NOVEL NEXT chapter 146 - Until Dawn
The heavy machine gun roared to life.
The corpse soldiers of the Rotting Legion, pounding viciously against the outer walls of Labyrinthos, burst apart in putrid clouds of stench.
“Don’t breathe it in! That gas they release—if it gets into your lungs, you’re dead!!”
Experienced hunters shouted warnings to the rookies, pushing them to stay focused.
But it was no easy task.
The corpse soldiers were piling their own bodies atop one another, forming a siege tower against the wall.
Tremendous firepower rained down on them as they climbed, but the already-dead didn’t feel pain or the fear of their bodies being destroyed.
“Stop them!! If they finish stacking that tower, everyone behind this wall dies!! We cannot let them climb—!”
A veteran hunter screaming orders melted mid-sentence without another word.
Every hunter’s eyes turned to one direction.
“...The Rotting Lord. Oh god.”
Etched across its body was Beelzebub’s sigil.
A grotesque, revolting mass of flesh, seemingly stitched together from dozens of rotting corpses.
It hovered in the air, waving its hand gently, as a voice came forth—half in human tongue, half in divine speech.
[Open the gates. Humans. Resistance is meaningless. There is no one coming to save you.]
Even hearing it felt like one’s ears were rotting—utterly revolting.
The hunters’ bodies trembled.
Beelzebub himself had incarnated to lead the invasion.
Unless a divine being incarnated on their side as well, there was no hope of victory. That was obvious.
“Reload!! Bring grenades and molotovs!! You have to burn those bastards!!”
“Hold the line!! Even that dumbass Nero couldn’t take this city!! Let’s show them what we’re made of!!”
Still, the hunters did not give up.
Vampires.
Beastkin.
Humans.
They stood united under the name Labyrinthos and continued resisting.
Corpse soldiers burst apart. The air filled with the acrid stench of burning, rotted flesh.
“88mm cannon loaded!!”
“Fire!!”
Five cannons mounted atop the wall unleashed a simultaneous blast.
The siege tower made of climbing corpses exploded mid-rise and collapsed.
Two shells flew toward Beelzebub himself, but the Lord of Gluttony easily shrugged them off with a layer of protective magic.
[Now it’s your turn. My children.]
Unfazed by the direct hit, the Rotting Lord gestured again.
Hundreds of fly-shaped corpse soldiers took to the sky.
“Anti-air fire!! If those things get over the wall, it’s all over!!”
The flying corpses were immediately hammered by bullets, torn into chunks, and rained down from the sky.
The 88mm cannons were versatile—they could fire anti-air as well.
“Timed high-explosive shells!!”
“Fire!!”
As the cannons blazed skyward, several of the airborne flies exploded simultaneously and fell in pieces to the ground.
The hunters let out cheers, taunting.
But Beelzebub’s expression remained relaxed.
[Do you think this is your victory?]
The flies kept getting shot down.
That much was good.
But the real problem was what they left behind when they exploded.
“Reload the howitzer!!”
“Pack that powder—tight and hot! Heave—!”
While one team frantically reloaded a cannon, a chunk of flesh—no larger than a fingernail—struck a hunter.
It wasn’t even a big piece.
Just a tiny bit of meat from one of the falling flies.
But even that was enough.
“Hrk?...AAAAAAGH!!”
With a scream, the flesh burrowed into the hunter’s body.
He convulsed violently, shrieking—and then the stench of rot began to rise from his body.
“Amin?!”
The vampire beside him grabbed his shotgun in terror.
The infected hunter didn’t answer.
Instead, a grotesque grrrk sound came from his throat, and he opened his mouth.
A yellow glob of foul, rotting phlegm burst forth from his throat and shot toward the vampire.
Hit squarely by the glob, the vampire didn’t even get to scream—he dissolved on the spot.
“He’s turned! Shoot him!!”
Gunfire roared.
Bullets ripped through the infected corpse soldier.
His body, now riddled with holes, twitched for a moment—then let out a screech...
And exploded.
“Meat bomb!! Scatter!!”
The explosion radius was massive. Several nearby hunters were instantly caught and torn apart.
Naturally, one of the 88mm cannons was caught in the blast and destroyed.
A single cannon lost, several hunters dead—these were serious ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) losses. But what was even worse—
“The meat! Avoid the meat!! Don’t let it touch—AAAGH!! No!!”
The chunks of flesh launched by the exploding corpse soldier were the real danger.
In an instant, the infection spread.
The top of the wall turned into hell itself.
