Even the name carried an ominous, near-cursed weight—pressing down on the heart of every New Eridu resident.
It wasn't merely a spot on a map. It was a jagged, never-healing scar carved into the city's history and collective memory.
Among all Hollows within New Eridu's territory, it was the longest-lasting, the widest-ranging, and the one whose danger rating never dropped from the highest threshold. It was the Origin Hollow—the first wound that swallowed the glorious Old Eridu, the beginning of every calamity and every spiral into chaos.
In the city's bright districts, in the whispers of back alleys, in children's nightmares used to frighten them into obedience—people cursed its birth and treated it as the root of all misfortune.
If this damned Hollow had never appeared—ripping open the earth, warping reality—why would they have been forced to flee their homes and build, with bleeding hands, a steel fortress called "New Eridu" atop comparatively "safe" ruins?
Why would they have endured that century-scale catastrophe known as the Fall of the Old Capital—a disaster saturated with death, separation, and despair? Countless families shattered. Countless dreams extinguished. Civilization's chain nearly snapped there.
Hollow Zero was the sword hanging above New Eridu's head—a Damoclean blade—and the deepest lament in the city's eternal background noise.
And yet fate's irony was merciless.
To this day, nearly every large and mid-sized Hollow on record could be seen as Hollow Zero's "offspring"—satellites circling a rotten core like flies around decay.
Whether those Hollows briefly contracted or dangerously expanded, the end result was usually the same: more graves beyond the border wall, or fresh sobbing rising from some corner of the city.
It was a volcano that never truly cooled—periodically vomiting disaster, reminding humanity with blood and tears that it was still there.
The tragedy—almost the joke—was that the very source of destruction that shattered so many lives and manufactured so many nightmares also contained the resource that allowed New Eridu to become the "last oasis" on this wasteland:
Ether.
A mysterious, terrifyingly potent energy—both the blood that drove the city's machinery and the seed of endless conflict and slaughter. Like two inseparable sides of a coin, it brought ruin… and, grotesquely, gave birth to prosperity.
Built upon the immeasurable Ether reserves within Hollow Zero and the strange materials produced by its satellite Hollows, New Eridu grew—deformed, but vigorous. From that growth came new professions that lived on the knife's edge between order and chaos:
Hollow Raiders who dove into Hollows to steal resources with their lives on the line;Proxies who guided others through spatial fractures;and… gangs that survived in the Hollow's shadows and twisted terrain like hyenas gnawing carcasses, swelling in power until they threatened the city's very order.
Thanks to Hollow Zero's vast, labyrinthine, physics-bending interior—and its natural ability to swallow pursuit—these gangs, as long as they prepared enough anti-corrosion gear, could repeatedly toy with New Eridu's security forces and slip the law's grasp. In the face of Hollow chaos, the reach of law looked pitifully weak.
And that, perhaps, was why a gang called the Mountain Lion Gang could rise—from an unknown little band of petty thieves on the margins, into a swaggering new force making waves across the Net.
Perhaps.
But behind that seemingly "inspirational" ascent—how many secrets, how many filthy bargains, had been buried?
In the depths of Hollow Zero lay an abnormal space that had been deliberately altered.
This was the Lion's Nest—the Mountain Lion Gang's so-called core stronghold and last fortress.
Contrary to the outside world's image of a bandit den—loud, chaotic, foul with crude revelry—the heart of this place was eerily quiet.
The air was thick, almost liquid, saturated with a heavy stench: rust, ozone, a faintly rotten sweetness, and the distinctive "metallic tang" of intense Ether radiation.
The dim light did not come from any stable source. It pulsed from walls coated in strange moss—like blood vessels—glowing with sick phosphorescence as if the building itself were breathing. Shadows jerked and crawled, and the entire chamber looked wrong.
These growths had never belonged to the Lion's Nest before.
Their presence now—parasitic, invasive—felt like an omen. Like a reflection. Like the Mountain Lion Gang's own fate: infected.
At the center of the Nest, an enormous figure—abnormally tall, wrapped in crude, battle-scarred heavy armor—knelt on both knees on cold, rough ground slick with unknown sticky grime.
He was Riza—the Mountain Lion Gang's public leader, the "Mountain Lion" himself.
And before him, seated in a plain office chair as if this were an ordinary meeting room, sat a woman.
Her uniform was sharply tailored and utterly out of place in this hellish environment. A faint, cold smile hovered at the edge of her lips.
Sarah.
A figure impossible to ignore in New Eridu's underworld—high-ranking within the Praise Society, and… an Agent.
Her deep green eyes seemed to swallow light. They stared at Riza without blinking—openly cold, openly appraising.
