"Where is this...?"

As though his soul had been dragged through the thrill of riding a roller coaster ten times over, Moen realized he had arrived at a mysterious space.

He raised his head and looked around.

An endless expanse of red earth stretched out beyond where the eye could see.

Shriveled plants, devoid of moisture, clung desperately to live, sparsely scattered like the barren hair of a middle-aged programmer.

Besides this, there was no trace of vitality.

The dry, blistering wind carried a nauseating scent of blood and slashed at his skin like sharp knives.

High above, amidst an infinite sea of burning crimson flames, a massive and grotesque eye floated silently.

Around the eye, an aura resembling a solar corona expanded outward like the layers of a kaleidoscope. But when Moen focused on it, he discovered the dazzling corona was composed of dry, skeletal hands—countless hands—clustered tightly together, swaying in unison.

“What the hell is this?”

Shocked to his core by the sanity-eroding scene, Moen instinctively glanced toward his accomplice—the Black Book.

The Black Book was busily flipping its pages, revealing record after record of bygone eras until it paused on one entry that Moen had almost completely forgotten.

That record inscribed the name of the being before him—

The God of Merged Worlds.

The Lord of Crimson Flame.

The King of Wither.

In short—

Yet another *Dark God*.

This was the same figure that had briefly appeared in that assassin’s prayer, demanding the blood from one hundred innocent children's hearts in exchange for power. A sliver of the crimson flames this being bestowed was said to be enough to suppress even the relentless winds and snows of Celicia.

And now, Moen found himself standing directly in front of this Dark God!

The harsh reality stunned Moen into darkness. Grasping the Black Book in desperation, he shook it violently and snarled between gritted teeth:

“I asked you to tell me how to save Ann, not to summon another Dark God!

What’s your plan? Drive off one by bringing in another, and then—what? Enjoy some kind of twisted profit out of this mess? I swear, before the god outside even arrives to eat Ann, I’ll die from a heart attack right here, you hear me!?”

The Black Book, of course, did not respond.

But Moen’s frantic movements seemed to have captured the attention of the great King of Wither. Slowly, the colossal eye shifted, and its grotesque pupil turned to gaze directly at this inconsequential worm before it.

At the exact moment of this gaze, countless maddening thoughts swarmed into Moen’s mind, like fish drawn to bait.

So hot...

So scorching...

I want to burn something...

I want to see the world engulfed in flames...

I want to lose myself...

“Rustle, rustle—”

The sound of pages flipping emerged, like a refreshing breeze chasing away the suffocating heat.

Moen’s reason returned.

But before he could feel relief, his terror escalated as he looked back at the Black Book.

Take a look.

The moment it glanced my way, I nearly folded—how am I supposed to *deal* with this!?

Strangely enough, Moen’s semblance of sanity seemed to invoke an emotion in the monstrous eye—a trace of curiosity.

But only faintly.

Like noticing an unusually large ant scuttling across the floor at home.

Still—

On this eternally barren red land, even a lowly ant seemed to be enough to pique the King of Wither’s... interest.

And thus—

As if countless great bronze bells were struck simultaneously, a voice of solemn majesty yet bizarre distortion reverberated across the terrain.

The sound weaved, shifted, and swirled across the crimson earth before eventually morphing into a familiar tongue in Moen’s ears.

The human language.

**“Human.”**

The King of Wither's voice boomed.

**“Do you want power?”**

“Uh....”

Moen was stunned, his mouth agape wide enough to fit an egg.

Had he heard correctly?

The exalted Dark God actually *spoke* to him?

For a fleeting moment, he felt flustered, like a fan overcome with joy when their idol unexpectedly addressed them.

He’s so gentle, I love him...

Wait! The Dark God asking you, plain and simple, if you want power? How could this scenario *not* end badly!?

I’ve got nothing on me to pay the price—not unless I sell out my dignity or something. Hell, there's still Aluka's tragic precedent looming over me!

“This—is this your great idea of salvation?”

Moen turned to the Black Book, completely unimpressed.

This thing radiates unreliability.

“Seriously now, all right, Mr. Sir, while I understand *magic can fight magic*, swapping one Dark God for another Dark God benefits us how? What difference would this make? Ann still ends up as lunch, doesn’t she?”

The Black Book quivered slightly, as though replying.

Unfortunately, Moen couldn’t understand a thing.

Then, the book suddenly began to levitate. Its pages flipped, and one of them detached and flew toward the ominous eye, eventually stopping before the King of Wither’s throne.

The King of Wither seemed intrigued, turning his monstrous gaze toward the page.

Moments later, that intrigue shifted into disdain...

Yes, ***disdain***.

It was the look of someone fresh out of patience with the kind of shameless freeloader that begs to borrow money yet offers nothing but empty promises and forged notes as collateral.

“Just let me borrow a little, brother, come on.

It’s not like I won’t pay you back.

Geez, why are you so stingy?

Once I’ve got it, I’ll definitely return the favor.

Definitely. Promise. With IOUs as proof!”

In Moen’s imagination, the King of Wither had stumbled across the ultimate deadbeat debtor, and its profoundly human reaction of disdain felt oddly relatable.

Moen could almost sense the King of Wither casting its small skeletal hands to swat him, the Black Book, and his hopeful delusions into oblivion without pause.

However, the blow didn’t come. Neither did the conjuring of rage to destroy the insolent Black Book or extinguish the annoyingly persistent ant clinging to His domain.

Instead, the King of Wither appeared to *consider* something.

The Dark God drifted into contemplation.

And within mere moments, a decrepit hand emerged from the void, seizing the detached page.

The booming voice resounded once again.

**“The exchange is fulfilled.”**

The King of Wither fixed His gaze upon Moen.

**“I can lend you my power.”**

**“But—”**

A note of playfulness arose beneath the grotesque crimson pupil, as though teasing Moen’s insignificance.

That pupil pierced deeper beneath Moen's surface, unraveling his being fully—body, mind, and even soul—with nothing hidden from scrutiny.

**“Do you truly wish to accept?”**

**“To accept the power of what you humans call... a Dark God?”**

“...”

For once, Moen was silent.

The power to change everything lay before him, but the weight of choice forced him to hesitate.

He *had* to hesitate.

He wanted to survive—but he also wanted happiness.

That had been his modest goal upon arriving in this world.

But Dark Gods were the source of misery incarnate.

Entanglement with them almost inevitably led to catastrophic despair.

Even if he received strength at no apparent cost due to the Black Book, the threads of fate binding him to the Dark God would grow unbreakable.

The mark of an Dark God would stain his essence, a mark as inevitable as destiny and equally formidable to erase.

From that point onward, it could say that he'll say goodbye to “happiness”.

Even hoping for “survival” could be much harder for him.

...

“But do I actually have another choice?”

Moen chuckled bitterly.