Chapter 87: Darkness at High Noon
Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations
Editor: PlumSauce
A sharp flash pierced the chaos, like a sword thrust into flesh.
Coraci’s lips moved. He could not hear his own voice; it had been swallowed by the roaring torrent of black light.
He slowly opened his eyes and easily broke the shackles on his hands and feet. Not that they had been “broken” — they had been chewed apart by the tiny objects crawling across his skin. The largest blades were like fist-sized daggers; the smallest were invisible to the naked eye. They became soldiers, roads, spears and shields, black wings, slicing through metal barriers engraved with protective magic, gnawing apart anything that tried to stop them.
“Where are you?”
His voice was too faint; no one could hear it.
The tiny blades tore through doors with a deafening crash. Humans were slit across the throat, and their blood sprayed into the air before being swallowed by the black light.
He thought, It had been like this in the past. I had protected Zoltán, Mira, and being held in Mira’s arms, Coraci — her real son. Back then, he was still alive. I told them to stay far away. I will face all the enemies alone.
Now, he could no longer control his power with the same ease. Thirty years as a human had made it difficult to master the force of a devil.
He thought, Good thing I’m alone this time. I don’t need to protect anyone. I can kill with full anticipation.
For a long while, Coraci had to expend enormous effort just to restrain himself. Suppressing the power was easy; restraining the urge to kill was the real challenge.
Ever since leaving West Bay City, he was no longer an Association mediator, no longer helping creatures in trouble, no longer even a reclusive, mysterious horror novelist. He had become a Ranger, a lone exorcist. Like before, he encountered all sorts of matters, and all kinds of strange creatures — some with goodwill, most dangerously hostile.
He no longer sought merely to resolve incidents. He now leaned toward killing them outright.
The memories of being a fragment of a devil had fully returned. Everything Zoltán had sealed away before dying surfaced one by one. “Memory” and “personality” were inseparable. Coraci remembered the folk songs Mira had sung, and at the same time, he remembered the exhilaration of battle.
Of course, he also remembered his human days: his work, his friends, the never-ending novels, his failed marriages, and his new partner — the bloodkin, John Lockland — who held extraordinary meaning for him.
These things were like shackles, locking his ankles so he could never run too far. He was grateful for these people and these memories. Yet at the same time, he felt a constant regret that the life he once knew was forever out of reach.
At the root of it all, the architect of countless tragedies — the main culprit — was close at hand. He trembled with excitement. He no longer had to pretend, no longer had to ask “What would I have done in the past?”, and no longer had to fear John’s disappointment.
He could unleash the long-suppressed malice in his heart, letting it engulf everything like a tsunami.
Humans resisted. Silver bullets, protective wards, spells to bind otherworldly creatures, sacred spears from ancient times, arcane chanting circles…even constructed beings, armored infantry wielding swords, and massive shield guards of alloy.
Humans had countless ways to fight back. If they were not strong, how could they once have defeated all devils? If these humans were prepared, they could do even better — they knew the devil’s true name. Yet it seemed that not a single spellcaster intended to invoke the devil fragment’s true name.
Coraci remembered how, the first time he saw Mira under attack, he had broken free of his constraints. So even if these humans possessed the devil’s true name, they could not guarantee being able to completely restrain the devil; the spell’s effect depended on its strength.
Even so…why had none of them tried yet? The thought puzzled him.
The wall to his front-left crumbled, dust and blood spraying into the air. After the tall building’s outer wall collapsed, the blinding sunlight struck perfectly across the windstorm of black light.
The light was dazzling. Coraci raised a hand to shield his eyes and groggily lifted his head.
A constructed humanoid was firing at him. Not far behind it stood a mage, taking cover behind a force field wall. Obsidian shards shredded the construct, surged through the force field barrier, and pierced the mage’s body…
All of it happened under the sunlight, and Coraci even glimpsed man-made bird nests high in the courtyard trees.
Where is this?
Another research base of the Arcane Covenant — but where exactly? Where had that enchantress brought me?
His vision struggled to focus, though his hearing gradually began to return to normal. He caught a vaguely familiar voice chanting spells — mispronouncing a word, starting over again…
The midday light reflected off silver weapons scattered on the ground, so bright it made him squint.
He looked in front of him, to the right. Lucian was half-kneeling on the courtyard bricks.
Blood streaked his pale face, his glasses were gone, and black hair fell messily across his forehead. His eyes held a madness no one had ever seen before.
Lucian picked up a dagger, slashed his wrist, letting blood flow into a vessel before him. As he chanted, alternating red and black runes emerged from the blood, forming lines that arced toward Coraci like a rotating star path.
“Lucian?” Coraci shouted. He didn’t know if Lucian could hear him; he couldn’t even hear himself as a ringing filled his ears.
Lucian should recognize him. After a full day and night, Coraci had no chance to recast illusions — now, others could see his true appearance.
Coraci clenched his fists, drew a deep breath, and retreated to the inside of the collapsed outer wall. He tried to control the windstorm of weapons, to restore himself to his usual form, and to clearly see everything around him.
The building’s walls and interior furniture were ravaged beyond recognition. The floor was littered with bodies and chunks of unidentifiable flesh. Stained red with blood, the marble tiles remained smooth, the blackish red liquid reflecting objects on its surface.
Among the dead humans, some wore butler morning coats, others dark camouflage without military insignia — they looked like private security. Some women lay deep in the house, crushed under shattered crystal chandeliers, their long white aprons soaked completely red.
Coraci turned his head. Lucian’s spell kept trying to bind him, and the windstorm of black fragments resisted.
As the runes brushed past the fragments, they emitted a harsh metallic screech, as if protesting the devil’s surrender. If Coraci hadn’t tried so hard to rein them in, Lucian’s spell would not have worked so easily.