Gunfire. Molotovs. Grenades—all thrown at what had been allies mere seconds ago.
The firepower directed at the Rotting Legion naturally decreased.
[Advance.]
The flies took advantage of the reduced anti-air fire to slip into the city.
The corpse soldiers resumed piling up, building another siege tower.
There seemed to be no one left who could stop them.
Beelzebub grinned.
[This city is mine now.]
And it certainly looked like he was right.
Amidst the chaos—
Hundreds of unused bottles caught fire all at once.
“Fuck!!...”
A nearby hunter didn’t even have time to scream as he was caught in the blast and obliterated.
A massive explosion tore through the area.
The flames reached the grenades.
The grenades exploded next.
Then the fire reached the stack of artillery shells.
The result of this chain reaction was simple.
A thunderous boom.
A tremor like an earthquake.
And then—
The wall collapsed.
Though many corpse soldiers and flies were caught in the explosion and destroyed, it didn’t matter to Beelzebub.
[This city is now mine.]
He cackled.
Slowly—
The surviving Rotting Legion began to march through the ruined wall and into the city.
Their reduced numbers didn’t matter.
Because everyone inside the city—
Was a potential addition to their ranks.
****
John pulled the trigger.
His father’s massive shotgun roared.
The 4-gauge shell’s firepower was overwhelming.
A charging corpse soldier exploded like a watermelon.
He broke the shotgun to reload. Two empty brass shells ejected with a crisp, clean clink.
But no matter how many he took down—it seemed utterly meaningless.
“Abandon the line!! Fall back!!”
The Rotting Legion, having entered the city, was growing by the second.
Losing in battle meant an increase in enemy forces.
The shotgun shells in his pouch were almost depleted.
“Fall back to the plaza!! We’ll establish a new defense line there!!”
The hunters were pushed back. And pushed again. And again.
With each passing second, the enemy increased. And any hope of holding the line slipped further away.
“Anyone need ammo?!”
The rookie hunters, too inexperienced to fight, had taken over logistics and were distributing ammunition.
Hearing a shout, John turned and headed to the rear to resupply.
The defense line at the plaza, fortunately, was far more secure than the previous one.
They had blown up an entire building with explosives to block the major intersections, dragging in all the machine guns and light machine guns to focus on anti-air fire.
While slipping a massive brass 4-gauge shell into his pouch, John felt a hand on his shoulder.
“John.”
“Guildmaster.”
“You need to come.”
“I’m busy. I don’t have time for repairs. Tell them to use manual clearing if it jams—”
“Your grandfather is back. And he’s in critical condition.”
John’s hand froze mid-motion as he loaded another shell.
“Grandfather came back?”
The guildmaster smiled faintly.
“He returned with Lord Ponemkin. No time to explain—just go. Now.”
Before he even finished speaking, the Rotting Legion charged the line once more.
“Fire!! If they get past that line, it’s over!! Kill them!!”
“Anti-air team!! Move!! If the flies get through, it’s the end!! Hit them at range—don’t let them scatter meat!!”
Gunfire and explosions echoed savagely.
John’s eyes flicked toward the battle for a moment—but the guildmaster shoved him forward.
“Go!! We’ll hold the line! He’s at Shelter 3! Hurry!!”
John couldn’t hold back any longer and broke into a run.
“Shit.”
He came back alive.
And now he’s dying?
What the hell kind of sick joke was that?
Please.
Please, just stay alive until I get there.
John ran through the city like a madman.
The door to Shelter 3 was tightly sealed.
He slammed his fist against it.
“It’s John!! I heard my grandfather—Old Ban—is in there! Let me in!!”
The door opened.
At the center of the shelter, filled with elderly men, women, and children—
John saw a familiar face lying on the floor.
“Saint! You mustn’t!!”
Cecilia was trying to stop the Saint.
“If I heal him, he might live.”
“This is a divine affliction! You can’t fix it with your power! The symptoms came from overuse of divine energy—using more will only make it worse!”
The Saint bit his lip, staring down helplessly at Old Ban.
Several women and elderly people were clustered around Ban, clinging to him.
They’d tried treating him—it just hadn’t worked.
“Grandpa!”
John tossed his shotgun aside, not caring where it landed, and rushed to his grandfather’s side.
He grabbed Old Ban’s hand.
“You fucking bastard!! I told you to come back alive!! What the hell is this?! You’re not dying, right?!”
At his shout, a faint smile flickered across Ban’s pale face.
“John. My grandson.”
