Reborn as the Failed Lord with my Resource Gathering System.-Chapter 256: I ate you.

Here is the chapter, fully fleshed out to capture the tragedy and horror of the memory.

[Memory Playback Continues: The Day of Betrayal]

The ravine was narrow, a jagged scar in the earth that Joseph—the man the world knew as Jacob—had chosen for its cover. He was leading a small, elite convoy back to the sanctuary. The war had been long, and though the gods were retreating, he knew better than to let his guard down.

"We are almost there," Yaho whispered, walking beside him. She wiped sweat from her forehead, her hand brushing against his arm. "Once we get back, you need to sleep. Real sleep. Not that meditation thing you do."

Joseph smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard lines of his war-torn face. "I'll sleep when the world is safe for you, Yaho."

It was a promise.

And it was the last promise he would ever make.

Swoosh.

There was no sound of a bowstring. No chant of magic. Just the sudden, wet sound of metal shearing through meat.

Joseph stopped.

To his left, his second-in-command, a demon he had raised from the corpse of a fallen knight, crumpled to the ground.

But something was wrong.

Usually, when a demon died, their energy would disperse, returning to Joseph's mana pool to be collected or resurrected later.

But there was nothing.

The knight didn't just die; he was erased.

Joseph's eyes widened. He reached out with his senses, trying to grab hold of the knight's soul, but his fingers grasped at empty air.

"Ambush!" Joseph roared, shoving Yaho behind him.

From the shadows of the ravine walls, they emerged.

They were not gods in glowing armor. They were not monsters.

They were humans.

Dozens of them, dressed in form-fitting black leather, their faces obscured by white porcelain masks that bore no features, no eyes, no mouths, just smooth, blank surfaces.

In their hands, they held daggers that did not reflect the sun. The blades were made of a material darker than night, swallowing the light around them.

"God-Slayer daggers…" Joseph hissed.

He recognized the energy signature immediately. These were weapons forged by the High Gods, specifically designed to sever the link between a soul and its vessel. A weapon made to kill him and his demons permanently.

"Protect the her lady!" the soldiers shouted, forming a circle around Joseph and Yaho.

But it was a slaughter.

The assassins moved with a speed that defied human limits. They didn't aim for the kill; they aimed for the soul.

Every time a dagger grazed a soldier, that soldier dropped dead instantly, their eyes turning grey and hollow.

"Joseph!" Yaho screamed.

Joseph turned, his hand already charging with Dragon Mana, ready to obliterate the entire ravine.

But he froze.

The circle of protection had been breached.

A figure, slender and swift, had slipped through the chaos. One arm was wrapped tightly around Yaho's neck, and in the other hand, one of those soul-destroying daggers was pressed firmly against her jugular.

The assassin didn't tremble. The blade was already cutting the first layer of Yaho's skin, a single drop of blood rolling down the dark metal.

"Stop," a voice commanded.

It was a female voice. distorted by the mask but undeniably human. Cold. Calculating.

Joseph's mana flared, the ground beneath him cracking. "Let her go. If you harm her, I will burn this world until there is nothing left but ash."

"I know you will," the woman replied, her tone unimpressed. "That is why you are going to surrender."

She pressed the knife harder. Yaho whimpered, her eyes wide with terror.

"If you move a single muscle to attack," the woman continued, "I will sever her soul. You can resurrect bodies, Joseph, but you cannot bring back a soul that has been erased by the Void Dagger. She will be gone. Forever. No afterlife. No reincarnation. Just… nothing."

Joseph's breath hitched.

He looked at Yaho. He looked at the blade.

He knew the mechanics of the weapon. She wasn't lying. If Yaho died by that blade, not even his system, not even his title as the God Slayer, could bring her back.

"What do you want?" Joseph asked, his voice low and trembling.

"Kneel."

"Joseph, no!" Yaho screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Don't do it! They're going to kill you! Kill them! Just kill them all!"

Joseph looked at the woman holding Yaho. He looked at the dozens of other assassins surrounding them, their blades dripping with the permanent death of his friends.

Slowly, the Dragon Monarch deactivated his aura.