Coraci stepped on a severed hand and fell in a mess. He saw everything with startling clarity now, panic clawing at him. He wanted to scream but choked back sobs.
This was not an Arcane Covenant base. Not Charlotte and her accomplices’ headquarters… this was the Blackmoon estate.
Coraci tried to stand but his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees again. Bracing himself against the ground with his palms, he barely kept from buckling.
His hands and pants were covered in foul-smelling liquid. He gagged repeatedly, the ringing in his ears growing louder.
He lifted his head. The black wind blades collapsed reluctantly, and the binding runes fell with them.
He could barely hear, but he saw Lucian’s lips move:
“Arcane Covenant’s devil.”
The instant he looked over, he saw someone not far from Lucian… Charlotte. She was pretending to panic, running over while shouting something.
Coraci’s eyes widened. The black blades flared again, violently pushing the binding runes away.
He shouted at Lucian, trying to reveal Charlotte’s identity…but no sound came out. At that moment, the gun in Charlotte’s hand pressed against Lucian’s temple.
“Looks like he’s starting to calm down,” she said, glancing at Coraci. “Mr. Lucian, please recite the strong binding spell again.”
Lucian obeyed. The runes pressed down on the black light, imprisoning Coraci inside the house.
“Do you think this is safe?” Lucian’s voice seemed composed again. “Do you think my spell can keep him from killing you?”
Charlotte smiled. “Oh my, and here I thought you’d ask why I pointed a gun at you first.”
“No need,” Lucian said. “It can only be for one reason — you are my enemy.”
The enchantress pursed her lips and nodded. “You’ve always been like this — completely uninterested in human matters. I’ll answer your question first. I know your spell can’t hold Coraci for long, and I don’t need much time anyway.”
“Stay away from him!” Coraci roared.
He understood what the Arcane Covenant wanted — just like at the Atwood manor, when the whole family perished, the sacrifice would break free of its restraints.
The black light tore a corner of the binding runes. Most of it had yet to emerge. The enchantress flinched, instinctively stepping back. At that instant, Lucian seized the opportunity, knocking his half-kneeling leg into Charlotte while twisting her wrist that held the gun.
Charlotte fired in panic, but the shot hit only the ground. Her weapon was wrested from her and thrown far away.
Coraci tore through more of the runes, unsure if it was wise — he could not fully control his power. Still, he had to break free, because he saw something approaching from the far end of the courtyard — several upright giant wolves.
Their fur was matted with blood from a recent massacre. Some even ran while spitting human limbs caught in their teeth aside.
Lucian knew he could not handle so many monsters alone. He glared at Charlotte, seething, shoved her hard toward Coraci, then quickly projected a short-term force field barrier facing the wolves, and bent to pick up the gun from the ground.
But before he could bend down, a gunshot rang out.
Charlotte, holding a pocket pistol in one hand, had already fired. The bullet pierced Lucian’s vest.
“You’re like a medieval mage,” she said, pointing the gun at him as she stepped closer. “You’re not good at thinking in terms of modern firearms — do you think I only have one gun?”
The black blades around Coraci had nearly shredded the binding runes and surged restlessly around him. He struggled to stand, gathering all his strength to move toward Charlotte.
Charlotte knew she had to retreat quickly. Lucian was still breathing. This time, she aimed for his head.
Before Coraci could close the distance, another shot rang out. He almost thought Charlotte had succeeded — but the next second, she tumbled heavily to the ground.
The wolves roared and charged in the direction of the gunfire. Coraci was blocked by a wall; he couldn’t see who fired the shot. He could only watch as they fired again, hitting a gray-furred wolf in the right leg and then the abdomen.
Within a second or two, two wolves fell from the shots. The others, seeing this, turned and ran.
The sniper pursued them. Coraci staggered out from the collapsed interior, and only then did he see who was shooting.
It was Carolyn. Her golden hair was tied in a ponytail. A silver-edged machete was strapped to her back, and she smoothly replaced the magazine. Seeing Coraci, she was thunderstruck, almost forgetting to continue chasing the wolves.
The lead wolf was stopped by another creature — an even larger upright beast, like a bear or giant badger with tusks. Then a few humans appeared and, together with the beast, subdued the wolves.
Coraci stepped forward slowly, countless tiny blades leaving marks of all sizes on the ground around him. He thought dizzily, That was the ancient giant wolf branch of the lycanthrope line — it should be extinct. Who was it? Did the Association have someone like that?
Exhausted, he stood under the sunlight, feeling as if everything before him were an illusion.
“Coraci, stop.” A familiar voice called.
Coraci shifted his gaze, searching for the source. A young man with brown hair emerged from the shade of a nearby tree.
His skin was so pale it carried a bluish tinge, with blotches of varying shades of red on his face, neck, and hands, like he was having an allergic reaction. He was a bloodkin, not so young that sunlight would destroy him, but still unable to fully resist it.
His irises were vivid red, the whites of his eyes slightly bloodshot, his skin blemished; the unblemished areas were corpse-gray. Even without the Eyes of Truth, Coraci could see him clearly — so could Carolyn and the others. His power, greatly diminished in daylight, left him in pain, unable to maintain a fully human appearance.
It was John Lockland, standing there under the noonday sun.
“Coraci, stop,” John said as he stepped out of the shade, closing the distance. “Cease all actions. Withdraw your power.”
The pact could not control the devil — it could only control the human-conscious Coraci. He halted his steps, though he could not immediately retract his power. He looked at John, his eyes almost helpless. He wanted to say, I’m trying my best, please give me a moment… But no sound came out. All he could do was nod, trembling slightly.
Coraci wanted to avoid John’s gaze because in it, he saw fear. Not concern, not even disappointment — fear. John was afraid of him.
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