Like a rising sun.

Blazing crimson flames, carrying an endless heat and aura of destruction, suddenly erupted from within Moen’s body.

Deep within his skin, the eerie fingerprint marking ignited once again, like molten lava rolling and boiling.

The rainwater flowing on the ground evaporated in an instant, and the mist of the dark moon surrounding the area trembled intensely, as though encountering its natural enemy.

“What—”

Banshee instinctively widened her eyes, her mind struggling to comprehend the sudden turn of events. Her alluring, enchanting face, under the blinding brilliance, now appeared pale and delicate.

At that moment, a large hand, freed from the constraints of shadow, stretched out from the crimson flames and firmly gripped her neck.

“You’re so cautious; how truly admirable, Miss Banshee.”

Moen lifted his head, gazing down at Banshee, his face carrying a mocking sneer.

“No, rather timid is more appropriate.? You calculated so carefully, yet all it did was help me immensely. Happy now?”

“Why… the Flame of the King of Wither? Moen Campbell—... you?”

As a devout follower of the moon, Banshee immediately recognized the aura that seemed like a mortal enemy. The more she understood its origins, the more disbelief it brought her.

Moen Campbell… was a follower of the dark god?

This renowned individual, the greatly esteemed son of a duke born into the highest echelons of society, was a follower of the King of Wither?

“Don’t misunderstand. I don’t worship that big-eyed deity. This is merely an extraordinarily balanced transaction.”

Seeing through Banshee’s thoughts with a glance, Moen displayed a devilish smile.

In this moment, he seemed more like a villainous antagonist, bullying an innocent maiden.

“Transaction?”

Banshee froze, instinctively staring into Moen’s eyes.

At this moment, those eyes were no longer the calm, deep blue akin to a serene lake; they burned crimson like flames. At the center of the crimson, multiple vortexes resembling black holes swirled slowly. Around the black holes, layers of coronal ripples spread out in disorder, like countless beams of intertwined sunlight, exuding an aura of supreme majesty.

Merely being subjected to the gaze of those eyes made Banshee feel as though her very soul was burning. The extreme pain even made her forget the humiliation of being gripped by her neck like a chick. Her body trembled uncontrollably.

This overwhelming disparity in power finally allowed her to realize the fundamental difference between Moen’s aura and her own.

Both sources came from the dark gods.

Both powers originated from transactions made with the dark gods.

But the power dwelling in Moen was not, like hers, a meager force obtained through endless worship and prayers, offered in complete devotion, only to be pitifully bestowed upon her in lowly favor.

Instead—it was divine grace.

A manifestation of a fragment of the deity’s authority, symbolizing the deity’s presence on earth—a ceaseless, ever-flowing, and limitless power aligned with the laws of existence.

In terms of status, it utterly trumped her, a self-proclaimed priestess closest to the moon, by several tiers.

But.

Would a dark god ever favor a mere human?

Such a thing had never been heard of in history.

Banshee could not understand.

But she knew one thing: if this continued, she would die.

“No! I cannot die here! I cannot!”

Suddenly Banshee began struggling fiercely. From an unknown burst of strength, she managed to break free of Moen’s grasp. Twisting and crawling, she fled from Moen.

“No, I have yet to gain the eternal life promised by the glorious moon. How could I die!”

Banshee crawled desperately, utterly disregarding the threadlike crimson flames that had pierced her scaly body and were beginning to burn her flesh freely.

With a gasp, Banshee suddenly coughed up a large mouthful of blood.

She stared blankly downward, gazing into the image reflected in the pool of blood.

That enchanting, alluring face had turned as pale as paper. Her disheveled hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, rendering her utterly battered.

But what was even more terrifying were her eyes—those fearsome serpentine pupils capable of eliciting endless dread.

Now, they were no longer icy cold. Specks of firelight had begun to illuminate her pupils, resembling flickering fireflies on a summer night.

Yet the sight was anything but beautiful. Instead, it carried an inexpressible sense of annihilation.

The flames had begun to burn her soul.

“No… no!”

Feeling the searing pain from her soul, Banshee lifted her head in terror, gazing up at the heavens, concealed behind black mist, and began fervently praying.

“Moon, great Moon, please save me. Please grant me strength…”

“I am your most faithful devotee. I am willing to give up everything for you. Please save me…”

“My soul—I can even offer up my soul. If only you will save me, I will even sacrifice my soul…”

Banshee widened her expectant eyes, praying repeatedly.

She knew the dark mist cast by the moon could not obscure the moon’s own gaze. All she needed was for the moon to glance down at her once more, and her problems would be solved.

Even if Moen Campbell possessed divine grace of the King of Wither, divine grace could never rival the deity’s personal intervention.

As long as the moon cast its sight upon her for just a fleeting moment, just a fleeting moment, I could—

“It seems you’ve been abandoned.”

Moen appeared at Banshee’s side at some unknown moment, leisurely observing her disheveled face.

“That timid moon, just like you, has its own problems to worry about. How could it possibly save you at a time like this?”

“Lies!”

Banshee howled with fury,

“I am the priestess under the moon, its most devout follower, the one whom the moon personally promised eternal life. How could the moon abandon me, how could—”

Her words were cut short abruptly.

She suddenly felt cold.

Unimaginably cold.

As though something inside her was gradually being extracted.

“This is…”

Banshee trembled as she lowered her head to look at herself.

Her once seductive, rounded figure began shrinking, drying out, and becoming grotesque as though all moisture had been drained from her body. Her previously fair skin started decaying visibly, emitting a nauseating stench.

The moon was withdrawing its power.

And for someone who had sacrificed all her innards to survive on the dark god’s power, the withdrawal of the moon’s blessings meant she was inevitably heading toward death.

“No… why… I…”

Banshee was gripped with terror. Her head lifted once more, but this time, no matter how hard she strained, she could not find the lone moon in the heavens shrouded by dark mist.

The moon had indeed abandoned her.

And it had done so thoroughly.

“Damn it… God damn it!”

Her faith shattered utterly, and streaks of bloody tears began streaming from Banshee’s eyes.

The more devout her past worship was, the stronger her hatred became at this moment.

But if hatred were useful, she would have long been drowned by the countless innocent souls she had slain.

And so, Banshee could do nothing but succumb to the pain and torment akin to being devoured by ten thousand insects, watching herself rot away bit by bit, along with her soul, until she dissolved into nothingness.

Born of the moon, died by the moon.

This was the most excruciating death that Moen had inflicted upon her.