SSS- Rank Awakening: Soul Devourer

The King's declaration was like throwing a torch into a barrel of oil. Across the human kingdoms, a fire of righteous fury erupted. In every city, priests gave sermons. "Demonic heretic" Edward Ross and his army of monsters. Bards, paid well by noble families, sang songs of Seraphiel's past glories. And the coming holy crusade. The world, fractured by the fear of dungeons, was now united against a common enemy.

For the Holy Inquisition, it was a golden age. Their power, once held in check by royal politics and rival guilds, now swelled. Their coffers overflowed with gold from the crown and "donations" from nobles. More importantly, their ranks grew. High-ranking hunters, once proud and independent, were now conscripted by royal decree. A simple choice. Join the Crusader Army or be branded a traitor. Thousands joined. Some with patriotic fire. Others with resentment simmering beneath a mask of obedience.

But this new, massive army was not the Inquisition's most dangerous weapon.

Deep in the frozen dungeons beneath their main fortress, a new and terrible project was underway. The masterwork of the new Grand Inquisitor, Tiberius. A gaunt, cold-eyed zealot. He believed Seraphiel's code of honor was a weakness. Tiberius argued that to fight a monster like the Soul Devourer, one could not rely on faith and steel alone. One had to become a better, more perfect weapon.

His answer was the Purifier Program.

The chamber where the ritual took place was not a place of fire. It was cold. Sterile. Silent. Like a tomb or a surgeon's operating room. In the center stood a single, throne-like chair of pale, white stone. Knights, all volunteers who had lost everything to dungeon breaks or corruption, walked in one by one. Men and women consumed by hatred. A desire for vengeance so strong they were willing to pay any price.

One by one, they would sit. A device, a complex helmet of silver and soul-infused crystals, would be lowered onto their head. No screaming. No violent magical explosion. Only a low hum and a faint, chilling light. For ten agonizing minutes, the knight would sit perfectly still. The helmet did not fill them with holy power. It simply… took things away.

It took their fear. Their anger. Their grief. Then it took their joy, their love, and their hope. It scooped out everything that made them human. Leaving behind only their training, their logic, and their cold, unwavering duty.

When the helmet was lifted, the person who stood up was not the same. Their eyes, once filled with burning hatred, were now flat and empty. Like polished stones. They moved with a perfect, unnerving grace. Every action stripped of hesitation or emotion. They had become living weapons. Machines of flesh and bone. They were the Purifiers.

Seraphiel stood in a dark observation gallery. High above the ritual chamber. His hands were clenched into fists. Grand Inquisitor Tiberius stood beside him. His thin lips were curved into a satisfied smile.

"Behold, Champion," Tiberius said. His voice was a dry whisper. "The perfect soldier. No fear to be exploited. No anger to cloud their judgment. They cannot be corrupted because there is nothing left inside them to corrupt. They are the blade that will finally cut the cancer of Edward Ross from this world."

Seraphiel watched as another knight, a man whose village he had once saved, completed the process. The man stood. His face was a blank mask. He saluted with perfect, mechanical precision. Before marching out of the chamber.

"You are hollowing them out, Tiberius," Seraphiel said. His voice was low and tight. "You are destroying their souls to save their bodies. This is not victory. It is a perversion of everything we stand for."

"We stand for order," Tiberius countered. His eyes glinted in the dim light. "We stand for the survival of humanity. The soul is a well of chaos. The source of fear, doubt, and temptation. These brave men have chosen to sacrifice that weakness for the greater good. They are heroes."

"They are puppets," Seraphiel shot back. His control finally cracked. "Empty shells. There is no honor in a victory won with such tools."

Tiberius turned to face him. His smile was gone. "The King has given me a mandate, Champion. A mandate you will follow. You are a symbol. A legend. The Crusader Army needs you at its head. You will lead them. And you will lead my Purifiers. Your personal feelings on the matter are irrelevant."

Seraphiel stood in silence. Trapped. He was a man of duty. A servant of the kingdom. He could not defy a direct order. But as he looked down at the cold, white chair, a profound sense of wrongness settled in his heart. He felt as though he were on the losing side of this war, no matter who won.

Later that week, the first operational squad of Purifiers was put to the test.

Their trial took place in the deepest level of the fortress. A circular combat arena known as the Pen of Sorrows. A captured monster was released. An A-Rank, corruption-type beast. A Grief-Eater. A creature of shadow and bone. Its long, weeping tendrils siphoned the hope and courage from anyone who drew near. Its very presence was a weapon. A wave of pure, crippling despair.

The five Purifiers marched into the arena. They wore simple, unadorned steel plate. They carried identical longswords and shields. They moved together perfectly. Their steps fell in exact time. Not with the practiced drill of a soldier. With the synchronized motion of a machine's moving parts.

The Grief-Eater let out a psychic scream. A silent wave of absolute misery. The feeling of every failure, every loss, every moment of shame, all focused into a single, soul-crushing blow. Any normal man would have been paralyzed.

The Purifiers did not even flinch.

They advanced. Their shields were raised. Their expressions unchanged. The monster's greatest weapon had no effect on minds that contained no emotion to prey upon.

The Grief-Eater, confused, lunged. Its shadowy tendrils lashed out. The Purifiers moved. They didn't scatter. They pivoted as one. A single, five-bodied organism. The lead Purifier took the main blow on his shield. The two on his flanks stabbed their swords into the creature's extended limbs, pinning them. The two in the rear flowed around the sides with a calculated, lethal grace.

No war cries. No sound at all. Save for the whisper of steel. The wet crunch of blades sinking into corrupted flesh. The pained shriek of the beast.

They systematically dismantled it. Every sword strike was aimed at a joint or a vital organ. Every movement was efficient. No wasted energy. No flashy techniques. It was not a battle. It was a dissection.

In less than a minute, the creature lay dead. Its shadowy form dissolving. The five Purifiers stood over it. Their swords dripped with black ichor. Not one of them was breathing heavily. Not one of them had a single scratch. They stood for a moment. Analyzing the results. Then turned as one and marched out. Their job complete.

From his observation post, Seraphiel watched them go. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stone of the fortress. He had just witnessed the perfect hunters. And he knew, with a certainty that settled in his gut like a stone, that they had been created for one purpose, and one purpose only. To hunt a being of pure, corrupted emotion. A man who fought with rage and instinct.

They were the perfect weapon to kill Edward Ross.