LTTH C58

Chapter 58

“#^*%!”

The man who had become a figure of black snow uttered an incomprehensible sound as he took a step, and with his movement, black flakes scattered outward like dust in the wind. A virus made visible—if one were to name it, that would be the most fitting description.

“Get back, get back!!”

“Where? Where the hell are we supposed to run?!”

“T-that… the white building!”

In the minds of those who had plunged into panic, only two things rose up—flight, and the white building. The place that radiated the most sanctity, their last remaining hope. Their bodies, guided less by reason than by instinct, moved swiftly.

“Run! Faster!”

“This way, this way’s quicker!”

Hunters and civilians alike surged in chaotic waves toward a single destination. Yet even amidst the stampede, two figures held their ground.

Isaac. And Kassie.

“Hansol! You too, come!”

While the crowd fled in confusion, Kassie alone stretched his hand upward, grasping at the air as if to seize Hansol’s unreachable form. Again and again, he swept at the empty sky, his voice hoarse with desperation. But his pleas changed nothing. Hansol remained trapped, confined to that small, invisible space no larger than a single step.

“Enough. Stop it, Kassie.”

It’s useless. That was all Hansol could offer as his gaze turned hollow.

People, cloaked in black snow, who mere minutes ago had been no different from anyone else, now pursued their companions with grim intent. Their movements were sluggish, like worms crawling, and perhaps that alone could be called a mercy. But was it mercy, truly, when everything else spelled only misfortune?

“Cancel the skill! Hansol, if you just cancel it, this will end!”

Kassie, his eyes rimmed red, shouted as though the words themselves were life-or-death. He had not given up. And he wasn’t wrong. Most sustained skills could be undone by release. Cancel it, and Hansol’s body would fall back to earth; Kassie’s hands would finally reach him. Together, they could flee. But—

“…If I run away here, what about them?”

“Hansol, that’s not what matters now!”

“No. It matters. At least… to me.”

Turning from Kassie’s contorted face, Hansol fixed his eyes on Berthel. The monster, contrary to what one might expect, did nothing. He only watched as the black snow consumed people. Was it the confidence of knowing he could act whenever he pleased? Or was something else unfolding?

Hansol neither knew nor cared. He had never been one to read into the enemy’s motives. His only creed had always been the same: to do what he could, here and now.

The longer we delay, the worse this becomes.

What had been a single snow-man not long ago had multiplied to ten, each pursuing the fleeing crowd. The black snow was spreading relentlessly.

Five… no, ten purifications might be enough?

Hansol bit down hard on his lip. And then a thought, unwanted yet insistent, intruded.

Would purification even work? And if it doesn’t… then what?

“Hansol! Please! Please, just cancel it!”

Kassie’s voice cracked, thick with tears. But Hansol had already decided. Even if he released Advent, even if he fled, he would not run. Not when he had failed to save Peter. To save the others—this was the only atonement he could make.

I’m sorry, Peter. Forgive me.

“Purification!”

The word rang out, firm and unyielding. White light burst forth as always, lancing toward the nearest blackened figure—the very first man to fall. The light sank into him, burrowing inward, then spread. Slowly, inexorably, it painted his body in white, then in brilliant gold.

It did not stop there.

“My God…”

From the man bathed in radiance, the light burst outward again, splitting into countless threads that hunted every speck of black they touched.

What name could encompass such a sight?

It was like fireworks: a single spark unfurling into myriad trails of light, shooting in every direction. The beauty of it robbed Hansol of speech.

Just one Purification. That a single cast could restore even one man was miracle enough. But this—this defied comprehension.

Still the black snow fell from the heavens. Still some were consumed. Berthel’s strength had not waned, his forces had not diminished. And yet—no one feared the snow anymore.

“Huh?”

“Get up! Run, now!”

Bodies that glowed golden the instant the snow touched them. People staring in astonishment at their transformed flesh, then laughing in disbelief as they sprinted away with the crowd.

There was no system message—no notification of corrupted terrain or infected purified. But Hansol knew. He knew with certainty: no one else would be taken by the snow.

If Purification alone can do this…

Then perhaps other skills had changed too. A natural thought. A skill that once merely cleansed corruption now deflected Berthel’s very assault. Could his other spells be equally transformed?

Not just altered in effect, but wholly transcended?

Opening his skill window, Hansol found no change there. The lazy, unpatched system gave him nothing. But when he turned to his status screen, the answer struck him like a thunderbolt.

…The Möbius Strip?

Where his mana had once decreased, now it was full. Where “2000” should have been recorded, strange symbols flickered in its place. Not only mana, but every resource—life, mana, divinity—all marked with the same impossible sigil.

Berthel had spoken of godhood. Hansol had thought it meant merely increased power. But no. He had been a fool.

Advent’s true gift was not strength.

It was immortality.

The baseline of all divinity, in every myth and scripture: immortality.

The skill that had cost him 890,000 points—the power he had bought was nothing less than that.

[Yes. I had suspected you weren’t truly human. I should have killed you outright then.]

“…Let’s call things what they are. You didn’t spare me. You couldn’t kill me.”

[What?]

“Exactly. You couldn’t.”

[Insolent fool. What gives you the arrogance to speak so?]

Hansol’s status screen showed no offensive spells, only healing and buffs. And yet, he felt no fear. Just as Purification had saved everyone, he felt with perfect certainty that even a healing spell could wound this monster.

I can do this.

The silhouette of victory, faint yet unmistakable, emerged before him. For the first time since Berthel’s arrival, Hansol smiled.

[■■!]

There was hope.

Even with the translation amulet hanging at his neck, Berthel spat words Hansol could not understand. His fury, however, needed no translation.

It was exhilarating.

Berthel summoned a staff into his hand, drawing the surrounding black haze into himself. He readied for battle. And Hansol—Hansol did not fear him. Not while Advent endured. Not while he was a god.

Then Berthel moved.

Quicker than a bullet, he hurtled toward Hansol. His staff, dripping black light, swung down. Too fast to dodge. Not that Hansol tried.

Clang—!

The strike was intercepted, deflected before it could land.

Not by Hansol’s system. Not by a skill.

“…Isaac?”

It was Isaac’s back—familiar, unyielding—that filled Hansol’s vision, shielding him from Berthel’s blow.