Bloody Odyssey

Chapter 78 78: Blood River.

The sky was wrong.

Not dark, not light—something in between. A bruised violet that bled into ochre at the horizon, as though the heavens themselves had been beaten and left to heal. Beneath it, twelve figures stood in a wide circle, their crimson robes pooling on the cracked earth.

At the center, a figure floated, motionless, suspended in the air as though the ground beneath him was unworthy of his feet.

The silence stretched. His lips parted.

"Blood Paradise."

The words hung in the air, heavy as a death sentence. Around them, the world seemed to exhale—a slow, almost organic pulse rippling outward from the floating man. The domain of Solos, the angel from ages of the past.

He reached up with pale fingers and drew back his hood.

Revealing his face, which was Vabon.

The face beneath was beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—precise, devastating. Flowing black hair cascaded past his shoulders, catching light that didn't exist. His eyes were the color of old wounds, deep and knowing.

He closed his eyes.

"Thy heart is covered by the grace of the Bloody Father."

The twelve figures stirred. Some bowed their heads. Others pressed bloodied fingers to their lips, to their eyelids, to the hollows of their throats. Reverence moved through them like a sickness.

Vabon's voice rose, calm and terrible.

"Thy hands carry the harvest of the slain. Thy name is written in the red ledger. Bless this gathering. Bless this purpose. Let the blood flow until the earth drinks its fill, the blood river will remain supreme forever."

He opened his eyes.

The meeting had begun.

---

The Fifth Apostle stepped forward.

He was withered—so old his skin seemed to hang from his bones like wet cloth left too long in the sun. His fingers were stained crimson, fresh blood caked beneath each nail. A trail of red ran from his lip to his eye, where a fresh blessing had been carved unto his flesh.

The wound wept. The smell that clung to him was vile, rotting—like a carcass left to decay in a closed room.

He turned his gaze to Solos.

"Why don't we just slaughter them all?" His voice was dry and speech dragged. "Now that our Bloody Father has granted us the grace of divinity."

His pupils expanded too wide, swallowing the color of his irises until nothing remained but black pools. No emotion lived in those eyes. Only wickedness, pure and patient.

He lifted his stained fingers to his mouth, sliding them past his lips like a man savoring the last bite of a meal.

"Oh, the children…" He closed his eyes, a shudder of pleasure running through his wasted frame. "I miss their taste."

Around the circle, a few apostles shifted uncomfortably. Others nodded in agreement.

The 3rd Apostle stepped forward—a white-haired man in the same red robe, but his face was hidden behind a demonic mask. The horns curled inward, the mouth frozen in a silent snarl. His body trembled with barely contained rage.

"What the Fifth says is correct," the white-haired man growled. "Though I don't agree with his methods—we need to take action. Now."

His power leaked from him like steam from a boiler. The air around him shimmered. At the level of Odama.

He turned toward the Fifth Apostle, fury boiling behind his mask.

"Your methods are filth."

The fifth expression didn't change. His black eyes simply fixed on the 3rd, and his aura surged—old, deep, patient. The ground beneath them cracked in a perfect ring.

"Enough."

The voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

Another masked man stepped between them. His robe was identical to the others, but his mask bore no carvings—smooth, pale, featureless except for the eyes, Serpentine, Yellow, Split-pupils.

The Third Apostle and the Fifth Apostle both retracted their auras instantly. The Fifth took a step back, bowing his head. The First's eyes returned to normal, though his stained fingers twitched at his side he showed respect not fear.

The serpent-eyed man let the silence hold for a moment before speaking.

"We didn't come here for shenanigans." His voice was soft, almost gentle. That made it worse. "There is news…. The head of Godfall is dead."

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the Fifth let out a sharp, barking laugh.

"Omin?"

The Fourth Apostle a bulky man drowning in an oversized robe—threw his head back and laughed wildly. "At least that's what he gets! Chasing us for all those years. The hunter has been hunted."

Several apostles murmured their agreement. The first smacked his fist into his palm, grinning behind his mask.

But the Fourth Apostle the one whose face was hidden behind a jester's mask, feminine hands clasped at her chest—tilting her head.

"He is dead?" Her voice was light, almost playful, but beneath it something trembled which was relief. "Who was able to kill him?"

The serpent-eyed man's gaze swept the circle.

"I thought it was a lie," he admitted. "But the source is reliable. The Empire's capital confirmed it."

He let the words settle.

"This is a good time," he continued. "To wipe out the sore on our neck. Godfall has lost its head. They are blind, scattered andVulnerable."

Around him, the apostles began to speak—plans, strategies, old grudges rising like bile. The Fifth was already gesturing wildly. While the Jester giggled behind her mask.

But at the center, Vabon remained quiet.

He floated above them all, black hair stirring in a wind that touched no one else. His old-eyes watched the apostles with an expression that was neither approval nor disdain.

He just watched and waited.

Whatever moved behind those eyes was old and chaotic

Solo's domain hung in the air around the Blood Paradise, a dimension of crimson promise.

And Vabon, the vessel, the possessed, the beautiful corpse of a man simply observed.

I know you feel it human, something is terribly wrong. Since their last battle against Dax Solos learned to trust Vabon's dangerous instincts.