“Don’t talk!! Someone help me!! Somebody do something!! There’s got to be medicine in this shelter! Bandages, drugs, something! Saint!!”
But no one moved.
The medical supplies and bloodied wrappings scattered around Ban made it clear: everything that could be done with what the shelter had, already had been done.
But he didn’t want to give up.
“Ah fuck, no!! Don’t you do this!! You’re not dying, Grandpa, you’re not—right?!”
John laughed out of sheer disbelief.
Grandfather and grandson—both laughing now.
But for entirely different reasons.
The explosions and gunfire outside grew steadily louder.
The children and elders in the shelter stared at the steel door, their faces pale and trembling.
“Grandson. Look at this.”
Old Ban smiled like a child, summoning holy light into his hand.
Blue divine energy shimmered like a mirage—and faded away.
The gunshots and screams came closer and closer.
“I recovered Lord Ponemkin. He resides in me now. Grandson. I became a Hero.”
That childlike smile made John feel sick.
“So it was true all along? Grandpa? We really were descendants of Hero Karim? And that’s why you became a Hero?”
“No. I asked Karim directly—he said he had no descendants. So the thing we believed for three hundred years... was a lie. But…”
“…”
“I made that lie real. Grandson. I made it real. I am a Hero now. Which means... you’re the descendant of a Hero. John.”
John smiled.
And tears fell.
“So what fucking good is any of that? You became a Hero—and you’re still dying.”
“I chose this. I chose to sacrifice myself.”
Thunk. A loud bang echoed through the shelter’s front door.
Something was pounding on it.
Cries and panicked gasps filled the shelter.
“John. Heroes are made, not born. That means our family... has always been a Heroic bloodline. What we’ve done for 300 years wasn’t wasted.”
“Get back!!”
Priest Mathieu hoisted the Saint onto his back and moved away.
Cecilia drew her pistol from inside her coat and leveled it at the shelter door.
A scraping sound echoed—claws against steel.
The pounding grew more violent.
But grandfather and grandson continued speaking as if none of it existed.
Old Ban’s eyes began to dim.
“So... will you forgive me?”
Ban spoke his final words to his grandson.
“Will you remember me not as the fool who got your parents killed... but as a Heroic grandfather? Please?”
John collapsed.
He began to sob, gasping through the tears.
“Not once was I ever not proud of you. I was always proud of my grandfather who went on adventures into the Labyrinth. So rest easy. No one will ever call us liars again.”
Ban’s smile deepened.
“I was too old. I couldn’t wield Ponemkin’s power properly. But you’re different, John. Remember that.”
His aged body—pushed beyond its limits by divine authority—began to break down.
“Heroes are made, John. They always have been.”
And with those last words, spoken like an exhale—
Old Ban let out one final breath.
As if breathing out his soul.
And passed with a peaceful expression.
The shelter door burst apart.
“Fire!!”
Cecilia’s semi-automatic pistol roared.
Those in the shelter who could wield a gun—elders, even children—opened fire in unison.
The corpse soldiers flooding through the broken door were mowed down by the hail of bullets.
But it wasn’t enough.
More came than fell.
With their rotting stench and oozing flesh, the Rotting Legion poured into the shelter.
John’s eyes fixed on them.
He had hated Heroes.
They’d taken his father, destroyed his family, turned them into a laughingstock for believing a lie.
But in the end—
Someone had made that lie true.
Now it was his choice.
Let the lie stay a lie.
Or—
Make it real.
“Ponemkin.”
John whispered.
He picked up the shotgun lying on the floor.
“Prove it. Prove that our family didn’t live in vain. That my grandfather didn’t die for nothing.”
A massive greatsword lying far away flew toward him.
Its shape changed.
It became armor.
The blade wrapped around John’s body, piece by piece—until it even merged into the shotgun he held.
The shotgun transformed.
Twisted. Ferocious. Like a beast howling in the dark.
The Rotting Legion paused, as if sensing something.
A blue radiance flared in John’s eyes—piercing, soul-seeing light.
[They are beings filled with greed, resentment, hatred—rage toward the living.]
Ponemkin’s voice rang out, loud enough for everyone in the shelter to hear.
[But you… will be greater. I shall make you more than that. My chosen. My new Hero.]
The shotgun began to fill.
Not with shells—
But with divine power.
[Kill. And kill again. Until all is finished.]
The shotgun fired.
Not bullets—
But divine energy made tangible.
Dozens of corpse soldiers exploded at once—torn apart in holy fire.
There was no regeneration.
No resurrection.
Only destruction.
Only slaughter.