Kays Translations

Chapter 30: The Demon Worshippers

Marlon had no answer for Musa Mein’s troubling question. The only thing he could do was act—he hurried back toward the street corner, nearly stumbling in his haste, and started up the sputtering steam car. Without hesitation, he urged Musa Mein inside and drove straight toward Sphinklak Street.

It was there, as Marlon well knew, that his young minotaur friend—Ester—made his home.

Marlon had once held a good chance of reaching that street in time, of witnessing firsthand what befell Ester in this night of sudden and violent upheaval, before the mighty Claw Druid Master carried him away.

But fate proved otherwise. Their steam automobile, unreliable as ever, betrayed them. Halfway down the road, with a loud metallic shriek, it collided with a lamp post. Steam hissed, bolts popped loose, and the machine gave its last exhausted shudder before collapsing into silence.

Marlon could only curse and realize once more how deceptive this world’s steam machinery truly was—its appearance rough and sturdy, but its innards delicate, fragile, and quick to fail.

Musa Mein, unwilling to waste time, seized his magic-crystal pneumatic nail-gun and attempted to stop a passing vehicle by force, intending to “temporarily requisition” it.

But alas, Musa Mein, though a brilliant young magitech scholar with intellect far above the norm, lacked the instincts of a highway robber. Who, in their right mind, would stop their car when confronted by a man blocking the road with one hand outstretched and the other gripping a gun? The drivers sped past, wide-eyed with terror.

And so it was that by the time Marlon and Musa Mein arrived breathless upon Sphinklak Street, the only sight left to greet them was the receding silhouette of the Claw Druid Master—his body transformed into that of a massive bear, the young minotaur Ester slung across his broad back.

“…Marlon, look, over there.”

Marlon’s heart sank as he could do nothing but watch that mighty figure vanish into the distance. But Musa Mein was pointing elsewhere—toward the shadowy mouth of a narrow alleyway.

Turning quickly, Marlon followed his gaze. There, half-shrouded in gloom, three or four men were at work. They wore bizarre garments of black and crimson, their hair tied into grotesque braids resembling rat tails. With rough hands, they tried to drag two struggling young women into the alley’s darkness.

Heroic rescue? What would be the point? In truth, it would be nothing but a waste of precious time. After all, this world—no matter how convincing its sensations—was still nothing more than a false “shard of planar projection.”

“Look carefully at their clothes, their hairstyle,” Musa Mein said sharply. “They are demon worshippers! Their lord is none other than the demon lord—Nebiros.”

Marlon frowned. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” Musa Mein replied without hesitation. His voice carried a shadow of something personal, as if he were speaking not from study but from memory. “I once sought power from the demon lords myself—power enough to take revenge.” He paused, then continued with a bitter twist in his tone. “But I discovered that these so-called mighty demon lords—avatars acknowledged by the will of the Abyss itself—couldn’t even withstand ten rounds of fire from ordinary soldiers wielding specially sanctified machine guns. Soldiers, Marlon! Soldiers who had never studied a single divine spell!”

Marlon’s eyes widened, and the truth dawned on him. Musa Mein hadn’t merely studied these cults—he had once worshipped Nebiros himself. He may even have succeeded in summoning the demon lord’s projection. But that avatar of dread, that terror of the sword-and-sorcery age, had been effortlessly gunned down by ordinary troops with enchanted ammunition.

The world had changed. The great fiends who once ruled unchallenged had become brittle relics in this age of firearms and “special alchemy.” No longer were they titans—merely paper tigers to be swept aside.

The thought reminded Marlon of something he had once read—Karl Marx’s famous words in Das Kapital: “Gunpowder blew apart the knights’ castles, the compass brought forth the Age of Discovery, and the printing press became the lever that shifted the world.”

Indeed, false gods and demon lords who failed to adapt were left behind—just as Balto, the false deity, had fallen under the overwhelming firepower of Nephthu–Ekramon.

And yet, foolish men and women still lingered, clinging to the shadows of the past. The cultists dragging those helpless women into the alley were proof of that.

Marlon had come to Sphinklak Street with one purpose: to discover what had become of Ester. That purpose was now lost.

What remained to him? Perhaps only one path—observe these cultists, gather intelligence.

But then a thought struck him. Wait—hadn’t Musa Mein just confessed that he too had once worshipped Nebiros? Then surely he knew what these cultists were planning.

“Musa,” Marlon asked urgently, “what are they trying to do? Kidnap them?”

Musa Mein shook his head, his expression grave. “No. Not kidnapping. They’re preparing for… human sacrifice.”

The words struck Marlon like a slap.

Human sacrifice?

He had been born beneath the red flag, raised in an age of peace. But as a writer, he had read widely in history. He knew well what that word meant.

If those cultists succeeded, the two young women would soon be treated as little more than livestock. Their blood spilled upon some crude altar, their corpses—hearts, livers, or severed heads—offered up as tokens to please their demonic master.

“Damn it,” Marlon muttered, fists tightening. Damn these cultists!

He was no sentimental animal-rights activist. But humans were not beasts. To reduce them to cattle for slaughter—he could not abide it.

Emotion surged within him, urging him to snatch Musa Mein’s pneumatic gun, storm the alley, and strike down the filthy worshippers. To rescue those terrified young women.

But reason whispered coldly against his ear: This is a false projection, Marlon. A shard. Those women… in the real world, they are already gone.

He swallowed hard, wrestling impulse into submission. And then asked, voice tight: “Musa, if they succeed… if the sacrifice begins, will the girls be killed immediately?”

“Perhaps,” Musa Mein said, shaking his head slowly. “Perhaps not. It depends on the whim of the Bloodfist leader. Nebiros prefers sacrifices that have been thoroughly broken, tortured. And understand this: Nebiros has no church, only scattered cult cells. Any local leader may call himself ‘Bloodfist.’”

Marlon nodded, though his gaze grew sharper. He looked into Musa Mein’s eyes and asked the question he dreaded most: “You once worshipped Nebiros too. Tell me honestly—did you ever… do what they are doing?”

“No.” The answer came swiftly, firmly. Musa Mein shook his head. “My offering was only a portion of my own soul.”

That resolute reply finally allowed Marlon to exhale. Relief washed over him like a sudden breeze.

“Good,” he said at last, determination rekindled in his voice. “Then let’s move. We follow them.”

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