Endless Debt Chapter 1177 - 26: Bloody Death Town (Part 2)

Conversations like that kept repeating over and over.

"You think we’re the unlucky bastards who’ve stumbled into the town this time?"

Bologue’s voice pulled Aimou out of her memories. Aimou answered, "What else would we be?"

"I don’t see it that way. Bloody Death Town is classified as a horror film because the protagonists are just a bunch of ordinary people with no ability to fight back. They don’t even have the guts to swing a knife at someone. All they can do is end up as roast meat on the dinner table of those crazed townsfolk.

But what if the protagonists were swapped out for a well‑trained, fully armed elite squad?"

Bologue kept running with the idea. The more he thought about it, the more he felt this way of arranging the story suddenly seemed pretty fun.

"That elite squad would massacre those brutal townspeople. It wouldn’t be a horror movie anymore—it’d be a cathartic power‑trip flick," Bologue continued. "Now swap that elite squad out for me..."

As Bologue kept talking, that inexplicable shadow hanging over Aimou’s heart simply crumbled apart.

Right—once Bologue stepped into this place, even if what happened next followed the movie’s plot, the story was bound to be reversed.

It wouldn’t be the townsfolk killing a bunch of unlucky intruders anymore. It would be that unlucky intruder hunting down and slaughtering all the townsfolk.

Bologue said, "Let’s keep watching. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to find something interesting here."

"Mm... Speaking of which, why did we book two single rooms?"

"Huh?"

There was a sly edge to Aimou’s voice. Bologue could already picture her hugging her own head like a cat, those sharp claws lightly pricking her skin.

"What, getting shy?"

...

Watching Bologue leave, the Priest finally let that tightly strung heart of his drop. Then his cold, stern expression twisted in an instant, like a ravenous, blood‑crazed beast.

He yanked open his collar and gulped for air. Sweat beaded on his skin, heat roiling off him in waves. The Priest felt dizzy, the world spinning; his steps turned unsteady and faltering. He braced himself against the wall, forcing his way into the room behind, then followed the long staircase down into the deep underground chamber.

Jagged cracks scarred the mold‑covered walls. Geological shifts had caused most of this place to collapse. The Priest had spent a long time clearing it out again.

Stumbling, the Priest pulled open an iron door and pitched headlong inside, crashing hard to the floor, skinning his knees and elbows.

His breathing grew painful, but he knew he couldn’t stop yet. He had to take care of all this before he lost his reason.

Struggling, the Priest pushed himself up, slammed the iron door shut, and took off the tea‑tinted glasses from his nose. In the dark, his blood‑red eyes gleamed.

From the shadows he took up a chain studded all over with thorny spikes. The Priest didn’t care in the least that the thorns were cutting into his hands. He wound the chain around himself, loop after loop, until he couldn’t move at all.

Only then did the Priest finally exhale in relief. The exhausting inner battle he’d been fighting at last slackened—and in the instant his mind relaxed, a bestial growl tore its way out of his throat.

The Priest could feel his own descent with terrifying clarity. A feverish desire surged up from his heart, enough to make anyone’s blood run cold. His body swayed uncontrollably, rocking hard. As he struggled with all his strength, the chain bit deep into his flesh. His eyes bulged blood‑red, and a series of chilling, ragged breaths rasped from his mouth.

"Blood! Blood! Blood!"

The Priest roared, completely out of control. The back of his throat was nothing but the taste of fresh blood. His gaze was crazed and uncanny—no longer human.

The Blood of the Night Race had granted him Undying Power, but it had also hollowed out his soul. That empty void could only be sated by endless fresh blood. This was the Bloodthirsty Syndrome that plagued the Night Race.

The Priest knew nothing of that. He only knew he must not drink other people’s blood, or he would sink even deeper into evil, becoming no different from those deranged monsters.

It might sound hypocritical, but even now, the Priest still did not believe himself to be a monster.

The Priest fought desperately against the craving for blood, but the more he resisted, the stronger that craving grew. Immersed in the spell of his own desire, he was on the verge of forgetting who he was.

He slammed himself against the wall again and again. The shackles on his body screeched with harsh friction. No one knew how long that agonizing struggle went on. At last, as if he’d drained every last drop of strength, the Priest slowly came to a stop.

The Priest lay in a pool of blood, barely clinging to life. But soon, his shattered body began to rapidly knit itself back together. The surging thirst for blood ebbed away. Reason and clarity returned to his eyes.

A weary, pained sigh slipped out.

The Priest slowly removed the chains from his body and reached out to brace himself against the wall. Even though he’d endured yet another wave of Bloodthirsty Syndrome, his heart still filled with boundless emptiness. For a brief moment, the Priest even gave in to a few cowardly thoughts—he felt like he couldn’t hold on much longer.

But that thought lasted only a moment.

Putting the tea‑tinted glasses back on, hiding the bloodness in his eyes, the Priest straightened his back once more.

Picking up the chain, the Priest’s gaze grew complicated. At first he’d thought it was just an ordinary chain. But as it was stained with more and more blood, the crimson rust on it actually began to change, peeling away layer by layer like shedding skin.

What disturbed the Priest even more was that once it was wound around him, the chain seemed to grant him endless strength and killing intent, and the chain itself possessed some sort of unique ability.