BREW

"Do you know what salvation tastes like?"

Suddenly, crucifix-shaped pillars of flesh and iron burst from the ground, trying to impale and pin her. She cut through the first three, but one grazed her leg, sending blood splattering in a clean arc.

He walked through the air—floating upward, arms out like a holy martyr, but his face now split open with thousands of teeth, a spiral of gnashing hunger inside.

The world around them distorted again.

The buildings bent inward, forming a circle like a ritual site.

The sky split into twelve bleeding crescents—all staring downward.

Merry's body trembled.

Her blood boiled.

Her wounds refused to close.

She could barely breathe.

The Crucifixion Man opened his arms.

From his body, wailing human faces emerged—dozens of them, all victims, all screaming in agony, repeating one phrase:

"He saves us. He saves us. He saves us."

Merry screamed back, swinging both her weapons wildly—but it was futile.

She fell to her knees.

Until—

The scissors moved.

Not guided by her hand—but by something else.

This was the moment she was waiting for.

They floated, glowing a dull red, then sliced the air in an impossible figure-eight motion.

Time slowed.

The Crucifixion Man tried to move—but the air itself fractured like glass.

He reached toward Merry—

But the scissors struck one final time—

Straight through his chest.

He didn't bleed.

He cracked.

The barbed wire unwound.

The crucifix skin flaked like ash.

His faces screamed one last time—then fell silent.

He vanished.

Not killed.

Erased.

Level 3 Cursed Item: Dressmaker's Scissors

Effect: It can cut destiny of anyone

Activations: It cut any anomalies that leaks enough spiritual energy.

- You can manually cut destiny of any normal living things.

The looped city shattered, returning them to the ruined real world.

Merry collapsed, her ghost form fading, her human wounds returning with vengeance.

The remaining team members slowly awoke—bloodied, barely alive—but the nightmare was over.

For now.

Only four remained. From the original nine members of the scout operation, the rest were now corpses littered in blood and silence.

Commander Merry, her uniform torn and stained in crimson, knelt beside the barely-breathing survivors. Jed, the captain, was conscious but paralyzed from the crucifixion man's earlier assault. Two others clung to life, their breathing ragged and shallow.

Merry clenched her teeth and whispered a quick chant, performing a field stabilization technique. Crimson glyphs shimmered across her arms as she pressed her hands against the survivors' bodies, slowing their bleeding and forcing their heart rates back into rhythm.

She dragged the three into the vehicle, one by one, her arms trembling not from fear, but from sheer overexertion.

As soon as she hit the ignition, the radio crackled violently, piercing the silent aftermath.

"Commander Merry, where the hell have you been?! Your comms have been dead for too long!"

It was Commander Ran from Sampaloc City, his voice laced with panic and control.

"We encountered a high-tier nightmare. It interfered with communications," Merry replied curtly, steering with one hand, the other gripping a blood-stained machete. "We're on the way back."

"We arrived fifteen minutes ago and reinforced the perimeter. But more and more incomplete nightmares are starting to flood the streets."

Merry's eyes narrowed. "It's not just random spawning. They're being pushed. Something's herding them."

"What about the anomaly you engaged?"

"It wasn't the leader. Strong—intelligent—but didn't command. No other nightmares came near it. That thing wasn't giving orders… just killing for sport."

There was a brief silence on the radio before Ran answered.

"Then the true leader hasn't shown itself yet."

Eight minutes passed. Their vehicle barreled through corpse-ridden streets.

Suddenly, Merry stomped on the brakes—hard.

Two of the wounded members snapped awake from the jolt, coughing blood. Jed, now at the wheel, tossed them weapons.

"If you're awake, pick up your damn gear." His voice was low, tired, but fierce.

The two grabbed modified guns—loaded with ritual-infused bullets.

Merry was already outside, balancing on the roof of the moving car, machete in one hand, the cursed scissors in the other, cleaving through the nightmarish figures approaching from the shadows.

They were surrounded.

Not by beasts—by ghosts.

The floating, disfigured remains of what were once civilians. Men, women, children. Their face is brushed so hard it wasn't recognizable anymore. Some floated. Others crawled through the air like spiders, clawing toward the vehicle from every angle—sky, road, buildings, even from the ground.

The Vanguard team held their ground, firing, slicing, blasting through wave after wave. But they were exhausted.

"Shit—how many are there?!" one of them shouted, reloading desperately.

Then—salvation.

From the southern perimeter, a barrage of warding flares exploded into the sky. Another Vanguard team had arrived, driving the ghosts back with ritual fire and collapsing barriers.