With layers upon layers of deception in place, Hel was certain that even Pestis would no longer suspect her true goal. No one could have imagined that she had refined death magic to such an absurd degree—so profound that even a tiny undead insect could exchange places with her like pieces on a chessboard.
So, what was this? A necromantic version of the Flying Thunder God?
It was through this very magic that Hel had appeared so suddenly beside the two beastmen. They were both her smokescreen—a distraction to mislead others—and also her test subjects for her new Mindscape World.
Two ordinary Saint-rank beastmen: strong enough to serve as targets, yet not so terrifying as the witches themselves. They were perfect.
In the next instant, Hel too unleashed her Mindscape World.
When Mindscapes of the same attribute collided, they did not shatter one another like opposing forces would—instead, the stronger devoured the weaker.
The moment Hel's domain unfolded, the death energy sustaining the two beastmen's worlds began to collapse.
First, the ashen wasteland beneath them erupted with blood-red springs of the Styx. Then, the pale moon above began to bleed, its light dripping crimson onto the ground. Finally, colossal crucifixes and the corpses of ancient dragons emerged slowly from beneath the earth.
The two beastmen stared in horror. What kind of Saint-rank Holy Knight uses necromancy?!
Their minds screamed in disbelief, but there was no time to process it—a terrifying killing intent descended from the throne atop the dragon's skull, crushing their souls beneath its weight.
The two exchanged a single glance—then bolted in opposite directions without hesitation. As for the wolf cavalry behind them? They didn't even look back.
"Retract your Mindscape! Gather your power!" The hawk-beastman roared to his companion.
"We'll reach the world's edge and use our domains to tear open a rift—that's our only chance!"
The wolf-beastman immediately complied, trusting his partner's instincts born of years of cooperation. In seconds, they had already fled hundreds of meters.
But the wolf cavalry they abandoned were left utterly confused. Before they could even understand what was happening, the scenery around them had already changed—and they now stood within Hel's blood-soaked world.
One wolf rider's eyes suddenly went vacant, his gaze fixed upon the crimson lake below. Without a word, he urged his direwolf downward toward the surface.
"Hey! What are you doing?" His comrades shouted, but as a beam of moonlight brushed their shoulders, their own eyes also turned scarlet.
A strange, uncontrollable urge rose within them—a pull toward that blood-colored lake, a voice whispering that it was calling to them.
Their bodies moved on their own, descending toward the surface. None of them noticed how stiff their limbs had become, or that black death-energy was leaking from their flesh.
The instant their feet touched the waters of the Styx, countless bloody hands erupted from the lake, seizing their bodies.
The undead dragged them down, tearing flesh and soul alike, their screams merging into the eternal chorus of the damned. Each soul devoured became fuel for the next wave of torment—the cycle of death unending.
Within moments, the wolf riders were nothing but skeletal husks, standing silently on the lake's surface.
Hel had assumed their souls were already absorbed into her world's essence, mere nutrients for the realm of the dead. But then—
A faint red glow flickered within the empty eye sockets of the lead skeleton. Then another. And another.
Until every wolf rider's skull blazed with soul-fire, and together they knelt toward Hel's distant figure.
"…So they've become undead bound to this world." At that moment, feedback from the Mindscape flowed into Hel's consciousness.
"They cannot leave this realm, but their souls are chained to the waters of the Styx. They are immortal—so long as death energy remains, they will revive endlessly."
Hel nodded silently, understanding dawning in her mind. So this is the true form of the high-tier spell, 'Stygian Shore'.
Her gaze shifted toward the two Saint-rank beastmen still fleeing desperately. A mocking smile tugged at her lips.
"Did you really think you could escape me?"
In the next instant, a crushing tide of malice swept forth—the wrath of the entire world itself, surging after the two fleeing souls.
When Hel had created this domain, she had paid a heavy price: an ocean of death energy and uncountable souls. But such an investment brought overwhelming power.
Even the two Saint-rank beastmen faltered, their minds momentarily blank under the pressure. And when they came to their senses—they realized, in terror, that bloody arms had coiled around their legs.
"The Stygian Shore…?! Isn't that the forbidden magic said to belong only to the Witch of the Styx?"
The hawk-beastman, more learned of the two, went pale. He struggled frantically, but both his life force and battle aura drained rapidly away.
No matter how he fought, he couldn't break free. He knew that if this continued, both he and his companion would die here.
Without hesitation, he gathered his death-infused battle qi and slashed at his own legs. The wolf-beastman beside him hesitated only a heartbeat before doing the same.
Even without legs, a Saint could still hover in the air, and perhaps—just perhaps—they could rebuild their Mindscapes to survive. It was the best move the hawk-beastman could think of.
But… he was too late.
Above them, the blood moon flared violently, its light condensing into a thick, crimson droplet.
That single drop of blood fell—transforming into a blazing streak of red light, and shot straight toward the two beastmen.