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Chapter 344.1

As the surroundings grew pitch black, Horace felt as though he’d plunged into the depths of the ocean. The undead typically had excellent night vision, and the only time they sensed “darkness” was when something physically blocked their view, like the deep sea or dense fog.

In other words, this darkness was not just an absence of light; it was a tangible substance.

Crack! Before Horace could fully grasp what was happening, his ship came to a sudden halt. The abrupt stop sent him and everything else onboard—crew, cargo, and even the skeletons hanging from the rails—flying and crashing against the deck with a deafening noise. If he were still alive, Horace would have been knocked unconscious, but instead, he quickly regained his bearings and looked skyward.

There, he saw the force holding his ship in place.

Emerging from the darkness, the familiar crimson tentecals were gripping the ship. Twisted and knotted, they crushed the skeletal sailors entwined in their coils, pulling them into gaping, toothed mouths scattered along their length, devouring them greedily.

[Laughs…]

A shiver of fear climbed Horace’s spine, something undead rarely experienced. This “thing” possessed an innate horror that stirred even the dead.

Suddenly, Horace noticed that everything around him was bathed in a bloody hue. Turning back, he saw Isaac, shrouded in crimson mist, looking down at him.

“No one survives after witnessing that.”

As Isaac spoke, the tentacles continued to descend, devouring the crew one by one. Though summoning the Grasp of the Abyss drained his strength rapidly, Isaac was determined to end Horace here and now.

Seeing Isaac, Horace felt an overwhelming urge to ask countless questions.

Was he truly an apostle of the Nameless Chaos? How did he know the forbidden name without succumbing to the White Death? Why was the Salt Council aiding him, and why did he claim to be part of the Dawn Army?

But the first question he asked was entirely different.

[What about Commander Delrod?]

“Who?”

[The commander of the White Eagle Paladin Order. Did you kill him?]

Isaac found the question strange.

Unless one were an angel, souls couldn’t truly be killed; they could only be dispersed or sent back to Urbansus. But Isaac sensed that Horace wasn’t asking in that context.

“I devoured him.”

[Did you, now?]

Horace’s response was chillingly simple.

[Then I’ll have to rip you open. That soul cannot leave here.]

Horace’s response was nothing short of mad. His interest lay more in the soul Isaac had consumed than in Isaac himself. Before he could act on his strange intent, Isaac swiftly swung his blade, decapitating Horace. Although Horace was a legendary captain, he wasn’t legendary for his swordsmanship.

What Isaac desired wasn’t Horace’s life but rather his skull, or more specifically, control over this fleet through the skull.

Even reduced to a skull, Horace murmured a prayer.

[Immortal Emperor, I beseech thee…]

“Calling for an angel’s help? Sorry, but no one can enter or exit this space while the Hidden Rite is active. Even summoning the Archangel is impossi—”

Just then, Isaac felt a tremor. Horace’s ship shook violently.

Isaac initially thought it was a sudden wave, but given that the Grasp of the Abyss held the ship in place, that shouldn’t have been possible. As the tremors intensified, Isaac noticed that the tentecals binding the ship were being stretched taut.

‘Could it be…?’

Isaac quickly looked over the railing. Waves surged furiously, all converging toward a single point. A massive whirlpool began to form, its mouth widening to an enormous size, as if ready to swallow not only the fleet but the very sea itself.

Horace, lying in Isaac’s hand, let out a low, mocking laugh.

[No one leaves this sea. No one.]

***

Crack!

Realizing that his ship was on the verge of being torn in half, Isaac commanded the tentacles to release it. The moment they let go, Horace’s ship surged forward on the waves.

The Hidden Rite couldn’t hold up for much longer. Though its barrier was designed to withstand substantial impacts, the immense pressure of the whirlpool forced it to shatter and dissipate.

‘Damn it.’

Inside the Hidden Rite, no one could escape, and the barrier could only be broken by the caster or an external force. Anything happening within couldn’t be observed from the outside.

For an Archangel to intervene, they would need to respond to or observe the summoner. The Hidden Rite blocked both possibilities.

This barrier should have prevented such interference, yet the whirlpool had broken through it.

It was hard to believe that such a phenomenon had occurred by chance.

‘Could an Archangel have already arrived?’

At that moment, a powerful image struck Isaac and everyone nearby.

A vision appeared: a gaunt monk sitting in a dark room. The monk’s face was split into twelve, each gazing in a different direction. His body was riddled with small and large holes, from which centipedes, snakes, and insects crawled.

The vision, embodying the essence of death, hammered into their minds, and Horace’s body suddenly sprang up and landed a powerful punch under Isaac’s chin.

“What the…?!”

This time, Isaac felt no impact from Horace’s desperate attack, but Horace’s body quickly snatched up his own skull and bolted away. Isaac was momentarily speechless, but it hardly mattered—there was nothing more the mad captain could do.

No one could resist the giant whirlpool looming ahead.

Isaac took a moment to reflect on the image he’d just witnessed.

‘A twelve-faced monk… if that’s the Archangel I think it is, then it must be The Dead December. He won’t show up here in person, then.’