Unholy Player Chapter 496 The Owner of the Scarlet Sea (Part 1)

"Why do you exist?" Adyr’s question wasn't born of logic, but from a visceral instinct. It felt as though the words were being forcibly extracted from the deepest recesses of his soul.

He didn't anticipate a reply. In truth, he barely understood the nature of his own inquiry or the identity of the entity he was questioning.

Nevertheless, the figure spoke.

"How many more times must I be unmade to reach eternity?"

The response reverberated within Adyr's skull. It was that same heavy, hauntingly familiar voice that had been haunting his thoughts. Like mounting pressure against a sheet of glass, the sound pushed his fractured mind toward the brink of a total collapse.

The agonizing pangs of hunger and thirst surged within him once more. Shifting his focus to his remaining intact arm, he began to consume his own flesh, his teeth sinking into his skin without a moment of hesitation.

Observing this, a profound scowl marred the figure's enigmatic features as it stepped forward.

"You only devour everything until nothing is left behind."

The voice had grown closer, now saturated with a sharp, biting rage that cut through its previous calm.

Adyr, however, remained oblivious. He continued to feast upon himself, trapped in a grotesque cycle of biting and swallowing, lost to his own madness.

The figure advanced across the crimson sea. With every stride, the bloody world trembled; tremors rippled through the surface, and small waves radiated from beneath its feet.

"You are no longer needed." The voice was thick with loathing, yet beneath the fury lay an ancient exhaustion—the weight of millennia spent in weariness and fear. "Go back to where you came from."

As the figure reached the threshold of the gate, preparing to exit, the two other entities stationed at the portals finally stirred.

Gigantic hands reached out from their respective gates. With a violent impact, they crushed the blood gate into nothingness. It shattered before the figure could cross, sending shards of scarlet light flying like splintered glass.

The two entities watched as the gate vanished beneath their grip. They then turned their attention back to Adyr, who continued to ravenously devour his own body as if it were a grand banquet, despite his frame being utterly mangled.

After a time, they retreated into their own gates. The portals vanished along with them, leaving no evidence of their presence behind. Only the devastated mountain peak and Adyr remained.

Adyr, once again isolated, did not cease his grim task. Once the flesh was stripped from his arms, he began to grind the bones, his jaws moving with mechanical precision.

The bones, as hard as tempered steel, disintegrated between his teeth. The sharp, rhythmic snapping of bone echoed unnaturally through the stillness of the environment.

The mountaintop and the surrounding forest were swallowed by an eerie quiet, punctuated only by the sounds of his self-consumption until his hunger finally subsided and the internal drive faded.

Sitting cross-legged with both arms gone, Adyr tilted his head back. His eyes, completely saturated with blood, stared up at the heavens while red streaks dried upon his skin.

Night had fallen. The golden sun had transformed into a monochrome orb, wreathed in black and white flames that seemed to burn with the intent of purging the madness it had witnessed.

As he gazed at the alien, strangely soothing sun, Adyr’s clarity began to return. With the restoration of his consciousness came a wave of visceral revulsion. His body finally recoiled at the deeds of his mind. Something surged up his throat, and he opened his mouth to violently expel everything he had consumed.

A torrent of crimson blood poured from his stomach. He vomited liters of the fluid, the wet, harsh sounds filling the air as a pool of gore spread around his seated form.

Once the last of the blood—far more than any human stomach could contain—was expelled, the puddle began to stir. Like a sentient creature, the blood crawled up his skin, covering his body and the earth around him.

At this point, Adyr lost consciousness once more. The surrounding blood formed into a cocoon and started to solidify.

It hardened into a metallic, blood-red shell, sealing him within. The final metamorphosis for his Rank 4 evolution had begun.

Elsewhere in the Midlands, where the air reeked of rot and the soil was saturated with decay, a motionless body lay in a pool of blood—a divine vessel prepared for a continuous ritual.

The figure appeared to be a teenage boy with skin as white as marble, looking as though every drop of life had been siphoned away. He looked like a corpse.

Long, scarlet hair drifted in the pool of blood, and two black horns protruded from his forehead. He looked like a beautiful devil, a masterpiece of dark contrast.

Surrounding the boy were hundreds of figures in black robes and red masks, all kneeling in silence. Their tattered, grime-stained garments suggested they had occupied this position for a vast amount of time, waiting with a patience that bordered on the eternal.

Among the crowd was a single man who wore neither mask nor robe. He was entirely naked, kneeling in the same reverent pose, exposed to the elements and the surrounding stench.

His matted hair was thick with dirt, and his pale skin was stained with blood, making him look like a wretched, living icon of devotion. He seemed to be in a deep trance, worshipping the figure in the blood pool, until a voice broke the silence.

"Sevrak."

A calm, clear female voice reached him. He lifted his head, opening eyes with dark, blood-colored pupils to look at the robed woman walking toward him through the ranks of worshippers.

"Your Holiness." Sevrak’s greeting was immediate and filled with profound respect, his voice rasping but full of sincerity.

The woman’s face remained hidden behind her mask, but her crimson eyes sparkled through the slits. A slight smile touched her red lips.

"You are finally ready to serve Him," she declared, her tone reflecting the satisfaction of a long-sought victory.

"Rise."

Following her order, Sevrak stood. His body was a map of filth, soil, and dried, cracked blood. The scales on his chest, which reached up to his throat, had shifted from black to a deep, vibrant red. Combined with his eyes, his presence was far more menacing than before.

He had grown leaner, possessing the sharp, hollow look of one who had fasted for days, yet his muscles hummed with a dangerous, hidden power. After a brief inspection, the woman manifested a red mask and black robe in her hand and threw them to him.

"There is but one task remaining for you to truly join our ranks," she said with a cold smirk. "Go now and retrieve the remnants of that treasure."

Sevrak had been promised immense power in exchange for recovering the fragments of the Heart of the Blood Palace. Now, as a Blood Path Practitioner endowed with strength beyond his wildest dreams, it was time to fulfill his oath.

Clutching the robe and mask, Sevrak dropped back to his knees. "I will not fail you or Him," he spoke with fervent excitement.

The woman gave a single nod but issued a final warning.

"Two Rank 4 Practitioners will accompany you to assist in the search. Do not forget—returning empty-handed is not an option."

Even though the Heart of the Blood Palace was spent and broken, its remains were priceless to them. The shards still held the essence of corrupted blood, which was sacred to their cause.

To reconstruct the body for the God they intended to revive, they required every piece of ancient corrupted blood available to fortify the vessel bit by bit.

Had it been possible, she would have handled it herself or dispatched a Rank 5 Adept. However, due to the watchful eyes of rival factions and the sect's own restrictions, they could not risk deploying their strongest members without drawing unwanted attention. They were bound to operate from the shadows.