THE VILLAIN'S POV Chapter 821 The Eve of Catastrophe (2)
Previously on THE VILLAIN'S POV...
Out of nowhere...
a long wooden staff materialized in his grasp.
It seemed utterly unremarkable.
Much like a plain walking stick.
It possessed no aura of a magical artifact.
Nor did it appear as a weapon.
And yet...
Maskith wielded it with extraordinary skill.
With a gentle tap upon the ground.
A touch so light, it carried no discernible force.
From that single, soft impact, a colossal sonic wave erupted...
instantly overwhelming the entirety of the assembled Ultras.
The piercing resonance silenced them all utterly.
Their gazes collectively rose... drawn to Maskith.
He uttered no words.
Offered no explanation.
Instead, he slowly elevated his staff while his form began to blaze with a dark, immense aura.
Behind him, Wesker observed.
His eyes widened with each passing moment.
Slowly, he tilted his head back, fixated on the power coalescing before him.
Maskith's aura... was solidifying, taking form.
"...It resembles... a woman?"
A colossal female effigy began to emerge.
Her hair was a shade of gray.
Her visage was obscured by a circular, pallid mask.
Her body appeared fragmented and worn—akin to an ancient, stone effigy.
And her sheer scale was so vast that she loomed far above the entire edifice.
"Behold her however you deem fit," Maskith declared.
"Revere her. Admire her. Stand in awe..."
"It holds no consequence."
"You are far too insignificant to grasp... the true nature of this being."
He slowly lifted his gaze, looking upward towards her—
his eyes gleaming with an altered radiance.
"I sought to craft her in her image..."
"But I fell short."
"This meager projection captures not even a sliver of her genuine grandeur."
A slow grin stretched across his countenance.
"Are you observing, Agaroth?"
"I surmise it has been an age, and you have forgotten her likeness."
His smile broadened further still.
"Our magnificent matriarch..."
"Lady Clea."
Upon hearing those names... Wesker's expression contorted.
From within Vayne's vessel, he perceived something... disquieting.
A peculiar shiver coursed through him.
A burning sensation ignited within his third eye.
"I do not comprehend..."
"Who... is she?"
He vocalized, his confusion palpable.
"This reaction... is it the King's sentiments?"
Seldom had Wesker experienced such a vehement response from Agaroth.
Yet, even from this immense distance...
through the King's Eye and the shadows within him...
he could sense it.
That towering manifestation was no mere construct.
On that point, certainty was absolute.
Below... the populace had become immobile.
Their eyes were vacant.
Their postures rigid, as if their very souls had departed their forms.
They were utterly captivated.
Mesmerized.
"Now, you inconsequential humans..."
Maskith's voice reverberated, charged with intense emotion.
"The moment has arrived for each of you to transcend—
to evolve—and realize your ultimate potential!"
Behind him, the colossal female entity raised her arms towards the heavens.
Her movements... resembled a dance.
Her right hand swayed, then her left...
in a sequence so flawless it enthralled every spectator.
The surrounding world grew dim in response.
The very essence of existence seemed to recede.
And within moments... a peculiar ebony mist began to unfurl.
Dense.
Heavy.
Like a suffocating vapor.
It expanded with haste, enveloping every remaining Ultra.
All of them were consumed by the miasma.
Frozen in place.
Among them... a mother clutching her child's hand.
A woman resting her head on her lover's shoulder.
A man positioned before his kin—
instinctively shielding them.
Diverse individuals were present—
yet the smoke showed no partiality to any.
It was stifling.
Dark.
Oppressive.
Silence reigned for a few suspended seconds—
moments that commanded Wesker's absolute focus.
Even he, accustomed to such oppressive atmospheres, felt... unsettled.
Because what transpired next... was nothing short of dreadful.
Erupting from the vapor, thorny, shadowy tendrils emerged, animated as if sentient beings.
They writhed like serpents, weaving through the crowd...
penetrating the humans one by one.
The Ultras only regained consciousness after being impaled by these appendages...
but by that juncture...
it was irrevocably too late.
Gradually—
screams began to rend the air.
Caelid shuddered as one of the most ghastly experiments unfolded openly.
The instant the tendrils injected them—
they toppled to the ground, convulsing like larvae.
Their forms fractured with dark, viscous fissures... as though they were on the precipice of disintegration.
The agony was unendurable.
Unnatural.
Yet Maskith did not even flinch.
In less than a minute...
he had administered his venom to every single human present.
"I... cannot fathom it..." Wesker whispered, his voice filled with astonishment.
"You infused them all?"
"So swiftly?"
"The Demon Seed...!"
Wesker instantly grasped the immense significance of the recent events.
What Maskith had accomplished—
was the implantation of a complete Demon Seed within every human before him.
In epochs past, even a solitary seed—two at most—was deemed a rarity.
But now...
Thousands upon thousands stood before them.
"Behold," Maskith declared, a cruel, gleeful grin stretching across his features.
"This marks the completion of the Demon Seed Project."
"Many will undoubtedly perish."
"However, those who endure…"
"…shall transform into instruments of utter devastation."
"Each forged into a being whose might mirrors that of a Great High Demon."
"This is my ultimate offering to Amon—
a boon that will decisively shift the balance in the ensuing conflict."
Leaving the humans below to drown in their own crimson tide...
Maskith retreated with a composed demeanor.
"With this force… the Ultras now stand prepared for war."
At that precise moment...
the demon faction had successfully amassed a terrifying legion.
An army poised to unleash unparalleled destruction.
—
—
—
Shadow Sect – The Shadow Expanse
This was the very sanctuary where Frey had initially unlocked his latent abilities.
A sprawling, desolate temple...
utterly void of any presence... save for one solitary figure.
The Saint, Gehrman.
This blue-eyed engineer had sought refuge here... prior to the final confrontation.
Outside, the cloak of night had descended.
Within the Shadow Sect, final preparations for the impending war were underway.
Gehrman sat enthroned upon the structure, his eyes squeezed shut—
his entire frame quivering.
A sense of unease permeated the air.
His head snapped back and forth erratically—
as if subjected to relentless blows.
His countenance grew progressively grim with each passing second.
As though burdened by the horrifying visions unfolding before him.
"…It is altering…" he stammered, his voice frail and trembling.
"The future… is it changing?"
In rapid succession—
visions assaulted him like bolts of lightning.
Murky, fractured glimpses, each more catastrophic than the last.
He witnessed utter ruin.
Desolation.
Cinders.
Blood and inferno—
lifeless forms and mangled remains.
A war of apocalyptic scale...
a cataclysm that rent the very fabric of the world asunder.
He observed the formidable warriors of the Shadow Sect…
the demons…
Amon… engaged in some unspeakable act.
"A conflict… beyond comprehension…"
Frey...
The earth itself sundered.
The heavens... ripped apart.
And in the ultimate conclusion—
an all-encompassing darkness descended.
This harrowing tableau abruptly expelled Gehrman from his precognitive state.
He shivered uncontrollably.
His hand trembled with a violent tremor—
as he desperately attempted to process the terrifying sights he had witnessed.
"It has changed…"
"The future… has been altered…"
He repeated these words in a hushed whisper...
now fully comprehending the immense gravity of the situation.
The upcoming battle was destined to irrevocably redefine the very benchmarks of power.
The world as it existed before this event, and the world that would emerge thereafter…
would be fundamentally and eternally distinct.
Days remaining until the Shattering: 1 day.