"Don't be afraid, Uncle Antoine. Your end does not lead to death."
The young count, his complexion pale as a ghost, spoke with eyes filled with disgust. The tip of his dagger brushed lightly across Antoine's face.
The cold steel made Antoine's skin quiver uncontrollably; even the fat on his cheeks trembled. Yet as someone who had ruled an entire city, Antoine forced himself to maintain his composure with every ounce of willpower left in him.
Since the assassin could no longer be relied upon, he tried instead to appeal to reason — and sentiment — in a desperate bid to sway the young count before him.
As for the guards of the castle… since there had been no commotion for this long, he feared they were already dead.
"My dear little Anthony, haven't I treated you quite well all these years?"
Bound tightly to the chair, Antoine tried to shrink his bulky frame as much as possible, attempting to move even a little farther from the dagger's edge. "The wealth of the Anthony family has only grown under my care! The late Count, when he was alive, never saw such prosperity! Your uncles are all satisfied too!"
The young count sneered, casting him a contemptuous glance but saying nothing. Instead, he drew the dagger across Antoine's body, slicing open a deep wound.
A scream tore from Antoine's throat — shrill and filled with agony. All his calm and reasoning vanished, replaced by rage and hysteria.
"You vile little brat! How dare you—how dare you harm me! You're just like that barbarian father of yours — no brains at all! The prosperity of Port Anthony is all my doing! It has nothing to do with your damned family! Why should I remain just a steward? Why?!"
"Hush."
The young count pressed a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. With his dagger, he began carving strange, twisted symbols into the floor around the chair. The blood flowing from Antoine's wound seeped into the grooves, spreading outward until it filled the strange rune-like formation.
The eerie pattern pulsed as if alive, greedily drinking in the blood. The air trembled with the sound of some unseen entity sucking in breath with satisfaction. Antoine's eyes widened in horror — his mouth hung open, but he discovered to his terror that not a single sound could escape.
"Don't worry," the young count said coldly, his face lit by the dim red glow of the runes. "I told you — death will not be your end. In fact, you should thank me. I am granting you the gift of immortality."
When the formation was complete, the young count stood before Antoine and continued, his voice like the toll of a funeral bell. "As for my uncles — they, too, shall share your fate. For all eternity, they will sing to me from their endless torment."
He lifted both hands high, his adolescent voice echoing with unnatural fervor.
"For the sins your kind has committed against House Anthony, you shall atone for thousands of years! Until your soul's decay to nothing! Until I tire of the pleasure your suffering brings! And like this city, all of you shall perish in the grip of plague — wailing as you die! There shall be no mercy, no compassion! All life shall be equal in the loving embrace of Grandfather Nurgle — reduced to dust and bone!"
"You won't have the chance!"
A thunderous shout echoed down the hallway, followed by the crash of stone and steel. The wall exploded inward — debris flying everywhere — and a squad of heavily armored paladins charged through the breach.
Seeing their timely arrival and the deranged boy before them, the shadow assassin, Colin, knew this was his cue to leave and claim his payment. Cleaning up this mess was better left to professionals like the witchers.
He had already delivered the necessary information; whether chaos could be stopped or not was no longer his concern. He could only hope that the witcher's apprentice would buy his master enough time.
As dust swirled through the air, Colin vanished into the shadows, leaving behind only a small folded note fluttering to the floor.
Through the settling smoke, Witcher Gonz strode in, flanked by the armored priest Richard. The shout from earlier had been his.
Tears welled in Antoine's eyes. He had never thought he would be so relieved to see these sanctimonious paladins—or even that grim witcher. If he could have spoken, he would have shouted through sobs, "What took you so long?!"
"You hypocritical zealots!" the young count screamed, his voice cracking with madness. "You're too late! You can't stop my master's power from descending upon this city!"
"Child," said Richard softly, his eyes filled with sorrow as he beheld the young lord's decaying, ulcerated skin. "You've gone too far… you've left me no choice, little Anthony. What you've done is sheer folly."
At his command, the paladins in their shining steel armor surrounded the young count, forming a solid wall of faith and discipline.
Meanwhile, Witcher Gonz ignored both the struggling Antoine and the transforming noble. He searched the room quickly and found Colin's note where the assassin had vanished.
"Your last chance — and your apprentice's life. The task of saving the Far South and maybe the world now falls to you! I'm rooting for you!"
Below the message was a hastily drawn smiling face — and an address: the location of the warehouse that Aldric had previously investigated.
It was now obvious that Colin, the shadow assassin, had never told the full truth to either side. For his own gain, he had shifted all the risks to everyone else. No matter who triumphed, he would walk away unharmed — perhaps even richer. And at the end, he had left only a single, fragile chance for the others to grasp.
"Damn it!" Gonz cursed. There was no time to chase the assassin now. Colin had deliberately drawn everyone's attention here just so he could buy himself time to escape — and loot as much as he pleased.
"Richard! This place is yours now. Give me a team — I have to stop the Chaos Gate from opening inside the city!" Gonz roared, slamming his fist into the wall in frustration.
"Hobbes!" the priest barked. "Take your men and go with the Witcher. You must prevent the corruption from spilling into our world!"
"Damn you, shadow assassin! The Plague Lord will never forgive you!" shrieked the young count, his body convulsing. Watching his enemies split their forces to intercept the ritual, he realized, too late, that he had been betrayed by Colin just as thoroughly as Antoine had.
Bound to the chair, Antoine's body shook violently—but not from fear. He was laughing silently, madly, his shoulders heaving with grim satisfaction.
"You won't stop me!" the young count howled. "No one can halt my vengeance!"
With that scream, the flesh on his back split open, and a pair of insect-like wings burst outward, stretching wide.
The only heir of House Anthony swept the room with eyes full of hatred, then seized his upper and lower jaws with both hands. With a savage pull, he tore his own head in half, ripping his face from crown to chin. Blood and bile splattered the walls — the fluid now a dark, toxic green — spilling onto the floor and pooling within the runic circle beneath Antoine's feet.
Then came the swarm.
Countless insects — winged and crawling alike — poured forth from the torn throat: beetles, flies, centipedes, spiders, maggots, and grotesque creatures unknown to the mortal world. Some were as large as a human arm, creatures from the realm of Nurgle itself. They spilled out endlessly, as though that frail boy's body had been nothing more than a portal to another, monstrous dimension.
And as the swarm consumed the chamber, the line between nightmare and reality finally shattered.
(End of Chapter)