CHAPTER 477: CHAPTER 477: I CAN’T WAIT FOR MY LOVE TO COME BACK...

Warning: This scene contains a bit of gore.

The surviving man—the last one left from his squadron of now-headless, dismembered, roasted companions—stared at Zyran with the kind of fragile hope that grows in the heart of a man who knows he is one sneeze away from death.

His eyes shone.

His lips trembled.

His soul whispered, I... I might live.

Poor fool.

Because Zyran’s smile softened.

The kind of soft that made infants coo and grown warriors cry.

Angelic.

Serene.

Beautiful.

And deeply, horrifyingly wrong.

Zyran took a graceful step forward, wine bottle swinging loosely in his hand like he was on a lazy stroll rather than walking through a crime scene.

"I have news for you," he said gently, crouching to eye level with the shivering man. "Because I want you to pass a message to your king."

The man tried to nod.

He couldn’t.

His neck twitched awkwardly.

He was still frozen.

"Oh! Right," Zyran said with exaggerated realization. "Silly me. I forgot you were stuck like a decorative statue."

He snapped his fingers.

Snap.

The freeze spell broke.

Instantly, the man’s legs—numb from being stuck upright in fear and horror—buckled.

He collapsed like a sack of wet potatoes, landing face-first on the blood-soaked dirt, his fingers slipping on the torn limbs of his own companions.

The sound he made was between a sob and a gag.

Zyran tilted his head affectionately.

"Aw. Poor thing. You must be uncomfortable down there."

Then he grabbed the man by his hair and yanked him back up.

Not gently.

Not respectfully.

Just... Zyran-like.

The man’s throat let out a choked sound—part groan, part cry, part prayer.

Zyran brought his face close, until the man could smell the spicy sweetness of the wine on his breath.

"Now listen carefully," Zyran whispered, voice low, silky, intimate. "This part is very important."

The man nodded frantically, stumbling, tears leaking from one eye.

Only one.

Because the other one was about to suffer.

Zyran’s fingers twitched.

They elongated—smoothly, effortlessly—into black, panther-like claws.

Deadly.

Curved.

Glinting.

A gasp rippled through the villagers.

Before the man could even ask for mercy—

SHLCK—

Zyran plunged his claws into both of the man’s eyes.

Both.

The scream that erupted from him echoed through the entire clearing, bouncing off the wooden huts, startling birds from trees, and making even hardened hunters swallow hard.

He writhed violently, grabbing at Zyran’s wrist uselessly.

Blood gushed.

His legs kicked against the dirt.

His remaining eye bulged in white-hot torment.

Zyran leaned in close, whispering into his ear, voice dangerously soft:

"Tell your king... that the woman he is looking for..."

He twisted his claws deeper.

The man howled.

"...will be the death of him."

The man’s scream pitched sharply, hitting a note no human should be able to reach.

"And if I sense any of his men around this village again—"

His mouth brushed the man’s ear like a lover’s whisper.

"I, the son of Anu—"

He cut himself off at the last second and said smoothly:

"—the one who guards these lands... will personally serve his head on a platter."

A deep, resonant roar—not from Zyran, but echoing faintly from somewhere in the underworld—rumbled through the air like thunder breaking the sky.

The dying man’s remaining eye widened in raw, animal terror.

His entire body shook like he might faint.

Zyran released him, withdrawing his claws.

They shrank back into wine-soft fingers.

The man clapped both hands over his bleeding eyes, tremoring violently.

Zyran stood, brushed imaginary dust from his knees, and smiled cheerfully.

"Now hop along, little messenger," he said. "Before I change my mind."

That did it.

The man bolted upright—stumbling, tripping, nearly slipping on the blood-slick ground—and sprinted.

Half blind.

Half dead.

Fully terrified.

Halfway through the clearing, his body rippled—bones shifting—and with a painful crack of transformation, he morphed into a massive gorilla, stumbling forward before finally gaining speed.

He ran into the forest like the devil was biting his ass.

Which, in fairness...

Zyran wasn’t too far off from that.

Dead silence.

No one moved.

Not one single villager dared breathe.

Every pair of eyes—terrified, wide, stunned into paralysis—slowly turned to Zyran.

Zyran blinked innocently.

"What?" he asked.

Cyrus massaged his temple.

He looked like a man suffering a migraine from pure nonsense.

"Remove the bodies," Cyrus said tiredly. "Now."

Zyran blinked again.

"Why me?" he gasped. "I helped you!"

"You killed them," Cyrus muttered.

"Well they—" Zyran gestured broadly to the scattered limbs, "—look better now!"

A few villagers nearly fainted again.

Then from behind a hut, a little girl peeked out—maybe six or seven years old—with big round eyes and tiny braids bouncing behind her.

She marched right up to Zyran’s ankles.

Everyone froze again.

She tilted her head up, glare adorable and furious all at once.

"If you don’t clean our village," she said, pointing a stern little finger at him, "I will tell Goddess Isabella when she comes back."

Zyran went absolutely still.

A crack.

A hairline fracture in his confidence.

A visible pause like someone just unplugged his brain.

Then he whispered:

"...are you serious?"

"Yes!"

Her mother screamed, "NO—NO—NO—COME HERE!"

She sprinted forward and grabbed the child like she had just cursed a demon king.

Dragged her away so fast her feet lifted off the ground.

Zyran stared after them, offended and shaken.

Then he muttered:

"Fuck."

Because deep, deep, DEEP in his heart, Zyran was terrified of Isabella.

Absolutely terrified.

She would spank him.

With her slipper.

And he knew it.

But then he snapped back into confidence, straightening, and pretended he didn’t care.

He flicked hair from his face.

Adjusted his robe.

Sniffed disdainfully.

Then he looked at Cyrus.

Cyrus looked back, tired, unimpressed, done with life.

Zyran sighed.

He turned toward the giant massacre he created—heads, arms, torsos, blood everywhere.

"I should not have made this much mess..." he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "How would I even clean this..."

Cyrus gave him a flat stare that said very clearly:

That is absolutely your problem.

Not mine.

Hurry up.

Zyran groaned like a child asked to do chores.

"Fine," he hissed dramatically.

He raised his hand.

Just one hand.

His fingers curled, dark energy spiraling up his wrist.

The air warped.

Heat pulsed like the breath of a creature waking from sleep.

And then—

WHOOM—

A massive wave of black-gold fire burst outward.

The bodies vanished.

The limbs vanished.

The blood vanished.

The sand beneath them smoothed over like untouched earth.

Everything was gone.

In one breath.

Villagers gasped.

Some clutched their hearts.

Others whispered prayers.

A few reconsidered ever offending anyone ever again.

Zyran dusted his palms together proudly.

"There," he said. "All clean."

Then, as if he hadn’t just casually erased a massacre, he lifted his bottle of wine to his lips and strolled off toward the village path.

Whistling.

Happy.

Light.

The picture of a man whose soul was not soaked in blood one minute ago.

He sang under his breath, in a light, airy tune:

"I can’t wait for my love to come back..."

His voice floated across the village.

Cyrus stared.

Kian stared.

Valen stared.

Every villager stared.

And in perfect silent agreement, every single one of them thought:

This man is insane.

We are doomed.

Please, Goddess Isabella, come home and collect your lunatic.