Not the look one gave a subordinate.
The look one gave a tool with defects—while deciding whether to discard it.
"Riza…" Her red lips parted. Her voice was soft, but it carried through the silence like a serpent's hiss.
"S-subordinate is here!" Riza's massive body jolted as if by reflex. He bowed lower, nearly touching the ground.
He tried to straighten slightly as he answered—but the instant Sarah's gaze swept him, an invisible hammer seemed to smash him down again. He collapsed fully into a posture of submission.
The arrogance and ferocity he showed the world had long since vanished. What remained was fear embedded in bone—and obedience.
Watching the infamous "Mountain Lion" grovel at her feet, Sarah's smile sharpened. Mockery and pleasure gleamed unhidden in her eyes.
Power was delicious. It was always delicious—especially when it made "strong men" crawl.
"You really are something," she drawled, lazy with disdain, as if commenting on a farce. "Was it because I've given you a little favor lately—blocked a little trouble for you—that you started thinking you were truly capable?"
"You decided your Mountain Lion Gang has become so 'strong' that New Eridu's Security Bureau wouldn't dare confront you head-on?"
Her tone cooled, like dark water beneath ice.
"And so you let your brainless idiots run wild—until the Bureau seized an opening, and one strike—nothing particularly brilliant—nearly wiped out the 'family fortune' you clawed together?"
"I wouldn't dare! I would never harbor such thoughts!" Riza blurted, terrified. The muscles beneath his armor locked tight. His voice shook despite his efforts.
He lifted his head instinctively, as though searching Sarah's face for mercy. His lips worked, hesitating.
"It's just… it's just…"
"Just what?" Sarah's smile stayed. Her voice, however, gained the quiet chill of a guillotine poised above the neck—suspended, not falling, and therefore more frightening.
She leaned forward slightly, adding pressure without raising her volume.
But Riza's throat seized. His mouth hung open. His Adam's apple bobbed hard. And then—silence.
He lowered his head again, burying it deeper.
That silence made Sarah's delicate brow crease in annoyance.
In the next moment she rose from the chair with unhurried grace. A hand in a white silk glove lifted. Her fingertip traced a small point in the air.
A strand of pink light spilled out—thick, viscous, alive. Like thawed syrup laced with poison.
It wasn't bright, yet it radiated an unsettling warmth and temptation that went straight to the soul.
The moment Riza saw it, his huge body began to convulse. Pure, instinctive terror—etched into him by experience—made him want to recoil, to flee.
But before he could move, Sarah's voice fell like a spell: calm, absolute, irresistible.
"Listen to me, Riza. Don't move."
So few words.
And yet they carried the weight of a mountain.
Every struggle inside him froze. Resistance, defiance, even thought itself—locked solid, arrested in place.
His jaw slackened. The terror in his eyes drained away like tidewater, replaced by hollow blankness—like someone whose will had been surgically removed.
Only an empty shell remained, kneeling there, waiting.
Sarah stepped closer. Her white-gloved fingertip touched the front of his helmet.
The instant she made contact—
A shriek tore out of Riza's throat, so savage it barely sounded human.
The pink light bored into his skull like a living thing, and pain—pain from the level of the soul—exploded outward, sweeping through every nerve and every cell.
That agony cracked the mental lock for a single heartbeat. His eyes flared red with bloodshot fury. He tried to thrash.
"You… filthy bitch! Using your witchcraft again—trying to… torture me—! I'll—!"
"Mm~" Sarah hummed, delighted, as if listening to music. The curses didn't offend her. They only deepened her smile.
"Faster than last time," she mused. "So pain really is a miracle medicine. Even a fool like you can wriggle a little when it's sharp enough."
Every time she used this power—power that could directly seize another's will, saturated with blasphemy and absolute domination—her mind drifted back to that underground cell, that night cut away from the world.
No arrogant, useless colleagues from the Praise Society. No laughably naïve subordinates babbling about ideals.
Only her.
And the Saint Child she had once believed existed only in fever dreams—yet whom she had truly held in her arms:
Qianye.
She indulged herself in his youthful, pure scent—kissed lips soft as petals, traced the trembling of his body—and in her chest, a twisted, scorching love swelled until it hurt.
Every press of skin, every helpless shiver inside her embrace, felt like baptism—like being peeled out of filth and reborn into a warped holy light.
This power—this terrifying ability to tamper with minds—was merely a "gift" she had taken from the Saint Child that night. Or an "accident," depending on how one wanted to dress the truth.
But Sarah, shameless and unshakeable, treated it as proof of Qianye's deep love for her—his reward, his reciprocation.
