Chapter 272: Chapter 272

The agony dragged his spirit toward madness.

His mind—splintered, screaming—no thought, only pain.

Pain pain pain—what was it? Why? When?

He couldn't tell what had happened. Only that it hurt.

What was the cause? Who did it?

Pain in the blood. Pain in the bones.

Pain in the very word pain.

P a i n. P a i n. P a i n.

Only pain existed—relentless, eternal, merciless.

[Soul's Crucible]. He needed [Soul's Crucible]—it could stop the pain, right? It would ease his suffering.

No, he needed [Eidolon Flesh]. Healing without potions, immediate relief.

[Soul's Crucible]. He needed [Soul's Crucible].

Where was [Soul's Crucible]?

His mind was like stained glass—cracking, splintering, shattering into fine, meaningless grains of sand. And yet—

Pain had roused his shattered consciousness.

Weakly, Azriel looked at his left hand...

For a fleeting second, his broken focus clung to something—weird bulges rising from the earth.

Those bulges… twitched.

Then the sound reached his ears—faint, wet, indecipherable.

Like someone chewing quietly behind a wall.

Like meat squelching under pressure.

Like something alive and hungry.

The bulges writhed again, and then—

Black worms squirmed out, slick with gore,

feasting on Azriel's hand.

Dozens of worms, covered in his own blood and dirt, chewed their way free.

They were chewing on his hand.

His hand… was being eaten.

The sound—wet, revolting—grew louder.

Like something twisting wet cloth under floorboards.

Like a dying dog gnawing its own limb.

A sharp, searing burn ripped through his calf—his eyes reeling from the sensation, flesh and bone raked raw as if scraped by a rusted file. Reddish-black bubbles surged into his throat, and he convulsed like a fish on dry land. He didn't faint. He couldn't. The pain was too strong for that. And Azriel was too strong to escape. The cruelty forced his mind to stay awake. To witness it all.

He shouldn't have opened his mouth.

Immediately, slimy bodies forced entry, slithering over his tongue, sliding down his throat, burrowing eagerly toward his stomach.

His scream muffled, transformed into weak, choking gurgle.

More worms erupted—his skin shredding apart at seams, flesh splitting open, revealing bone and nerves being ravaged.

Legions of void worms swarmed his body, their minute, serrated fangs sawing through muscle, tendon, nerve endings—feasting ravenously.

His right eye was plunged into darkness as a void worm lunged—and burrowed into it.

Another blinding pain.

This time, it wasn't light—it was darkness that consumed him.

Then came the wet, squelching sensation.

Things wriggled with sickening insistence.

They were inside him. Behind his eyes, beneath his skin, coiled around his breath like living rot.

Everywhereeverywhereeverywhereeverywhere—

Dozens of small fangs. Each void worm carried them—barely visible to the naked eye.

Azriel somehow managed to scream.

He rolled onto his back, his raw throat shrieking toward the heavens.

At that moment, something furry and wet slithered between his lips—and ripped out his tongue.

A new tunnel carved open from his windpipe down into his stomach.

Through it, they devoured him.

Chewing. Gnawing. Devouring.

He was being chewed away.

Fangs surged from below—through his anus—colliding violently inside him with the worms that had entered through his mouth.

Like rival armies, they tore through organs from both ends.

Left, right, up, down—

Mincemeat. That was all that remained of Azriel Crimson.

And he was being eaten alive.

He could feel his flesh reduced to fragments.

He was still conscious.

But there was no fear.

There wasn't even Azriel anymore.

His mind was somewhere far away—or nowhere at all.

He was being consumed.

And then—the skin of his face peeled off like wet parchment.

A hole cracked open in his skull—and fangs, gleaming with rot, plunged into his brain.

"My lord, are you sure you're alright ?"

Mio stood there, her robe gently swaying. Her eyes—soft, trembling—filled with concern.

Azriel stood motionless in front of her, dressed in his military uniform—

A wooden cane rested in his grasp.

…His flesh—had been rebuilt.

The torn and devoured meat of his cheeks.

The ripped skin from his face.

His skull, shattered and chewed through.

Nerves gnawed to pulp.

Blood lapped up by the mouths of a thousand horrors.

Even his soul—violated, desecrated, consumed.

All of it had been restored.

His four limbs were intact, tethered again to a breathing body.

His chest held the organs it needed to live.

Flesh and blood had been returned to him.

Blood surged into his fingers. And Azriel's body—

Who could return to sanity when the memory of being devoured still clawed at the walls of the mind?

The word repeated not in his thoughts, but deep in his soul.

Over and over, like a prayer without a god to hear it.

But his soul—repeating the word like a desperate plea.

Why did it have to be that way?

What was happening now?

What was he supposed to do?

Where was he supposed to go?

—Why, why, why, why, why.

In the face of that impossible question—no shape, no logic, no words—his soul fractured into grief.

Drowning in the weight of reality,

Haunted by a nightmare that would never fade,

Having lost the thread of what it meant to be alive,

Azriel could do nothing but scream silently into himself: