Deus Necros

Chapter 459: Outburst

“NOT MY FAULT!”

The howl tore from Hiro’s throat and bounced across the vaulted stone of the Sacrosanctum’s main hall, so loud and petulant it drowned the murmured prayers of priests in the galleries above. His voice was shrill with desperation, and his arms flailed wide as though sheer volume and movement could shield him from the judgement of the assembled order. His face was red, greasy sweat beading along his temple and rolling down the folds of his neck.

“You all know” his chest heaved, his breath ragged, “that I couldn’t do anything there! Even Titania was struggling! How do you think I would have managed?”

The silence that followed was heavy. The air smelled faintly of incense, bitter from being burned too long. The Pope sat rigid at the high dais, his eyes narrowing, while the gathered cardinals and bishops shifted in their seats. Their dissatisfaction was palpable, like a wave pressing down on the fat youth.

“If you had listened to me in the first place, none of this would have happened,” Hiro snapped, stabbing a finger forward. His tone carried the smugness of someone who believed vindication excused cowardice.

A bishop to the left, his aged hands folded in his sleeves, allowed his lips to part. “You suggested not even going into the city at all. That is not foresight it is a coward’s way.”

Hiro’s head swiveled toward him, eyes narrowing, his mouth curling into a sneer of full derision. “If we never went to the capital,” he hissed, “then no matter what would have happened, it would have been destroyed anyway. The backlash, the humiliation, the deaths none of it would have been tied to us.” He jabbed his thumb into his own chest with enough force to make his body jiggle. “SINCE WE WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN THERE! But now?” His laugh was bitter, cruel. “Now you all look like a joke. Tens of thousands dead. The Holy Order’s strongest force your supposed pride was there. And you failed.”

Murmurs rose from the benches. Some bishops turned their faces away, others clenched fists until knuckles whitened. The shame was real, the wound fresh.

“Stop rubbing salt into their wounds, Hiro,” Clementine’s voice cut smooth through the tension, quiet but firm.

The young cardinal stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his face the very picture of calm, though his eyes glittered with satisfaction. It was almost too clear that he was pleased, pleased that the disaster in Tulmud’s capital was not something he had to answer for. He had already announced his departure and handed responsibility to Sutros. That meant every tally of the dead, every stain of failure, every mark on the record of the Holy Order fell squarely on the shoulders of his greatest rival.

Clementine’s lips curled faintly, and though he did not say it, the air around him radiated smugness. Sutros, the proud, zealous cardinal, the one who had long blocked Clementine’s ambition for the papal seat was now bloodied, humiliated, weakened.

And Clementine had not raised a finger.

“Still,” Clementine continued, his voice silk-smooth, “not all is lost.” He raised a hand as though to calm the room, but the gesture was unnecessary the weight of his words commanded attention. “We obtained a worthy companion.”

His gaze slid toward Hoyo, standing silent at the edge of the hall. The young man’s cowl was drawn low, his expression unreadable, though his shoulders tensed when all eyes turned to him.

“What was once meant to be,” Clementine said, his voice adopting the cadence of a sermon, “has returned to us.” His lips curved. “I have to thank Sutros for that. Not everything he touches turns to dust, apparently.”

The jab struck its mark.

“Watch your mouth,” Sutros growled.

The cardinal’s tone was low, but the venom in it carried through the chamber like a lash. His fists trembled against the arms of his seat, the veins in his neck visible. Across from him, Clementine’s face remained maddeningly calm, his faint smile a blade twisting in the wound. His eyes shone with the cruel delight of a rival who no longer needed to speak his triumph aloud.

Heat rose in Sutros’ chest. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. Clementine’s smug serenity was worse than any insult, worse than any shouted condemnation. It was mockery without words, the assurance of a man who believed the contest already won.

“Enough.”

The Pope’s voice came at last, deep and aged, carrying the weight of finality. It rolled through the chamber, settling even the most restless of the clergy. His hand lifted with difficulty, the thin skin of his knuckles stretched taut, but the gesture silenced the room instantly.

“It serves no purpose to fight and bicker amongst ourselves,” the Pope said, his tone weary but sharp. His eyes, clouded with age, turned not only upon Sutros but upon Clementine as well. “Not to mention, Clementine, you are not without fault here either.”

A murmur rippled. Clementine’s smile froze, just for a heartbeat, before returning in measured restraint. He tilted his head, bowing slightly in practiced humility.

“I beg your pardon, your holiness?” His voice was soft, respectful yet threaded with incredulity. “I did all that was required of me in the capital of Tulmud. I strengthened the Order’s standing before I left. If not for that incident, Tulmud would have become a second Letonia.”

His words dripped with righteousness, the tone of a man who had crafted his alibi long before entering this chamber.

“That is too grand an aspiration to boast of now,” the Pope replied, cutting him short. “Regardless, what I mean is not to diminish your duties, but to remind you of the fact that you failed to keep Bastos Van Dijk captive.”

The name fell like a stone into still water.

For the briefest instant, Clementine’s face twitched, the faintest ripple of annoyance passing across it. Then he composed himself. “That cannot be blamed on me,” he said smoothly. “I reported his state long ago. He remained in the catacombs by his own will. As for the guard who was found unconscious… it could easily be another’s hand, trying to pin his escape upon me.”

His tone was airy, dismissive, almost too quick.

The Pope leaned forward in his chair, his breath labored. “Stop. Just stop. This bickering gnaws at what little patience I have left. I am old. My time short. I will not waste my remaining days listening to excuses.”

The words echoed, heavy with truth. The cardinals lowered their gazes. Clementine’s lips tightened.

The Pope drew in a rasping breath. “And none of you none of you have answered for the failure to recover the Heart of Rot.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The Pope’s words fell like stones in a grave, heavy and final. His frail chest rose and fell, the effort of each breath a visible weight upon him, yet his voice did not waver.

“You all failed in recovering the Heart of Rot,” he said, each syllable sharp with reproach. “The report claims it was wasted consumed to open a portal to Solania. Do you know the damage the Guardian of the Northern Peaks can do if it is unbound?”

The chamber darkened with his tone. The bishops exchanged anxious glances, hands twisting nervously in their sleeves. Even the murmurs of scribes in the back ceased. The mention of that ancient Guardian was enough to conjure whispers of catastrophe, whispered stories of mountain valleys wiped clean of life, of armies shredded to bone by a beast that had rarely ever been seen.

And then, breaking the tension like a spoiled child at a funeral, Hiro’s voice cut in:

“It’s fine.”

The word rang out brash, uncaring, tumbling into the air as if spoken in a tavern, not beneath the vaulted arches of the Sacrosanctum.

The Pope’s head jerked toward him, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “What,” he said, the word stretched with age and fury, “do you mean fine?”

Hiro, standing brashly in the midst of all that solemnity, spread his arms, his jowls shaking with the motion. He smirked, sweat glistening on his forehead, his expression that of a boy reveling in being the only one who understood.

“There won’t be any damage, well at least not more than the apostles have done,” Hiro said. His tone was dismissive, almost smugly triumphant. “The portal closed. The Guardian was shoved back inside.”

Gasps echoed along the benches. A bishop’s quill snapped in his hand. Sutros leaned forward, glaring.

The Pope’s voice grew sharp, incredulous. “And how, exactly, do you know that? The last report we received spoke of the portal opening and then silence. No messenger. No witness. No word since. How do you claim to know what none of us can?”

Hiro chuckled, the sound grating in its arrogance. He tapped a finger against his chest, the motion deliberately theatrical.

“My quest,” he said, drawing the word out, letting it linger in the vaulted space like a boast. “I told you before. It tells me what happens globally. It told me to leave the city, because I was guaranteed death the moment that portal opened. I mean” he gestured broadly to the cardinals and bishops, his tone dripping with derision, “you have saints, and prophetic visions, and revelations, and still you don’t get to communicate directly with the gods of this world. But I do.”

He jabbed his thumb against himself again. “You should listen to me more.”

The silence that followed was venomous. Cardinals stared, their eyes sharp with disbelief. The bishops clenched their jaws, muttering prayers to steady themselves. The Pope sat utterly still, his thin lips pressed to a line, his expression unreadable, save for the faintest twitch at the corner of his eye.

The arrogance of the boy echoed like a slap across the entire chamber.

“You’ve proven to be nothing more than a liability. Trusting your words is unwise…”

The Pope’s words rang sharp and final. His voice did not rise, yet it carried through the chamber like a lash across the face. The weight of his disappointment was heavier than anger. His eyes, old and clouded, fixed on Hiro with the clarity of judgment that needed no further explanation.

“How can we listen to you more,” the Pope continued, “when you fail at the most basic obligations entrusted to you?”

Hiro’s face twitched. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and for a moment it looked like he might bite down on his tongue just to keep from screaming. Then the dam broke.

“BECAUSE NONE OF YOU LISTEN!” His voice cracked as it bellowed up into the vaulted arches, the echo doubling his rage. Spittle flew from his mouth as he swung his arms wide. “I TOLD YOU! All I needed to do was kill in order to grow! That’s it! That’s the truth of my system!”

The bishops recoiled in their seats, some clutching their robes tighter, others whispering frantic prayers under their breath. The word system itself was alien to their ears, like a curse, something that should not belong in holy halls.

“But no” Hiro’s fists clenched, his cheeks blotched red, “you want me to do it the long way! Training my body, training my mind, wasting time with your bullshit drills and holy lessons. You’re all stupid!”

His words cracked against the silence, shattering it. For a heartbeat, the chamber was still, stunned at the audacity. Then, slowly, one of the older bishops rose, his thin frame shaking, his voice trembling but resolute.

“There is no such thing,” he said, his words measured, “as growth without consequence. Only those who consume vile and demonic substances achieve growth without effort. That is the path of corruption.”

The murmur of agreement swelled around him. Heads nodded, rosaries clutched tighter. The accusation of demonic taint was not a light one, not in this place.

But Hiro only laughed.

It was an ugly sound, high-pitched, mocking, echoing in the hollow space like the cackle of a jester at a gallows. His eyes gleamed with manic satisfaction.

“Are you sure about that?” he sneered. “Really sure?”

He spread his arms wider, as though offering his whole body to their scrutiny, daring them to deny him. “Because I just succeeded in the quest to escape Tulmud. And guess what I got?” Google seaʀᴄh novel✦fire.net

His smirk widened into something feral. “Stat points.”

The word was foreign, incomprehensible to most in the hall. Yet something in the way he said it sharp, precise, certain made it feel undeniable.

“Let’s see…” Hiro muttered, tilting his head back as if consulting something invisible. “Increase Strength by fifty.”

And then it happened.

In full view of the Pope, the cardinals, the bishops, and the clerics assembled, Hiro’s body convulsed. His fat, his vast, gluttonous bulk, began to ripple beneath his skin. The rolls of flesh writhed and shrank, shifting as though devoured from within. Muscles swelled in their place, taut and heavy, veins rising beneath the surface. His chest compressed, his belly caved inward, his arms thickened with sinew that looked as if they’d been carved from stone.

His clothes sagged and tore, once stretched to bursting, now hanging loose and useless. The sound of fabric tearing mingled with the horrid wet noise of flesh reshaping.

Gasps filled the chamber. A bishop staggered back and crossed himself. One of the cardinals slammed a hand upon the bench in disbelief. Even the Pope, who had seen horrors in his long reign, leaned forward in shock.

Though fat still clung stubbornly at his sides, the change was undeniable. Hiro, the sack of lard mocked by all, now stood as something else. Something alien. His breath came heavier, his grin broader, his eyes burning with arrogance.

“And that” he said, flexing his arms as though to drink in their horror, “was just Strength.” His voice swelled with triumph. “I can increase stamina. Magic. Anything. All I need is to kill another creature and take its level for myself. That’s all. That’s my truth. And you” he pointed toward the Pope, toward the cardinals, toward the bishops, “you still think the long way matters? You still think suffering and training matter?”

He barked a laugh, his voice shaking with pride. “That’s for losers. I have an overpowered system. I don’t need your way. I don’t need any of you, in fact your gods entrusted me to you not the other way around. You should listen more.”

The hall was silent, every breath frozen.

Except for one man.

Hoyo.

At the edge of the chamber, the young man’s eyes had shifted. Where others saw only shock, horror, fear, his gaze glimmered with something else.

Greed.

For a brief instant, it flickered naked upon his face. His fingers twitched as if already plucking at phantom strings, dissecting, analyzing. If such a grotesque transformation was possible through some organ, if this sack of lard’s grotesque system was tied to something physical, tangible, then what would happen if it could be [Grafted] onto him?

The thought seeded itself like a whisper, a poisonous bloom unfurling deep in his mind.

A seed that promised to germinate.