PSW Chapter 27: He Came from the Abyss
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At the night banquet, Bastet once again witnessed the same scene as before.
A group of senior ministers took the lead, chatting enthusiastically with the other officials. Meanwhile, at the head seat just a few meters away, Yofar sat alone—once again, the isolated ruler.
In the eyes of the old ministers, Yofar had seized the throne through bloodshed. He had never earned their recognition, making him nothing more than an illegitimate ruler in their view.
To them, he lacked respect for his ministers, governed with ruthless brutality, and had no qualities they found satisfactory.
They feared him, resented him, and despised him.
At first, they tried to deal with him using the 'traditional' methods they had used against kings they disliked—ignoring his commands, openly defying him.
But they paid a steep price.
The merciless new king wasted no time—he poisoned the most rebellious ones overnight.
The remaining high-ranking ministers were utterly terrified.
Though they appeared to have learned their lesson, in truth, their pride and arrogance as power-holders remained intact. They refused to bow to Yofar, so instead, they found other ways to undermine him.
They acted much like cliques in modern schools or offices.
Since they couldn't fight him head-on, they resorted to underhanded tactics.
What, you're mad we won’t include you?
They isolated him, ignored him, and treated him with cold hostility.
And every now and then, whenever he made a proposal or spoke, they would sneer, throw in a sarcastic remark, or nitpick at his words—just enough to frustrate and disgust him.
If Yofar were proud and strong-willed, he might have clashed with his ministers. That would have given them the perfect excuse to label him as a tyrant, violent, and cruel.
If he chose to endure their treatment and not fight back, the old ministers would be even more pleased—because that would mean they had won.
So what if he was a great warrior?
So what if he expanded and stabilized Egypt?
When it came to governing a nation and playing political games, he was nothing but a novice!
Of course, there were neutral officials and some hidden supporters of the new king who wanted to speak up for him. But the leading old ministers had considerable influence in the court, having brought up many of the current officials as their protégés.
Pulling out one weed meant disturbing the entire garden—anyone who went against them would face ostracization and sabotage from most of the ruling class.
Who would dare speak up for the new king?
Perhaps this was why...
They had gotten used to ignoring the new king, used to underestimating him, and so none of them noticed that something was very, very wrong.
Bastet was not clueless. In its past life, it had been a working-class citizen in human society. It understood what it meant to kill without shedding blood. Even if it didn’t grasp the full details, it could guess well enough.
There were upright and principled scholars.
And there were also those whose intelligence only made them more devious.
Even back at the research institute, there had been small cliques—and within those cliques, separate two-person private chat groups!
Bastet was both impressed by Yofar’s advantage and felt sorry for him.
The little black cat tilted its head up, its green eyes filled with sympathy as it gazed at its owner.
Only to find Yofar staring coldly at the ministers below, his deep blue eyes holding a dark and ominous glint. His handsome face was blank and frigid, faintly exuding a murderous aura—like a wolf lurking in the shadows.
With two armored fingers, he casually pinched the rim of his goblet, raising it elegantly to his lips. He took slow, deliberate sips of wine.
Bastet’s sympathy faded into silence, and then into admiration:
Damn… Good looks are just unfair! Even from this angle, his chin and nostrils are flawless!
Bastet thought to itself: I can’t keep looking at him. The longer I look, the more my brain keeps going ‘Ah~ Oppa, fuck me!’
It chuckled inwardly.
I wonder what kind of woman Yofar will marry in the future? If Bastet had been this attractive in its past life, it would have spent hours staring at itself in the mirror every day.
After all, Egypt had produced several famous queens and royal consorts throughout history. Bastet had seen many stunning Egyptian women—there was no shortage of them in the palace. They were sensual, exotic beauties.
Just like the dancers performing now.
Bastet turned its gaze toward the scantily clad, gorgeously painted women. They twirled gracefully around the ministers, their movements sinuous, eyes brimming with seduction. As they spun, the thin fabric of their costumes lifted, revealing tantalizing curves.
Bastet’s green eyes widened in shock.
It quickly coughed and looked away, its furry face heating up.
Must not stare, must not stare!
Hugging its tail, the little black cat chuckled, “Meow~” Men, huh? If Yofar ends up with a wife like that, he’ll be pretty—
"Clang—"
A sharp metallic scrape rang through the air.
