Scott’s words lingered in the air, a silent whisper carried by an unseen wind—ever-present, chilling.

The invaders, however, showed no reaction.

The giants surged forward, their muscles bulging, eyes brimming with bloodlust. Their slow, deliberate march gradually quickened, shifting into a thunderous charge. Their monstrous physiques moved with eerie precision, every step pounding the earth with enough force to rattle the bones of lesser beings.

Scott simply watched, arms crossed, his expression untouched by urgency. His gaze flicked lazily between the approaching behemoths and the zealots lingering behind.

The Chains of the Abyss, however, were anything but calm.

Wreathed in blackened flames, the chains coiled and slithered forward like a nest of venomous serpents. The air hissed with heat as they lashed out, rushing toward the giants with unrelenting fury.

The first giant swung a massive fist at the incoming chains, the sheer force of the strike warping the air around it. A muffled sonic boom followed as flesh met chain.

But the chains twisted, coiling midair, anticipating the attack.

Like steel vipers, they wrapped around the giant’s arm, constricting with brutal force. Flames surged along the links, spilling across the towering figure’s skin. A wretched scream tore through the battlefield.

The giant thrashed, its massive limbs straining against the burning bindings. But the more it struggled, the tighter the chains became, the flames licking higher, consuming flesh and sinew alike.

Some giants, in a desperate attempt to extinguish the inferno, hurled themselves to the ground, rolling in the damp earth.

It was pointless. The fire only intensified, as if mocking their feeble resistance.

Three giants, despite their agony, continued their advance, their charred skin sizzling, peeling. Yet, their movements slowed—each step burdened by the searing heat ravaging their forms.

They, too, fell.

Their pitiful wails joined the chorus of suffering as they writhed against their unbreakable bonds.

Then, with a mere thought, Scott unleashed the Annihilation Zone. A miasma of utter void expanded around the bound giants. The flames flickered out—not extinguished, but devoured by the nothingness.

The giants’ roars of agony dwindled into strained, gurgling whispers as their bodies withered, their very existence unraveling.

Within moments, they were reduced to nothing but dust.

Scott shifted his gaze to the champions kneeling a short distance away.

A dozen of them rose in unison, their faces contorted in rapturous ecstasy as they sprinted toward the cross.

Scott’s smile widened. It’s just like last time.

These zealots weren’t merely devoted—they were obsessed.

His gaze lingered on the towering wooden cross, its surface marred by the vastitude of time. Though chipped and marked, it showed no signs of decay. No oppressive aura radiated from it, no overwhelming energy. And yet…

Despite its ordinary appearance, the champions strained as they attempted to lift it.

Scott’s eyes narrowed. What exactly is that cross made of?

The Tower Trader had arrived to retrieve the first cross he encountered. Would that glib-tongued merchant show up again? He couldn’t say.

The champions heaved. The cross barely lifted two feet before crashing down with a deafening boom. The ground trembled, and a ripple spread through the muddy earth.

Scott’s smile faded, and his brows furrowed. Just now… that energy—was that what I think it was?

Then—A cacophony of screams tore through the air.

The champions' bodies swelled, flesh rippling and stretching as their spines cracked and elongated.

Their cassocks split at the seams. A sickening, wet pop echoed as their eyes burst in violent sprays of crimson.

Yet—They did not falter.

Instead, with their grotesque new strength, they heaved the cross into the air and slammed it down.

Once. Twice. Thrice. A fourth time.

Each impact sent another violent tremor rippling through the land.

With every strike, the kneeling champions sang, their fervent voices rising, their praise reaching a manic crescendo.

Scott’s frown deepened. That cross…its devouring the essence of the land.

As the realization dawned, the newly transformed giants unleashed a suicidal charge, their monstrous strides causing the ground to shudder beneath them.

The Chains of the Abyss hissed with renewed fury, as if enraged by their provocations.

They surged forward, ready to ensnare their prey.

But this time—

The giants met them with even greater force.

