Chapter 108
The Feeder of the Dead, Hecate
When Lucy returned to the Path of No Return paved with white bones, she happened to witness Master Theodosius descending from the sky with the dog god bound in silver threads.
The tightly bound Fenrir was thrown heavily into a corner of the Gate of the Dead. The old wizard let out a deep breath and patted the dog fur off his gray robe.
“Master, are you alright?” Lucy quickly stepped forward.
“I’m fine. This guy’s strength isn’t particularly outstanding among sixth-tier beings, but his power over laws is rather annoying. Catching him was a bit troubleso.”
Fenrir, as the “Gatekeeper,” possessed the ability to open a doorway and travel through any place.
This power, intricately tied to planar laws, was always one of the most vexing abilities to deal with.
“Just let him stay here.” The old wizard turned toward the downstream of the Styx. “Let’s go to the Nurturing Cradle and deal with the Feeder of the Dead, Hecate. She’s only just awakened—now is when she’s at her weakest. If she’s allowed to nourish herself with enough prematurely dead souls, she’ll beco a serious threat.”
Theodosius had already inford Lucy of their objective during the journey.
Among the Seven Gods of the Realm of Death, the third-ranked Coffin Corridor, the fifth-ranked Avenue of the Sages, and the seventh-ranked Nurturing Cradle were all deities ordained to eternal slumber under the Old Pact.
Every twenty years, the Star Law Institute would dispatch wizards to perform purging rites, during which the other deities were forbidden from interfering.
Thus, only the Gatekeeper, Fenrir, had intervened due to his dominion, while the other deities had yet to appear.
Theodosius approached the Styx and tossed in an ancient gold coin from the Age of Old Gods. As ripples spread across the water, a shriveled hand erged from below, grasping the coin and slowly rising.
As more of the figure surfaced, a decayed wooden boat appeared, with a gaunt ferryman clad in a straw raincoat standing at the stern.
Theodosius and Lucy leapt onto the prow.
“Take us to the Nurturing Cradle.”
The ferryman began rowing, and the boat imdiately followed the Styx downstream.
Beneath them were countless souls, and overhead hung an inverted blood moon. The wooden boat seed as though it could capsize at any mont.
Yet Theodosius stood statue-like at the bow, staff in hand, as if everything was within his control.
An hourglass’s ti later.
The boat gently docked at a mist-shrouded wooden pier.
As the two disembarked, the wooden boat once again sank beneath the water’s surface.
Lucy realized that this was one of the tributaries of the Styx, and the waters flowing here were filled entirely with the souls of infants who had died prematurely.
Within the mist, the rising and falling cries resembled the howls of wild cats in heat, sending chills down one’s spine.
“The Feeder of the Dead, Hecate, was born from the resentnt of mothers who died during childbirth in ancient tis. Her dominion is to nurse and soothe the souls of deceased infants, and draw strength from them.”
Theodosius’s voice was grave. “Though the Feeder of the Dead ranks last among the Seven Gods of the Realm of Death, she is even more troubleso than the Gatekeeper, Fenrir.”
With that, Theodosius handed Lucy ten silver threads, instructing her to wrap them around her wrist. He then produced a gold coin.
“Guard this dock. If anyone cos ashore here, imdiately snap one of the silver threads, then use the coin to summon the Styx ferryman and return to the Gate of the Dead.”
Having given his instructions, Theodosius strode into the thick mist with wide, determined steps.
Monts later, a ripping wail like tearing cloth erupted, followed by Theodosius’s shout.
“Dispel!”
Boom!—
A hurricane tore through the fog, the thick mist that had shrouded the dock spiraling up into the gray sky, revealing the full view of the cradle-shaped island.
Lucy saw that she was standing on an island shaped remarkably like a cradle.
At the far end of her vision, Star Ring Wizard Theodosius floated in mid-air, his gray robe and hair whipping in the gale.
His signature silver threads covered the entire Nurturing Cradle, forming a heaven-spanning web.
Floating opposite him was the Feeder of the Dead, Hecate.
Beneath the head of this black-haired beauty extended a centipede-like body, with each segnt bearing a pair of arms and engorged breasts.
Clinging to those milk-laden chests were infants’ souls, bodies bruised and purple, suckling noisily in unison.
Even Lucy, who had seen more than her share of bizarre scenes, instinctively felt a visceral discomfort at the sight.
“I only wish to quietly feed these children. Why must you vile wizards wage war on again and again?!”
Hecate's expression bordered on madness, her black hair falling across her face, revealing only a pair of pale, eyeless orbs brimming with grievance, as if she were a mother who had lost her child.
Theodosius, well familiar with her tricks, spread his fingers, manipulating the silver threads in the sky to seal off all escape routes.
“Because the Old Pact decrees that half the gods of the Realm of Death must remain in ‘eternal slumber.’”
“And you old gods are always unwilling to rest.”
Before Theodosius finished speaking, he closed his fingers coldly, and countless silver threads poured down like a torrential rain.
Hecate's centipede-like body suddenly curled inward, and the infant souls hanging from her breasts cried out in unison. The sound waves coalesced into tangible black ripples.
The mont silver threads clashed with the sound waves, the cradle island beneath Lucy's feet shook violently. Towering waves, tens of ters high, surged from the tributary of the Styx, and the infant souls within were flung into the sky like scattered green fireflies.
In the distant battlefield, Hecate's body began to rapidly split apart.
Each upper half separated from the main body, taking with it a pair of nursing infants, transforming into individual, semi-autonomous torsos.
They floated in the air, serpent-like arms all pointing toward the old wizard.
“You still think I’m as easy to handle as I was twenty years ago?” Thousands of Hecates spoke in unison, their overlapping voices forming a nauseating buzz. “This ti, I’ll make sure your soul remains in the Realm of Death forever!”
But the old wizard suddenly smiled.
“Do you know why the Star Law Institute has sent only to deal with you over the past hundred years?”
Theodosius spread his arms, and a flood of silver threads burst from his body.
The threads pierced the drifting green glimrs in the sky. Each upper torso struck by them froze instantly.
The infant souls attached to them plumted like raindrops into the Styx, sending up splashes as they fell.
Startled, all the infants wailed in a piercing cry.
The Feeder of the Dead, Hecate, let out a shrill, horrified scream.
“My children! My babies! No—!”
The corners of Theodosius’s lips curled upward.
The Feeder of the Dead’s strength lay in her countless clones, but that very trait was precisely what his “corpse-stitching threads” countered.
Moreover, being a manifestation of the lingering resentnt of won who died in childbirth, Hecate had a fatal weakness—she was overly attached to the infant souls she nursed.
The mont a child cried, she would lose her terrifying composure as one of the Seven Gods of the Realm of Death and revert into a helpless mother.
This was also the reason she ranked last among the Seven.
“Well then, it’s ti to end this.”
Just as Theodosius began weaving a massive silver net to shred the Feeder of the Dead into fragnts—
The entire Realm of Death suddenly fell into silence.
Then, the Styx surged in a raging torrent, and the inverted blood moon was devoured by a celestial hound.
Countless souls in the Styx howled toward the sky as the realm plunged into total darkness.
At the sa ti, the silver thread Theodosius had entrusted to Lucy snapped in two.
For the first ti, a look of confusion crossed Theodosius’s face.
He turned to the far end of the Styx. A terrifying presence was awakening.
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