With that "miracle," and with the lie she built around it, she had split, lured, and controlled the followers who once leaned toward Bringer rather than her—cementing her growing authority within the Praise Society.
And she hadn't "betrayed" the Saint Child's "love," had she?
Wasn't Riza—once untouchable, now kneeling and shaking—her finest trophy?
As for the pitiful Perelman… if her first full test on a human subject produced a "small accident," that was understandable, wasn't it?
No.
Not now.
Sarah narrowed her eyes, pulled her mind back from indulgent memory, and withdrew her fingertip. She closed her eyes.
She needed to sift through what she'd forced open—through the messy, shattered thoughts and fragments pouring from Riza's mind.
A moment later her eyes snapped open.
Understanding flashed—cold, complete—and then turned into concentrated mockery and killing intent.
"Heh… Riza. So there's still a trace of that pathetic animal cunning and rebellion in your bones."
She smiled like a blade sliding over ice.
"You didn't resist my control out of any true strength."
"It was only jealousy. Only insecurity."
"You envy the power I granted you—yet you fear becoming a puppet."
"So you decided on 'self-destruction': you let your gang be crippled… even nudged it toward ruin… just to avoid becoming my perfect chess piece."
"What a stupid, pitiful sort of resistance."
Riza, however, couldn't respond. He couldn't even hear anymore.
His eyes were dead. Saliva and foam leaked from his crooked mouth, streaking the filthy plates of his armor.
His massive body twitched faintly, like a broken machine barely running on residual current.
Disgust flickered across Sarah's face.
She lifted one foot and—like kicking aside trash—booted Riza's huge body over with her polished toe. He hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
"Take him away," she ordered, not sparing him a glance.
"To someone with basic medical skill. Patch him up."
"Don't let him die too quickly. He still has some use."
She paused, then added:
"And you—out. Guard the door. No one approaches without my order."
Two of Riza's personal guards—already fully under her control—moved like machines. They hoisted the limp body and dragged it into a darker passage.
Footsteps receded. The dragging sound faded. The black swallowed them.
Sarah returned to her chair, crossed her legs neatly, as if the entire scene had been a minor interruption.
She clapped her hands once. The sound snapped through the chamber.
The shadows around the room stirred—like something alive—then gathered.
Figures emerged silently from the dark. White robes. The Praise Society's mark. Faces that mixed fervor, numbness, and absolute obedience.
Among them were ordinary members, and others in more elaborate ceremonial vestments—higher-ranked Firebearer Cantors and Rite-Praisers.
In moments, twenty or thirty people formed a loose circle around Sarah. They knelt or stood in rigid devotion, eyes fixed on her, waiting.
"Agent," a leading Firebearer Cantor stepped forward and bowed, voice trembling with excitement. "As you commanded… the 'paint' and the 'scribes' required for the rite are prepared."
Sarah let her gaze sweep across the believers she ruled by power or lie. A gentle, holy smile appeared—so serene it was nauseating.
She nodded.
"Begin."
"At once! For the Saint Child! For the Agent!" The Firebearer Cantor's eyes ignited with zeal bordering on madness.
At his signal, something horrifying happened.
No hesitation. No pain on their faces.
The robed followers drew blades from sleeves and belts: ritual daggers flashing cold light, serrated knives, even sharpened bone tools.
Their movements were uniform, practiced. They plunged the weapons into their own bodies.
Wet, heavy sounds of steel entering flesh struck the silence in a dreadful rhythm.
It wasn't random stabbing—they avoided vital organs with precision, choosing arms, thighs, torsos—places rich with blood—opening wounds deep enough to show bone.
In an instant, dark red blood—unnaturally tinted, laced with faint Ether-glimmer—burst out like small fountains.
A thick mist rose, reeking of iron, sick sweetness, and Ether's metallic tang—so strong it made the throat revolt.
And still—no screams.
Not even a muffled groan.
They seemed to feel nothing. Their faces wore a twisted, intoxicated devotion, as though drowning in bliss.
They let their life spill.
Then, one after another, they lowered themselves to the filthy floor and began to draw.
Using their bleeding wounds as "brushes." Using warm blood as "ink."
Hands, fingers, palms—sometimes the open gashes themselves—smeared and etched. Dark red lines crawled, joined, and multiplied, forming complex, grotesque nodes and spirals.
The patterns looked ancient—forgotten or corrupted. The lines coiled like living tendrils, like an anatomy diagram of something that should not exist.
The only sounds were blood dripping, bodies scraping, and the low, fervent murmurs of prayer:
"For the Saint Child… for the link… for the Primordial Lord…"
In moments, a complete blood sigil—ten meters across—spread out with Sarah at its heart.