With each swing of their fists, gales of pressure erupted outward, distorting the air itself. The force of their blows raced toward the incoming chains, seeking to eradicate their existence.

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The chains surged forward in a frenzied charge, their flames flaring wildly, seemingly fueled by the powerful winds. Meanwhile, the giants' skin began to darken, their rough surfaces smoothing into lustrous, metallic sheens.

In a flash, the Chains of the Abyss coiled around the towering figures, binding them with unrelenting force. The champions, however, roared in defiance, their muscles bulging to unnatural proportions. The chains trembled, straining under the pressure, threatening to snap. Worse yet, the giants’ now-hardened bodies resisted the consuming flames that once devoured all in their wake.

Scott observed the struggle impassively, then turned his gaze toward the kneeling champions before the cross. Their hymns and prayers remained fervent, uninterrupted. His focus shifted to the champions clad in orange cassocks—motionless, watching, biding their time. Among them, the one with the withered arm stood utterly still.

A sudden clink echoed through the battlefield.

Then came the screams—wailful, bestial, laced with agony and despair. The very air trembled with their unholy chorus, a sound so chilling it momentarily silenced even the devout. The praying and singing faltered, eyes turning toward the source.

Scott’s gaze remained fixed on the giants. They writhed in torment, their monstrous bodies succumbing to the chains Abyssal Hunger. The chains, no longer struggling, pulsed with a sinister glow, draining the very essence from their captives. Slowly, the once-mighty beings withered—robust flesh shrinking into mummified husks. Their bodies crumbled into nothing, consumed entirely.

The chains, now eerily still, exuded an even more ominous presence—thicker, stronger, their rustling an eerie jingle of death.

Then, from the base of the cross, a pulsating echo rang out.

In an instant, the champions clad in black and purple cassocks exploded—flesh and bone reduced to a grotesque mist. Their tattered robes fluttered to the ground, the only remnants of their existence. Their blood, thick and viscous, coalesced into a single mass before hurtling toward the cross, staining its base in a deep, sordid red. The stain lingered only briefly before vanishing, the dull luster of the cross returning as though nothing had happened.

Scott’s gaze flickered toward the figures in orange—the only survivors of the massacre. Yet, they showed no reaction, their silence unnerving. His eyes then drifted back to the cross.

What exactly is this thing made of?

The lead figure among the survivors stepped forward, and the others followed suit. As their voices rose in unison, a sinister chime filled the air, their confessions echoing like a macabre liturgy:

By the feast and the filth, let excess be crowned,

In the shadow of the throne, where hunger is bound.

Let bellies grow full, as souls wither thin,

For we worship the feast that devours from within.

A low hum resonated from the cross, and the ground trembled violently. The champions continued, their voices rising in fevered devotion:

By the feast and the famine, let gluttony reign,

In the shadow of the throne, where hunger knows pain.

Let the bloated kneel, let the starving decay,

For we worship the feast that none can escape.

Cracks splintered across the cross’s surface. The earth quaked with increasing intensity, as if heralding the arrival of something unspeakable. Blazing hot vapor seeped through the fractures, thick with noxious fumes and the glow of molten magma.

Scott’s gaze flickered between the rapturous champions and the now-unraveling cross, its core shrouded in violent upheaval.

“The feast for the king has been laid,” one of the champions cried out. “We invite you to partake in this banquet, our king!”

A piercing glow erupted from the cross, streaking toward the heavens. The sky ignited in response, engulfed in a tempest of fire. Raging infernos tore open a portal, an abyssal maw birthing something grotesque.

A massive, shapeless abomination emerged.

Its swollen, multiheaded form quivered, grotesque skin riddled with oozing sores and pus-filled boils. Numerous eyes, bloodshot and ravenous, scanned its new surroundings. Drool, thick and acidic, dripped from its singular, gaping mouth, sizzling as it hit the ground. It groaned—a sound both mindless and insatiable.

Below, the champions prostrated themselves, their bodies trembling in reverence.

