Those who hear the baying of the hounds beneath the Throne of the Blood God always compare the sound to the tolling of a funeral bell marking their own doom.
Once these Blood Hunters catch the scent of their prey, that prey no longer has any chance of escape. Flesh Hounds are tireless; they will never stop their pursuit until they have tasted the flesh of their quarry.
Being targeted by them is the most terrifying experience imaginable. Whether the target hides in the Warp or real-space, or in the furthest reaches of the stars, the victims find that the distant howling grows ever closer. Many suffer a mental breakdown long before they are actually torn apart.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The cleaver hacked wildly at the workbench as if mincing meat. Dark blood, like tea from a tipped pot, flowed continuously from the table onto the filthy floor.
Wearing a black bear-print apron, the blood-soaked butcher glared with bloodshot eyes, panting heavily like an enraged bull.
"Damn it! What the hell is going on?!"
With a metallic clatter, his precious black bone-cleaver—an item he'd been loath to replace for years—was tossed aside, abandoned in a pool of gore.
The butcher pressed his blood-stained palms against his balding, sweaty head, his expression one of extreme agitation.
On the workbench, the unlucky soul originally intended for a "Teru Teru Bozu" was no longer recognizable. The upper body had been reduced to an amorphous mass of mangled flesh, white bone shards, and pale yellow fat.
Normally, "dismemberment" was a relaxing, stress-relieving activity for him. But today, a persistent, maddening beastial howl echoing from afar had left the butcher flustered.
He had even messed up his most practiced steps. What should have been a clean cut to sever the spine from the skull had turned into a messy hack that sliced off half the head. For a man with his experience to make such a basic error, it was clear how badly his hands were shaking.
"Damn it... it's closer again."
The butcher shivered as the roars grew louder in his ears. He stumbled toward the bathroom.
"Maybe the Sorcerers Association has been pushing me too hard lately. I'm having a nervous breakdown."
Splash.
The butcher turned the faucet and threw a basin of water over his head. The clear water hit the floor a deep, dark red.
The cold water stung his sensitive nerves. He thought it would offer some relief, but the roaring of the chase behind him was like a bone-deep poison—unrelenting and inescapable.
Suddenly, the butcher's body jerked violently. His blood ran cold, sweat poured down his face, and his heart skipped a beat.
The footsteps that had been approaching from far behind had stopped. It wasn't that the hallucination had vanished; it was because they had arrived.
In this tiny bathroom of less than three square meters, the butcher felt the presence of a second "person" standing less than a meter behind him.
No... it was some unknown creature, silently watching him from above.
The pungent scent of burning sulfur intermingled with the butcher's own scent of gore. The cramped bathroom became suffocating; even breathing was difficult.
Lick.
The butcher felt a rough, wet, slimy tongue swipe across his cheek. A sense of absurdity rose in his mind.
It's cleaning its "ingredients"!
A predator always licks its prey clean before eating. Only when the food is "clean and hygienic" does it strike.
"Playing tricks on me, are you?!"
Though the butcher's eyes grew more vicious, the intimate contact with something beyond his imagination deepened the primal fear in his heart.
Enraged and frantic, he slammed a fist into the mirror. With a sharp shatter, the glass exploded.
But this did nothing to ease the pressure in the air. Instead, the atmosphere grew colder.
In every shard of glass scattered on the floor, the reflection showed the butcher's twisted, terrified face—and right behind him, the nightmare-red silhouette was clearly visible.
If his eyes weren't deceiving him, the giant lizard-like, wolf-shaped monster in the mirror had already opened its bloody maw over his head, preparing to bite down.
"Yomi-nee."
At that moment, Kenmyo Isayama, who was half-crouched with his hand touching his shadow under the streetlight, opened his eyes.
His voice was cold and certain. "I've found the butcher's location."
"What? So fast!"
Yomi Isayama, who was still pondering the origin of that hellhound—which looked like it belonged in Western religious myths—looked at Kenmyo with an expression of disbelief.
From the moment Kenmyo released that Shikigami (which looked even more evil than a Cursed Spirit) until now, less than five minutes had passed. He had already found the enemy?
How could it be that fast?
Even the most specialized tracking Shikigami in the Sorcerers Association couldn't compare to this efficiency. It also meant that Yomi's efforts over the last few days had been utterly useless.
It was almost too smooth, but Kenmyo wasn't the type to boast. This was likely the real deal.
The reason for this speed was that Kenmyo had ordered the Flesh Hound to activate its active skill:
[Hunt]
Level: 15 (Innate Skill, Upgradeable, Active)
Effect: The Blood God's favor allows these brutal beasts to pierce through space. This sub-space connects to reality and can drastically shorten travel distances. Once a target is locked, they will be marked immediately.
Note: Cooldown is 1 natural day.
Level 10 Bonus [Brand]: Once prey is marked, the hound can sense their aura until they die.
This was the Flesh Hound's innate power. They could travel through a space linked to reality where they could move at staggering speeds—completely different from their physical movement speed. It was more akin to a spatial leap.
Furthermore, while closing in, the Flesh Hound's roar echoes in the ears of the hunted. They can hear the footsteps getting closer, yet they have no way to counter it.
Considering Kenmyo could only maintain the summon for ten minutes a day for free, he had used [Hunt] to maximize value. The moment the brand was placed on the butcher, Kenmyo felt it.
"Yomi-nee, it's time to go."
But there was a problem: how were they going to get there? When Kenmyo worked with Akutagawa, they always drove. But Yomi didn't seem to have a vehicle. Were they going to walk? Or take shared bikes?
"Neither."
Amused by Kenmyo's wandering thoughts, Yomi couldn't help but chuckle. She unwrapped the long, silk-covered object she had been carrying, revealing a katana.
"We're relying on this."