The terrifying pressure that kept the world in check vanished.

He bent his knees.

And he knelt in the dirt.

He raised his arms straight forward, palms open, exposing his chest. Exposing his heart.

"I surrender," Joseph said softly. "Let her go."

The woman in the mask chuckled. It was a dark, victorious sound.

"We will let her go. After we are done with you."

She nodded to the other assassins.

Five men stepped forward.

They didn't rush. They walked with the leisure of butchers approaching a tied pig.

"Joseph, please! Get up!" Yaho struggled, but the woman held her fast, forcing her to watch. "Look at him, Yaho. Look at your savior."

The first assassin stepped up to Joseph's left side. Without a word, he drove his dagger into Joseph's shoulder.

Joseph grunted, his body jerking, but he didn't pull away. He kept his eyes locked on Yaho's.

"Don't look," he mouthed to her.

But she couldn't look away.

The assassin twisted the blade. The unique property of the weapon didn't just cut flesh; it burned the spirit. It felt like molten lead being poured into his veins.

"You are durable," the assassin noted. "The blessing of the Dragons."

He pulled the knife out.

Almost instantly, steam rose from Joseph's shoulder. His cells, conditioned by years of absorbing high-tier mana and dragon blood, began to knit themselves back together. The wound closed in seconds.

The assassins laughed.

"Good," the woman said. "It would be a shame if it ended too quickly."

They descended on him like a pack of wolves.

One assassin grabbed Joseph's right hand. He placed the blade against the index finger and sliced.

The finger fell to the dirt.

Joseph clenched his jaw, sweat pouring down his face, but he didn't scream.

Steam rose. The finger began to regrow.

Slash.

They cut it off again.

And again.

And again.

They moved to his legs. With a sickening crunch, a blade severed his hamstring. Joseph collapsed forward, his face hitting the dust, but he pushed himself back up to his knees.

He had to show them he was compliant. He had to keep Yaho safe.

"Why aren't you fighting back?" Yaho screamed, her voice breaking into a guttural sob. "You're the strongest! You killed gods! Why are you letting them do this?!"

Because he loved her.

Because to the God Slayer, the pain of a thousand cuts was nothing compared to the silence of her soul ceasing to exist.

Minutes turned into an eternity.

The ground around Joseph was soaked in a pool of red. They flayed the skin from his back. They gouged out his eyes, only for them to regenerate moments later, forcing him to see his own mutilation.

Joseph's mind began to fracture.

He had turned off his Auto-Defense barriers. He had suppressed his instinctive counter-attacks. He was fighting his own body's survival instinct just to stay still and die.

"He is weakening," one assassin observed. "The regeneration is slowing down."

Joseph panted, his body a ruin of shredded meat and bone. He looked up through blood-matted hair.

"Let… her… go."

The woman with the female voice tilted her head.

"Finish it."

The lead assassin stepped directly in front of Joseph. He didn't aim for the throat or the head.

He placed the tip of his void blade directly over Joseph's heart.

Joseph took one last breath. He looked at Yaho, whose face was distorted with a horror that would never leave her.

"Live," he whispered.

The assassin thrust his hand forward.

The blade punched through the ribcage. The assassin didn't stop there; he shoved his entire hand into the open chest cavity, his fingers wrapping around the beating organ.

With a wet, sickening tear, he ripped it out.

Joseph's body jolted violently.

His eyes rolled back. The regeneration factor sputtered and died.

The greatest warrior humanity had ever known, the man who had defied the heavens, fell forward into the mud, a hollow hole in his chest.

He was dead.

"Joseph!!!"

The scream that tore from Yaho's throat was not human. It was the sound of a soul shattering.

In the distraction of the kill, the assassins relaxed. They had done the impossible.

Suddenly, a roar erupted from the pile of corpses.

A soldier, a young demon who had been playing dead, holding onto the last sliver of his life force, lunged not at the assassins, but at the woman holding Yaho.

He didn't have a weapon. He used his teeth.

He bit into the woman's arm, severing the tendon.

The woman shrieked, dropping the dagger.