The sudden sound of a blade being drawn pierced Bastet’s sensitive ears, making its fur stand on end!
The black cat leaped up instinctively. But Yofar’s sword was even faster!
Bastet froze.
Everything unfolded before its wide green eyes, as though captured in slow motion.
A flash of steel.
A beautiful dancer clutching her throat, half her neck sliced open, blood gushing like a fountain—
With feline vision six to eight times sharper than a human’s, Bastet could see it all in excruciating detail.
The dancer’s twisted, contorted expression of agony.
The madness in her eyes.
The splattering crimson droplets, flung across the table, staining the roasted meat like a gruesome sauce before splashing outward again.
Yofar, too, was drenched in blood.
Tiny crimson beads slid down the tips of his platinum-blonde hair, leaving a streak of red across his cold, handsome face.
And Bastet—sitting right beside him—was doused in the blood dripping from his armor.
"Drip. Drip."
The liquid was thick. Warm.
The first few drops bounced off its fur, but the rest soaked into its face.
Human blood.
This was different from eating raw venison.
This was human blood.
The metallic tang filled its nostrils, and suddenly, Bastet gagged, vomiting on the spot!
It didn’t understand.
Wasn’t Yofar supposed to be the one cleaning up the ministers?
Then why was he the one being attacked?!
The dancer who had been flirting with Yofar just moments ago was dead.
But she was merely a signal.
All at once, the remaining dancers pulled out thin needles from their waistbands, lunging toward Yofar. Some targeted other ministers nearby.
The older officials had no chance to react.
Within seconds, they were lifeless corpses.
The younger ones—especially the former generals—managed to resist or flee.
But these women were not ordinary dancers.
They were highly trained assassins, their movements as fluid as their seductive performances had been.
"Aahhh—!"
"Guards! Assassins—assassins!"
"Help me, help me! I can't die, I—ahhh—!"
The once lively banquet was now filled with ear-piercing screams.
The ordinary dancers, along with the terrified musicians, shrieked in panic and scattered in all directions—only to be mercilessly skewered by the royal guards who stormed into the hall.
The guards were not to be trifled with.
Aside from the first assassin who had attacked, Yofar had not even moved. His ornate ceremonial sword had already been returned to its sheath. Without needing his command, his guards had surrounded him and swiftly exterminated the remaining female assassins who had lunged at him.
The ministers who had been chased by the assassins quickly realized the strength of the royal guards. Overcome with panic and hope, they desperately rushed toward safety, their faces twisted in fear and desperation.
"Save me! Kill these assassins! I am—"
"Splat!"
A minister froze in place.
Slowly, he looked down at his chest—where a spear had pierced straight through him.
His eyes widened in disbelief as blood soaked through his robes.
His mouth opened and closed, as if trying to speak, but no words came out.
One by one, the ministers who had run forward for help collapsed—struck down by the very guards they had sought protection from.
Only a few managed to evade death, slipping behind the guards and standing at Yofar’s side.
Their faces were deathly pale, yet there was a strange sense of relief in their eyes—like they had expected this all along.
The remaining old ministers hesitated, their expressions complex, their eyelids twitching violently. It was clear they had finally realized what was happening.
"You traitors… Yofar, you beast! You patricidal, matricidal monster! How dare you?! HOW DARE YOU—"
The enraged elder roared his curses, only to be slaughtered by an assassin in the blink of an eye.
One by one, the ministers fell.
One by one, their wails echoed through the banquet hall.
Bastet, who had just begun to recover, trembled violently before quickly averting its gaze. Instinctively, it searched for Yofar.
Yofar had already settled back into his seat.
He sat there alone, just as he had when the ministers ostracized him. His long lashes drooped slightly, his golden eyes half-lidded, but the corners of his lips curled high into a chilling smile…
As the ministers’ desperate screams filled the air, he leisurely removed his finger rings.
Then, as if enjoying a fine performance, he picked up a piece of roasted meat—now drenched in "sauce"—and placed it into his mouth.
He chewed slowly, savoring it with a sip of wine, all while watching the ministers die with the same pleasure one might have when admiring a breathtaking view.
His soft pink lips, now stained with crimson, contrasted against his cold, flawless face—like a pure, ethereal being suddenly grinning ear to ear, revealing grotesque, bloodthirsty fangs.