Scott raised his head, regarding the entity with cold disinterest.

“…Is that it?” he muttered.

His voice carried unnaturally, reverberating across the territory. The abomination’s countless eyes snapped toward him, each glistening with unbridled hunger.

Scott exhaled softly, shaking his head. “I waited, expecting something worth my attention. But is this all?”

The champions, still pressed to the ground, hesitated. Some lifted their heads, heads flickering between their summoned entity and the lone figure who dared to mock it.

Scott’s voice cut through the air once more—calm, yet brimming with finality. “I suppose it’s my fault for expecting anything at all.”

With a single, effortless snap of his fingers, reality obeyed his will.

The earth groaned as it split open beneath the prostrating champions. They plummeted without a sound, swallowed whole before they could utter a single prayer. A heartbeat later, the chasm regurgitated their blood, staining the battlefield in fresh carnage. From the crimson pool, thorny flowers bloomed, their petals slick with gore.

The sky settled. The portal, once ablaze with chaotic energy, winked out of existence as if it had never been.

Yet, the abomination remained.

It hovered in place, confusion swirling within its multitude of eyes. It had been summoned, offered tribute, heralded as a king—only to find itself utterly ignored.

Scott lifted his gaze toward the abomination, his brows knitting slightly before shifting his attention to the cross. “And you are?”

The wooden structure quivered before spitting out a crude, faceless figure. The entity leaned against the towering cross, raising a hand toward Scott. Then, in a voice both solemn and commanding, it spoke—its words thundering across the territory.

“My subordinates have foolishly encroached on your domain,” it began, indifferent yet authoritative. “I will not interfere with how you choose to punish them. However—” its tone sharpened, brokering no argument, “—release my pet.”

Scott chuckled softly, shaking his head. He tilted his gaze skyward, meeting the countless, gluttonous eyes of the abomination.

The creature trembled—then, with maddened delight, it let out a guttural, ear-splitting bellow. Without hesitation, it began to feast upon itself, ripping apart its own flesh in reckless abandon. It devoured its many eyes as if they were delicacies, gnawed hungrily at its limbs, and shredded its grotesque form with unrestrained fervor.

A pulsating glow erupted from the stationary cross, streaking toward the abomination. Yet, just as it ascended, the light flickered—then vanished, erased from existence as if it had never been.

The creature’s frenzied screams returned, but this time, they carried no pleasure—only agony. Blood, gnawed flesh, pus, and other unspeakable fluids rained upon the ground as the abomination consumed itself beyond reason. Its monstrous form withered under its own madness. Then, at last, it plummeted from the heavens.

With a sickening splatter, it struck the earth, bursting apart in a grotesque explosion of viscera.

Scott turned back toward the wooden caricature, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I hope you brought a bag.”

Silence answered him—brief but absolute.

Then, without warning, a swirling vortex manifested above the cross, its depths an abyss of churning shadows. From within, a sigil burned into existence—an open maw lined with countless jagged teeth, spiraling endlessly inward.

“I see now.” A voice slithered out from the whirlpool, an ominous whisper that carried a taunting edge.

“You belong to the accursed Throne of Madness.”

A snicker followed, the sound steeped in mockery as the vortex widened, exuding a palpable malice.

“A being of authority, are you?” The voice sneered, laced with amusement. “No wonder you believe yourself invincible.”

From within the abyss, a hand—lithe yet bursting with unnatural vigor—emerged, its flesh tinged in a deep, unnatural purple. Slowly, the figure followed, stepping forth as if descending from the void itself.

Draped in regal white, the entity exuded an aura of cold supremacy. Their pupils, twin crucifixes of gleaming gold, locked onto Scott with a chilling lack of emotion. Silken blond hair cascaded over their shoulders, framing a face devoid of warmth. Delicate icicles adorned the sides of their ears, hanging like ornamental earrings.

They stepped atop the cross, their posture immaculate, hands clasped behind their back.

Then, with a voice as cold as the void, they spoke. “Allow me to bring you down to reality.”