Pirate Phantom
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Chapter 73: I Still Remain
🕑 Added 2025-08-19 08:46:07 +0000 UTCCainhurst True Blood
This resplendent gift from the Great Ones—called by some the High Ones—was no less exalted in stature than Chaos itself. In version 3.0, Nightmare Blood Plague, Lady Maria von Cainhurst, guardian of the Astral Clocktower, began wielding the power of Cainhurst True Blood upon entering her third phase. Each slash forced an all-attribute Constitution Check—failure meant a high chance of being gun-parried, and an even greater chance of instant death.
And with her attack frequency surging past a hundred strikes in three seconds, both players and NPCs who dared challenge her could only taste despair.
Now, as Maria’s hands erupted with bloodforce and she hurled herself at the two Chaos-corrupted, that Blasphemous Altar, alive and writhing, instantly sensed the catastrophic consequences of the black-clad nun’s reckless assault.
From its countless fanged maws came a soul-rending shriek meant to shatter will and destroy minds.
Yet mounted upon it, Pastor Lynn battered the altar with terrifying cadence, striking with every part of his body. The concussive booms were not only the sound of blows but also of foul, rotting flesh bursting apart. The faith-reversed Pastor Lynn was terrifying indeed. His blasphemy against the gods had yielded not only torment but strength. Now, with his reason restored, all that power was bent toward freeing his wife, Ruth.
The soul-shattering shriek twisted into a cry of agony.
Maria cheered inwardly. In some sense, this was their first true battle as father and daughter. Coordination was questionable, but it could still be called cooperation.
Hiss—!
Spreading her arms wide, she plunged into the altar’s suspected “head,” where her mother Ruth’s corpse had once lain. Maria’s bloodforce, dazzling crimson, poured into the blasphemous flesh like water into boiling oil. A black-tinged red vapor spewed upward.
The altar let out a chorus of wails, as though hundreds of voices cried out at once—each throat straining to bursting, each shriek a punishment too cruel to bear.
This was a lament from the soul itself.
The bloodforce of Cainhurst True Blood was an attack beyond standard measure. It stood above matter and energy, and it devoured even soul and concept.
By its nature, it could force an enemy into a terrifying skill check: Visceral Critical.
This skill, as bloody in effect as in appearance, had once been the nightmare of Fractured players. They were the first to feel its instant-kill grasp.
“Forgive me, Mother…”
Amidst the inhuman screams, Maria heard the voice of her mother, Ruth. Though grief stabbed at her, her movements did not falter. She ignored the pus and stench, burying herself bodily into the altar to ensure her bloodforce consumed the Chaos-corrupted entirely.
Maria did not know how long her father Lynn’s rekindled will could endure. She had to seize this chance—to destroy the Blasphemous Altar at its root, or die here trying.
And as for the Chaos Worshipper called Green—his existence was a thorn in her heart.
“You will not succeed.”
Speak of the devil, and he appeared. As Maria pushed forward through the gelatinous flesh, a head formed from molten, wax-like matter, and Green sneered at her.
Maria answered by tearing his head apart with her blood-stained claws.
Chaos Worshippers, like their dark patrons, sought to shake the minds of those who resisted. But in such moments, one must not doubt, must not think, must not fear. Like a cold, mechanical warrior—crush their mouths and corpses beneath your stride.
Battle. Strike. Advance.
Whatever Chaos did, humanity’s only answer was defiance—to fight until the foe bled. And so, no matter how many times Green re-formed, Maria’s radiant crimson palms and crystalline nails—sharp as steel—always tore his head asunder.
“I told you—you will not succeed.” Smash.
“Lady Maria, do you truly think this will help?” Smash.
“You cannot comprehend the greatness of the Father!” Smash.
“You bear His supreme blessing, His love, His—” Smash, smash, smash, smash.
Maria, battered and nearly broken, had forced her way deep into the altar. Her body was frail, her strength nearly spent, but her blows still landed firm and unyielding. By her reckoning, Ruth’s remains lay just three meters ahead—only two or three steps away.
The closer she drew, the more agitated Green became.
He manifested again and again, spouting words or spawning warped limbs to slow her. Yet in this era still sheltered by the First Flame, the Chaos Gods could not intrude unrestrained. Green had tasted only a sliver of Chaos power, and in his reckless fervor had squandered it all on Seth Town. His threat was no more than water without source, a tree without root.
Maria, fearless and unyielding, fought with the strength of a Great One—power that stood beside Chaos itself. And at last, she made Green feel fear.
Though fused with the Blasphemous Altar, Green’s mind still lingered. He knew if Maria’s corrosive bloodforce detonated the corruption core, he would perish here.
The Father’s power was mighty—but the time was not yet come. The cursed First Flame still barred the Beyond.
“Filthy wretch—prepare to pay in blood!”
Step by bloody step, Maria’s silver fringe was dyed crimson by her own bloodforce, as though she had bathed in gore. Yet her suffering had not broken her. It had tempered her into one who could stare despair in the eye and still press forward.
Fate itself is but a sleeping slave.
Through the bloody channel she carved, Green manifested countless eyes, each filled with disbelief. He doubted—did this frail girl truly hide a dragon within her?
Why? She was so wounded, so battered, so near death. Why would she not fall?
Had Maria heard his doubts, she would have answered with calm pride:
“I have met so little and still remain. What lies ahead will be greater.”
