood what they created. Gave us immunity to magic in exchange for removing our ability to cast. Made us impervious to mind control because no spell can grip the entire Hive Mind simultaneously.
He enumerated their defenses mentally: Physical resistance. Magical immunity. World Items are mostly useless. Only a handful can affect us—Ouroboros with its wish-granting, World Savior with infinite growth potential, Avarice and Generosity, though we can drain levels too, Caloric Stone for weapon enhancement...
"How truly, spectacularly wonderful and amazing our race is," he whispered to the empty room.
Then he paused. Frowned.
But what about Ainz Ooal Gown? Is he here? Somewhere?
The thought sent a thrill down his spine—part excitement, part apprehension.
"Either way," he said, standing abruptly. "Heisenberg's right. These mortals are crafty pests. Time to build our forces."
He stepped into the elevator. Descended to the twelfth floor.
When the doors opened—ding—he concentrated. Focused on the mold within him.
Wings, he commanded.
The mold obeyed.
Black tendrils erupted from his shoulder blades—rip-tear-squelch—and formed into massive, bat-like wings. Membranous. Veined. Beautiful in their grotesquerie.
He spread them wide. Tested them. Flapped once.
Wind rushed. His feet left the ground.
Perfect.
He flew across the map, wings beating rhythmically, enjoying the sensation of flight. The castle rose before him—Gothic spires scraping sky, gargoyles leering from parapets.
He descended. Landed gracefully.
And stopped.
Duke sat in his carriage, smoking a cigar, smiling that mysterious smile.
"Wait—Duke?" Lionel blinked, genuinely surprised.
Duke had been heavily debated during development. Proposed as the potential fifth Lord, then scrapped. Yet here he sat—alive, well, real.
A farewell gift from the guild members, Lionel realized. Created behind my back. The best gift.
Duke tipped his hat. Said nothing. Just smiled.
Before Lionel could speak, the castle gates groaned open—CREEEEEAK—revealing Alcina Dimitrescu.
She stood framed in the doorway, impossibly tall, impossibly elegant.
"Is there something you wish to discuss, Creator?" Her voice was velvet and violence.
"Step on me!"
The words erupted from Lionel's mouth unbidden. He immediately bit his tongue—hard. Tasted copper.
"Ahem. Sorry." His face burned. "Something possessed me. Can you—can you lead me to the crypt?"
Alcina's expression suggested she thought her Creator had finally lost his mind. But she inclined her head gracefully.
"Of course."
They walked through the castle in excruciating silence.
Lionel wanted to die. Actually die. Cease existing.
Why did I say that? WHAT possessed me?
Alcina walked ahead, back straight, saying nothing. Terrified that any words might offend.
After an eternity compressed into minutes, they reached the crypt.
Stone steps descended into darkness. Torches flickered. Shadows danced.
"Here." Lionel opened the crypt. Inside, resting on black velvet: the Dagger of Death's Flowers.
He reached for it—
Alcina recoiled. Stumbled backward. Her eyes went wide, distant, terrified.
Disturbing thoughts flooded her mind—visions of dismemberment, abandonment, disposal.
She dropped to her knees. Bowed low.
"I'm sorry for not acknowledging your request, Creator! I'll step on you as soon as possible!"
"N-NO!" Lionel grabbed the dagger, snapped it in half—CRACK—and hurled both pieces out the window. "I was destroying it! And the stepping thing was NOT serious!"
Alcina looked up. If she had blood, her face would be crimson.
"Oh... my apologies for assuming you intended to dispose of me, Creator."
Lionel rubbed his face. Sighed.
"Apology accepted. Please. Please. Let's never speak of this again."
"Agreed."
"Now—" He straightened. Composed himself. "—lead me to your daughters."
The library sprawled before them—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, leather-bound tomes, the smell of old paper and older secrets.
Three daughters looked up from their reading.
"Creator!" Bela rose first. All three immediately bowed. "Do you have a request?"
"An experiment," Lionel explained. "None of you can handle cold. I'll fix that."
Their eyes lit up. Daniela actually squealed.
"Bela. Stand beneath the skylight."
She hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then moved to the center. Trusting. Faithful.
Lionel pulled the lever.
The skylight groaned open—CREEEEEAK—and frigid wind poured into the room like water from a broken dam.
Daniela and Cassandra dove behind their mother.
Bela screamed.
Not loud. Not theatrical. Just a low, sustained sound of pure agony as her body began to disintegrate. Black flies burst from her skin—BUZZ-BUZZ-BUZZ—scattering, dying, falling like rain.
"Close it! CLOSE IT!" Cassandra shrieked.
Lionel slammed the lever down. The skylight crashed shut.
Bela collapsed. Panting. Reforming. Flies swirling back together, coalescing into flesh.
"Still vulnerable," Lionel murmured. He approached. Knelt beside her. "But I have a solution."
"Uroboros," he explained, "is sensitive to high temperatures. Your Cadou is sensitive to cold. If we combine them—create a hybrid—you should become immune to both extremes."
Bela looked up, eyes wide. Hopeful.
"U̸̩̅r̴̬̉o̴͉͠b̷͍͠o̴̳̓r̷̟̓o̸͍̚s̶̫͠."
His voice distorted. Eyes ignited red.
He picked up a nearby letter opener—silver, ornate—and drew it across his palm.
SLICE.
Blood welled. Black. Too dark. Wrong.
"Drink," he commanded.
Bela didn't hesitate. She pressed her lips to the wound and drank.
The blood tasted like copper and electricity and power. It burned going down—not painful, just intense. She felt it enter her bloodstream, felt the Uroboros virus meet the Cadou parasite.
For a moment—collision. Conflict.
Then—merger.
Symbiosis.
"Again," Lionel said, moving to the lever.
He pulled it.
Wind rushed in.
Bela stood in the center—
—and laughed.
No pain. No disintegration. She spread her arms, threw back her head, reveled in the cold.
"YES!" Lionel punched the air. "It WORKED!"
Bela danced. Actually danced. Spinning in circles beneath the skylight, flies form patterns around her in joyous spirals.
"Who's next?"
Daniela and Cassandra fought briefly—pushing, shoving, giggling—before both received the same treatment.
One by one, they drank. Transformed. Became more.
Alcina watched from the doorway. Happy for her daughters.
But also—jealous.
They'd tasted the Creator's blood. She had not.
Lionel noticed. Felt a pang of sympathy.
He deactivated Uroboros—couldn't risk it affecting Dimitrescu's unique physiology differently—and approached.
"Come here, Alcina." His voice was gentle. "Have some too, if you'd like."
Her eyes widened. Then gleamed.
She approached—graceful despite her size—and knelt.
Lionel cut his palm again. Offered it.
Alcina's lips touched his skin—
—and the world exploded into sensation.
The blood tasted like everything. Like power and potential and purpose. It sang through her veins, set her nerves alight, made her feel more alive than she'd ever felt.
When she pulled away, she was trembling.
"Thank you, Creator," she whispered.
Lionel smiled. "You're welcome."
He looked at the four of them—Alcina and her daughters—all gazing at him with devotion bordering on worship.
This, he thought, is how gods are made. Not through power alone. But through gifts freely given.
"Now," he said, standing. "Let's prepare for war."
END OF CHAPTER IV