The wet lines shone under the chamber's sick phosphorescence. The entire formation pulsed with unstable energy, warping the air. A low hum rose—like countless tiny whispers layered together.
Sarah sat at the center, eyes closed, "listening" to the power built from life and blood.
But when she finally opened her eyes, there was no satisfaction.
Only deeper hunger.
"Not enough," she whispered—soft, yet every sacrifice heard it like a verdict.
"What…?" The Firebearer Cantor lifted his head. His zeal faltered into confusion. "Agent, what do you mean? The 'paint'—we have already—"
"Still not enough." Sarah cut him off, gentle and utterly cold.
"With only this much blood and Ether, I can't do what I intend."
"Even within Hollow Zero—where the Saint Child's gift can function at its maximum—this power still isn't sufficient."
"It won't sustain a deeper, stable link with him… one that can sense where he is… perhaps even carry my longing to him."
Her eyes moved across the pale, blood-loss-stricken believers—still kneeling, still obedient.
And that serene, sacred smile returned—cruel to the bone.
"So—"
"For the Saint Child."
"For our shared ideal."
"For the holy link…"
She tilted her head and, as casually as choosing a dinner menu, delivered the most monstrous sentence imaginable:
"Please—sacrifice yourselves completely."
"Offer your lives, your souls, and everything within your blood."
"Isn't that the highest honor?"
A beat of dead silence.
Then the Firebearer Cantor's eyes flared with the radiance of an eager martyr.
"We obey the Agent's command! For the Saint Child! We will die ten thousand deaths without regret!"
"For the Saint Child! Without regret!!"
The others roared as one—loud enough to shake the chamber—voices filled with contempt for death and a fanatical hunger for what they called "holy."
And then they did it.
No hesitation.
Blades rose and fell—throats opened, hearts pierced, lives extinguished with ruthless efficiency.
Blood poured like a broken dam, flooding the sigil.
The entire formation erupted into a blinding, unnatural pink light—alive, twisting, climbing upward. It swallowed bodies and blood alike.
A vortex of energy spun violently around Sarah. The Lion's Nest trembled under the pressure, the structure groaning as if it would split.
Sarah spread her arms and tilted her face up, ecstasy blooming across her features—as though she were embracing the world… and the reply she imagined from her Saint Child.
She could feel it: power far greater than before, refined and concentrated, rushing into her—strengthening that warped, one-way "link" between herself and the distant existence she worshiped.
Sarah closed her eyes and reached outward with her senses.
A moment later, rapture flooded her face.
"My love… asleep at the perfect moment?"
"Then…"
"Let us meet again in dreams."
"I will bring you—bring you—a dream exquisite beyond words…"
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
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Zenless Zone Zero: I'm a Doctor, Not a Bangboo (Chapter 150)
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TYPE-MOON: Redemption Beginning with the Holy Grail War (Chapter110)
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I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter222)
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Crossover Anime Multiverse: The Demon Hunter of an Unnatural World 77
From Junkman to Wasteland 66
Weekly Refresh of Overpowered 31
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Honkai: Is This Still the Prev 42
Elf: My Starter Pokémon Is Inc 65
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Uma Musume, but My Cheat Power 215
Naruto: Weaving the Future, Be 65
Zenless Zone Zero, but Kamen R 76
Multiverse Crossover: The Perf 66
My Cyberpsycho Girlfriend 65
Uma Musume: The Dark Trainer 200
Uma Musume: A Calamity Born fr 154
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The Violent Girl Group Is Beat 115
Uma Musume: The Horse Girl Who 67
Uma Musume: From Beginner 130
Becoming a Horse Girl, I Will 85
Uma Musume: I Want All 105
I Can Copy Unique Skills 100
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My Harem Is Indescribable 85
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Uma Musume: Today Is Another Romantic Battlefield 81
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The Most Filial Son Under Heav 65
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Reincarnated as a Demon, Skill 60
Hell-Difficulty Dungeon? 55
Transmigrated as Sukuna 61
Checking In in Demon Slayer 65
The Reincarnating Trainer of Tracen Academy 80
I Refuse to Become a Heroic 66
My Best Friend Into a Slime? 58
A Saiyan Stands Above Marvel 65
What Do You Mean by Using a Lab Mod to Be the Hero? 63
Tanya Starts from Re:Zero 59
Why did they assign me to Uma 55
MYGO Beauties 56
DanMachi: Emiya the Giant Hero 45
The Gacha Merchant Who Started 49
Honkai's Otherworld? Wait—Who Are You People?! 36
Emiya Shirou, Determined to Slay Every Curse and Evil Spirit 15
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