A god fallen from grace. A monster who crawled from the abyss.
His gaze was terrifying—so terrifying that Bastet had the eerie illusion that Yofar was truly feasting on the ministers, biting into their flesh and swallowing them whole.
Bastet knew then: it would never forget this scene for the rest of its life.
"Save me! SAVE ME!"
The hoarse, desperate cry jolted Bastet from its daze. It turned its head in a panic.
An old minister, one that looked vaguely familiar, was scrambling forward, crawling on all fours, his hands reaching toward Yofar in desperation.
Only then did Bastet recognize him—one of the elders who had once demanded Yofar punish it during the cat god coronation.
Tears and snot streamed down the old man’s face as he wailed, "I surrender! I was wrong! My king, my king! Please, please spare me!"
His cries were so wretched that Bastet couldn’t help but tremble.
It turned to Yofar, hesitated, and let out a soft, pleading, "Meow~"
Yofar… He’s already so old.
Maybe… Maybe just imprison him? Or at least grant him a swift death—spare him from such torment…
"Hah—"
Yofar suddenly inhaled sharply, causing Bastet to freeze mid-thought.
Then, to its shock, he raised a hand, loosely clenched into a fist, and pressed it against his blood-stained lips.
A muffled, uncontrollable chuckle escaped him.
"Pfft—hahaha—"
"Hahahaha—!"
"……"
His laughter was as melodious as always, but it grew increasingly twisted, increasingly deranged—so much so that it sent chills down everyone’s spine.
He was—
A madman.
Bastet shuddered violently, feeling something cold and slimy slither into its bones like maggots burrowing into flesh. It made it want to retch.
At that moment, it wasn’t just Bastet.
Even the ministers who had chosen to stand by Yofar’s side were trembling at his laughter.
A single thought surfaced in their minds—
Run.
Immediately.
NOW.
For this was the instinct of all humans when faced with a monster.
—
But Bastet did not escape.
It was scooped up by Yofar, cradled in his lap as he gently wiped away the drying blood from its fur with a soft linen cloth.
"Look how dirty you are. Didn’t I tell you to hide?" Yofar’s tone was light, carrying a hint of amusement—just like when he was in a good mood and stroked its fur.
"Don’t move. Let me clean you up."
He wiped carefully. When the cloth was soaked through with red, he discarded it. Then, he placed both hands under Bastet’s front paws, lifting it up until they were at eye level.
Bastet sat there, stiff, ears twitching uncontrollably as it listened to the sickening sound of flesh being hacked apart and the old man’s pitiful wails.
The sapphire-like facets of Yofar’s pupils reflected the small, black cat before him.
Meanwhile, Bastet’s jade-green eyes were clouded with a thin layer of mist.
Its vision blurred as the moisture seeped into the fur around its eyes, leaving damp streaks…
"Are you crying?" Yofar murmured, voice gentle as he lowered his head to place a soft kiss upon its trembling eyes.
Bastet flinched violently, clamping its tail between its legs and squeezing its eyes shut.
But no pain followed.
The man-eating demon had no intention of eating cats.
"It’s alright."
His velvety voice whispered beside its ear.
"Don’t be afraid. Stay with me and watch until the end."
With that, he pulled Bastet back into his embrace, smiling as he continued to admire the hellscape before him.
Bastet buried its face into his chest, shivering violently.
It no longer had the courage to lift its head.
—
Bastet didn’t know how the night ended.
All it knew was that later, Nephthys told it everything:
The assassins had been deliberately allowed into the palace under Yofar’s orders. They were remnants of enemy nations—and scapegoats for the massacre.
The moment every minister on Yofar’s death list had fallen, the royal guards swiftly eliminated the assassins.
And that very night, men loyal to Yofar infiltrated the homes of the marked ministers.
Their private armies, their families, their wealth—
Everything was set ablaze, reduced to nothing but ashes.
—
Two weeks passed.
Only after ensuring everything was properly arranged did Yofar allow news of the incident to spread.
Thus, what should have been recorded as a blood-soaked slaughter—where a king butchered his own ministers—became nothing more than a brief footnote in history.
A trivial detail.
A mere assassination attempt against the legendary Egyptian Conqueror King—
Yofar Memphis II.
—
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