"Run, My Lady! Run!" the soldier gargled as three blades immediately pierced his back.

Yaho didn't think. Instinct took over.

She scrambled away, sliding down the steep embankment of the ravine, tearing her dress, bruising her skin, disappearing into the thick, dark forest below.

"Let her go," the woman commanded, clutching her bleeding arm. "She is nothing without him. We have the prize."

She looked down at Joseph's corpse.

"The Gods will be pleased."

…

Hours later.

Night had fallen over the ravine. The moon was hidden behind thick, storm-laden clouds.

The assassins were gone. They had taken the heads of the demons, but they had left Joseph's body. The ritual to transport a vessel as powerful as his required preparations that would take until dawn.

Silence returned to the valley.

But then, the bushes rustled.

Yaho crawled out.

She was covered in mud and dried blood. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, the pupils dilated to the point where her eyes looked entirely black.

She crawled over the bodies of her friends until she reached him.

Joseph.

He lay there, pale and cold, the hole in his chest gaping open.

"Joseph…"

She touched his face. It was freezing. The warmth she had loved, the warmth that had saved her from the river all those years ago, was gone.

"They are coming back," she whispered to his corpse. "They want your body. They want to turn you into a trophy. Or worse… a weapon."

She shook her head violently.

"I won't let them. You belong to me. Only me."

A madness took root in her mind. A dark, desperate logic born of absolute grief.

If she buried him, they would dig him up. If she burned him, they would collect the ashes.

There was only one place they could never reach him.

Yaho opened her mouth.

She leaned down to his arm.

And she bit down.

It was tough. It was cold. But she tore a piece of his flesh away and swallowed it.

She ate.

She ate the flesh of the God Slayer. The flesh that had been saturated with the blood of dragons, the mana of demons, and the power of angels.

With every bite, her body began to convulse.

The mana inside Joseph's cells was too potent for a human. It should have killed her instantly. It should have exploded her heart.

But Yaho didn't die.

Her grief was so profound, her hatred so pure, that it twisted the mana.

It corrupted the Dragon Mana. It inverted the Divine Energy.

It turned into something black. Something heavy. Something that rejected the laws of the world.

Dead Mana.

As she consumed him, her hair turned from brown to a stark, lifeless white. Her eyes bled, the white sclera turning pitch black.

Power surged through her. Not the warm power of the sun, but the cold, suffocating power of the grave.

By the time the sun began to peek over the horizon, Joseph's body was gone.

And in his place sat a monster.

Footsteps approached.

The assassins returned, accompanied by a tall, glowing figure—a Low God who had come to collect the body.

"Where is he?" the God demanded, looking at the empty spot. "Where is the God Slayer?"

The white-haired woman sitting in the blood stood up.

She turned to face them.

The assassins froze. The air around her was rotting. The grass beneath her feet withered and turned to dust.

"He is here," Yaho whispered, touching her stomach. "And he is hungry."

She raised her hand.

A wave of black, necrotic energy exploded outward.

It washed over the assassins. They didn't even have time to scream. Their skin turned grey, then black, then crumbled into dust. Their souls were not sent to the afterlife; they were consumed by the void she had created.

The Low God gasped, his divine barrier shattering like glass.

"What… what are you?"

Yaho walked toward him. The god tried to move, but he was paralyzed by fear—a fear he had never felt before.

She grabbed the God by the throat. Her grip was stronger than steel.

"I am his grave," she hissed.

She squeezed.

The God's head popped.

She absorbed his divinity, twisting it into her own dark power.

That morning, Yaho died.

And Yahoshi, the Witch God of Evernight, was born.

[Memory Playback Ends.]

The darkness of the barrier returned.

Dorian sat in the boat, his hand clutching his chest.

He was silent.

The kind of silence that precedes a natural disaster.

He looked at Yahoshi. He saw the black hair. He saw the black eyes. He saw the monster she had become.

And for the first time, he didn't see a witch.

He saw the girl who had eaten her lover just to keep him safe.

"You ate me," Dorian whispered.

Yahoshi nodded, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"I kept you safe, Jacob. Inside me. Until the world was ready for you again."