Bloody Odyssey

Chapter 95 95: Blood Rriver.

Upstairs, where the body had fallen, something moved.

The headless corpse sat upright.

Naked, it hugged itself in the corner like a child seeking comfort from a nightmare that would not end. Blood still seeped from the neck stump, pooling between its thighs and dripping down the wall behind it.

The air coming from its body was thick with oppression.

Confused. Directionless. But growing.

If not for the Bloody Father's mercy, I should be dead.

The corpse clenched its chest. Fingers dug into flesh. Suddenly, it began to spasm—convulsing—as blood leaked from every pore. Crimson droplets beaded on its skin, rolled down its arms, and dripped from its fingertips.

Demonic influence.

Unknown to the killer who wore a dead man's face, his very presence had begun to spread. The walls darkened. The floorboards groaned. The shadows in the corners stretched and reached.

Dax walked into the room, watching the body's strange actions.

Is it magic that makes all this possible? Because I see no signs of parasites.

Is he still alive?

In a blink, he was in front of the corpse.

He studied it—not with disgust, but with the cold curiosity of a man examining a specimen that had defied expectation.

Such violent strings.

His eyes narrowed.

Something is very wrong here. And this stench…

He recognized it.

"Blood River."

His lips parted into a demonic arc.

His reaction was fast. He stabbed behind him.

Not at the corpse—at the empty air. But the moment his hand extended, a crimson ripple appeared, blocking his path with ease.

Shimmer.

Only Dax could see him. Eyes locked with ice-cold madness.

Blood God.

He was translucent—a red-haired figure draped in a crimson veil that moved like water, like smoke, like something that had never been solid. His face was a mask of mourning, blood staining his cheeks as though he had been weeping crimson for centuries.

But that did not diminish his glory.

Time stopped.

The guards below froze mid-breath. Dust hung motionless in the air. The inn—what remained of it—ceased its collapse.

The Blood God's eyes opened.

They were like a sea. Like an ocean. Because that was what he was—a sea of blood, endless and hungry, stretching back to the first murder, the first wound, the first drop.

Those eyes that stairs at the heavens shall be taken by thee.

Dax stepped forward.

His eyes stared deep into the Blood God's. His face was calm, but something beneath it was not.

His aura surged with a wave of uncontrolled fury which soaked his heart for an unknown reason—or perhaps for every reason.

Every death. Every sacrifice. His talent. His mother.

The building collapsed.

Stone crumbled. Wood splintered. Walls fell outward, and the floors above came crashing down.

The destruction rippled through the street, affecting nearby buildings, killing those who had not fled, and burying the living and the dead beneath mountains of rubble.

Below, a glass dome shimmered into existence, covering the Godfall guards—not a moment too soon. Dust and debris slid off its surface like water off oiled cloth.

The guards stared.

Their hands rested on their weapons. Their bodies were tense. But none of them moved.

The Scared Wolf stepped to Alfonzo's side. Silent. Ready. Like he always did.

"Madeka!"

"I know."

For the first time, Madeka's tone was cold. No playfulness. No teasing.

Her eyes were fixed upward, fixed on the clearing dust, fixed on the figures who had begun to emerge from the wreckage.

"A god?"

Madeka's voice was low. But audible to all.

Nadia took a step back. Her golden eyes were locked on the exposed image of Dax—his arm extended, his palm pressing against a dome of blood, trying to force his way through.

The guards took their stances.

All except Madeka.

She did not believe in gods. As an alien, as a woman who had led a civilization, as someone who had seen the stars and the void between them.

She had never been one to kneel or cower in fear.

The Blood God glanced down.

Not at Dax, but at the group below.

Instantly, an unshakable might pressed down on every soul present—guard, servant, passerby. It mixed with Dax's pressure, doubled it, tripled it, until even breathing became an act of will.

The moment the Blood God's presence touched Dax's soul…

The Trait Baby opened its eyes.

The one representing the Origin Eater. The crimson figure curled within the golden dome, surrounded by its siblings. Its eyes snapped open—hungry, ancient, patient.

It began to eat.

Not flesh, but Source. The Blood God's own essence, drawn into the baby's mouth, swallowed.

Another core in Dax's galaxy flickered to life.

The Blood God noticed his oppression had no effect and grew angered.

Blood welled from Dax's palm—forcefully, unnaturally—allowing his arm to enter the dome just a little further.

Across the city, people awoke.

Guards filled the streets, swords drawn, torches blazing. At the front of the destroyed residence, Ever Sword stood frozen—unable to move, unable to speak, his face a mask of confusion.

What is going on in this city?

One by one, hidden masters—those who had lived in the City of Roses for decades, waiting—felt the oppression. Some fell to their knees. Others clutched their chests. A few simply wept.

None of them understood.

The Blood God uttered words.

Only Dax could hear them.

Such quality.

Dax severed his hand with unnatural speed—the one that had been struggling against the god's force.

In a blink, it dissolved into a puddle the moment it left his wrist.

He did not flinch.

With his empty arm, he struck the dome again.

Crack.

The god vanished.

Boom.

An intense wave blasted Dax backward—through the air, through the ruins, through dozens of houses. It did not stop. It kept going, tearing through the massive city wall and leaving a gaping hole. Moonlight poured through like a wound.

Silence covered the city.

Not the silence of peace. The silence of shock and creeping fear.

"Dax!"

Madeka followed him like a wisp of energy—a shadow. She was already moving before the dust had settled.

Nadia tensed, ready to follow, just then cackles echoed from the rubble.

The headless corpse had regenerated.

Its neck had sealed. Its eyes—newly grown—were hollow and black. It pulled itself from the rubble, digging into its belly with both hands, tearing through flesh that healed as fast as it tore.

From its stomach, it removed a broadsword.

The blade was disgusting—wet like the insides of a living thing, pulsing. Veins ran along its surface, making it look alive.

The killer, now dressed in a crimson robe that manifested from thin air, stood arrogantly before his enemies—as if the gods themselves were not watching.