Pirate Phantom
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Chapter 117: Those Who Stand Against Me Are but Rotting Bones
🕑 Added 2025-10-05 19:32:49 +0000 UTCTo be regarded as kin by a Daemon of Khorne is no blessing — it means you carry the stench of bloodlust.
From the moment of their birth, what these creatures first learn is not language nor faith, but how to slaughter their own kind. They feed on carnage, craving the favor of the Skull Lord. Under the dominion of that mindless hunger for slaughter, the wars waged by the armies of Khorne require no justification at all.
Within Maria’s blood sleeps a feral beast.
It is as though a chained horror from the deepest abyss strains against its bonds — a rift barely open, yet leaking pure, untainted hunger to the world beyond.
This subconscious craving, buried deep within her crimson eyes, is something even Maria herself remains unaware of.
But the Daemons of Khorne — beings who from birth must claw and butcher for survival among their bloodthirsty kin — see it clearly. They recognize in Maria the potential to stir a crimson tempest across oceans of blood. Perhaps it is precisely this potential that stirs even the faintest interest from the Blood God toward the insignificant human fruit that burns upon His tongue.
The Skull Lord favors her.
Yet both sides of this duel are but sacrifices. The Khorne Daemon seeks to offer Maria as tribute to Khorne, while its projection itself is destined to become the sacrifice upon Maria’s own path toward bloodlust.
At least, that is what Khorne expects.
“I suppose your Blood God and Gehrman would have plenty to talk about,” Maria said with a sly grin, enduring the searing pain of her wounds. Two arrogant bastards who love to posture — they’d certainly have much to discuss.
Truth be told, Maria felt a flicker of excitement.
She and the legions of Khorne are old enemies — in her previous life, she perished beneath the axe of a Khorne champion. Compared to the worshipers and daemons of the other Chaos Gods, the forces of Khorne left the deepest impression upon her.
Their martial might is unmatched — yet paradoxically, they are also… the quickest to display sudden, unwavering loyalty.
Butchering Tzeentch’s followers, hacking apart Slaanesh fiends, sometimes even cutting down Nurgle’s spawn alongside them — such madness is hardly rare on the chaotic battlefields where the Four Ruinous Powers reign. The gods of Chaos are no unified host; each bears its own banner, each despises the other. Infighting has long been their sacred art, and neither they nor their armies care if their rivalries grant mortals an opportunity.
“Hm?”
Having never met that flamboyant Gehrman, the Khorne Daemon couldn’t grasp Maria’s jest. It simply hefted its jagged war axe, silent for a moment.
The air thickened with awkward tension. Clearly, this daemon possessed no skill for persuasion — its instincts leaned toward a far simpler form of communication: murder.
“What happens next may not be particularly civilized,” Maria murmured, a playful smile tugging at her lips. Her delicate, crystalline ears twitched slightly.
The Daemon of Khorne sensed it too and turned its head sharply to one side.
It saw two humans.
A female and a male — both stumbling out from the forest as though fleeing for their lives. Dirt-streaked and drenched in sweat, Liline’s grimy face broke into a radiant smile upon seeing Maria.
“Sorry, but we’re about to gang up on you.”
Whoosh! Whoosh!
With Maria’s teasing words, shadows flickered behind Liline and Arthur. Dozens of overlapping silhouettes dashed through the woods like fleeting ghosts. Then — like air being torn apart, like bowstrings snapping in a thunderclap — the air exploded!
Heavy arrows, gleaming with deadly momentum, streaked forth faster than sound and light, tearing into the Khorne Daemon!
In mere moments, its body was riddled with gaping, blood-soaked holes.
Ordinary arrows pierce flesh for penetration and killing power. But the Rangers of the Elven race wielded ancient hardwood longbows — and with their specially crafted explosive arrows, shot in a technique lost to mortals, these could no longer be called arrows at all. Their impact rivaled that of gunpowder shells — a single shot left a crater in flesh and bone.
While Maria was drawing out the Lord of Cinders, Liline had used her ties to the Cult of the Lady of the Lake to contact a band of Elves dwelling deep within the Razor Mountains.
The Lady of the Lake adores beauty — and the Elves, near-universally fair and graceful, are her favored kin. The relationships among them are tangled and not easily explained.
Previously, when everything spiraled out of control, that thought was mutual between Liline and Arthur.
Unlike Maria — pure and ignorant like a blank page — these two bore divine mandates directly from the gods above. Should things go awry, the order was clear: eliminate the threat first. As soon as the Lord of Cinders awoke, every god or angel whose gaze rested upon this land already knew the truth in their hearts.
Thus, invoking the Lady’s name, Liline had summoned a troop of Elven Rangers.
With overwhelming firepower, they would teach the Daemon of Khorne what true ranged annihilation meant in this Fractured World.
Though they were far from the legendary marksmen of the Elven royal bloodline — whose arrows could fell mountains and pierce stars — their explosive bolts were bloodily effective.
When the first bowstring thundered, the Daemon hadn’t even realized it was under attack.
It gazed down at its mutilated form, the gaping holes in its body, and gave a sound not of pain but of regret. This projection, born of a borrowed vessel, was too frail — and the Daemon knew its defeat was certain.
Still, this world is fascinating indeed…
When the flame circle fades, when the shell is cracked open and the essence within tasted, surely the Blood God will rejoice.
“Wander, battle, slaughter! My life is war! My sustenance is hatred!”
With broken limbs gripping its axe, the Khorne Daemon ignored all else. It was a warrior of the Blood God — and even in death, its blade must strike toward the god’s chosen prey. Slaughter upon slaughter, rivers of blood for the finest offering!
Whistle!
Boom!!
Another blast ripped open its knee, spraying flesh and bone in a grotesque arc. The explosion failed to halt its charge — but the hidden Elven Rangers, now fully provoked, loosed a storm of arrows.
Maria saw the pale trails of a dozen heavy shafts colliding solidly against the daemon’s charging form.
Not piercing — crashing. The explosive energy unleashed at impact was too brutal for mere penetration.
Flesh was shredded into paste. Bone shattered into dust. The charge ended abruptly.
The Daemon’s head finally rolled before Maria’s feet. It was not yet truly dead — its ruined eyes stared up at the black-robed nun, as though to etch her into its fading memory.
“I am the Pureblood Sovereign. Those who stand against me are but rotting bones.”
Raising her blade, Maria struck.
The silver edge gleamed beneath the sun, radiating holy light that scoured corruption itself — and that brilliance became the last thing the Daemon of Khorne’s projection ever saw in this world.
