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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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As Aslan departed, the followers of the Formless One swarmed into the now empty space. They formed a dense, impenetrable wall, completely blocking any escape.
Niel, clutching his slowly healing wounds, pushed himself upright.
‘Too many.’
There were far too many of them. And it wasn’t just their numbers; they were organized, like an army.
Creatures clearly capable of ranged attacks held the rear, while heavily armored, durable-looking monsters formed a silent front line.
The creatures advanced, their footsteps echoing like a slow, ominous drumbeat. Niel felt the ground tremble beneath him.
“Devourer of All…”
He instinctively prayed to his god, the sheer scale of the enemy overwhelming him. He knew his faith and power alone wouldn’t be enough. He drew the flail from his belt.
–Clink, clank.
The four heads of the unique weapon swung loosely, their metal surfaces stained green, coated in a thick layer of poison.
Niel spun the flail, his eyes darting around, assessing the situation.
Their numbers were overwhelming, their formation solid. He couldn’t possibly break through with just strength and poison.
If only he had some followers left… but they were all gone.
“Niel! Priest Niel!”
As he braced himself for a final, desperate stand, a voice called out from behind him. He glanced back. The mage Aslan had dismissed as insignificant sat there.
He was a figure of some renown within the Calus Empire, having served under the War God.
While his magical abilities weren’t exceptional, they were competent enough to earn him a reputation.
If he hadn’t been serving the War God, a deity known for its poor treatment of mages, he likely would have become a priest long ago.
Cornil Ashuld, the fallen Emperor’s hound, his eyes gleaming, spoke to Niel.
“I’ll help you. Let me fight alongside you!”
Niel looked at him suspiciously.
“What’s your angle, Cornil Ashuld?”
He asked, taking a step back. The monsters were closing in, emerging from the broken walls of the warehouse.
“Angle? What angle could I possibly have? What do you lose by freeing me? Let me go, and I can help you with my magic!”
“…What kind of magic can you use?”
“Most of the lightning spells from the Manifestation school. Everything except the highest level!”
Niel considered his offer, his suspicion waning slightly.
Freeing Cornil Ashuld posed no direct threat to him.
In fact, it might even be advantageous. Cornil was a pure mage, his body frail, lacking even the partial transformation of a follower. He couldn’t possibly escape this encirclement on his own.
The most obvious benefit was Cornil’s magical support.
Magic wasn’t something to be underestimated. It was one of the most potent legacies left behind by the Old Gods.
And magic was effective against priests and followers alike. It would likely work against the followers of the Formless One as well.
There wasn’t much time to deliberate. If Cornil betrayed him after being freed, he would simply die a little sooner. If he didn’t free him, nothing would change.
Niel made his decision and reached for the chains.
–Snap! Clank!
With his enhanced priestly strength, he tore the chains apart. The broken links clattered to the floor like falling rain. Cornil pointed to his neck.
“Hold your breath.”
Niel used poison on the restraining collar. He spat a corrosive, acid-like venom onto his hand and rubbed it onto the metal. The acrid smell of melting metal filled the air as the collar broke and fell to the ground.
–Clatter!
“Phew, that’s better.”
Cornil rubbed his neck and stood up. Niel watched him warily, spinning his flail.
“Don’t look at me like that. If we want to get out of here alive, we have to fight together.”
Cornil, sensing Niel’s lingering suspicion, put on a look of feigned annoyance and began channeling his mana.
He formed hand signs, chanting the incantation.
Golden lightning crackled between his hands, illuminating the dimly lit warehouse. Cornil spoke nonchalantly.
“Do you have a plan?”
“A plan? How could I? I don’t even know what you’re capable of. We’ll just have to fight our way out.”
The flail heads whistled through the air as Niel spun the weapon faster. Cornil nodded.
The enemy outnumbered them greatly. All they had was a wounded priest and a newly freed mage. Their chances were slim. But neither of them wanted to die without a fight.
“Alright then… I’ll take the flank!”
Niel roared, swinging his flail at the approaching followers of the Formless One. Lightning erupted from Cornil Ashuld’s hands.
As the lightning scorched the creatures, Niel followed up with brutal strikes from his flail.
Cornil unleashed spell after spell until his mana ran dry. Niel fought desperately, spitting poison and tearing at the enemy with his bare hands even as his own limbs were torn apart.
Their desperate struggle lasted for about thirty minutes.
They fought to survive, and they died fighting.
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Outside the warehouse, where the sounds of battle had finally ceased, the soldiers waited, their faces tense, their eyes darting nervously towards the warehouse entrance.
Aslan and his companions stood among them.
The soldiers and the Duke had come at Aslan’s request.
The promise of eliminating the Formless One’s followers, the creatures that had been plaguing the city, in one fell swoop, had been too tempting to refuse.
And it was their city, their responsibility. They couldn’t stand idly by.
But duty and anxiety were two different things. The sounds from within the warehouse – the screams, the explosions of lightning – had frayed their nerves.
Many of the soldiers’ hands trembled as they gripped their weapons.
In the center of the formation, Duke Helsingor stared anxiously at the warehouse, then turned to Aslan, who stood alone, having sent his companions on an errand.
“Are you certain the Formless One is in there?”
Aslan didn’t even turn his head.
“Yes, Your Grace. They’re inside. The fighting should be over by now. All we need to do is deal with any stragglers that come out. Simple.”
His voice was calm, unwavering, his confidence absolute. The Duke gripped the hilt of his sword, murmuring uneasily.
“…I don’t doubt you, but how can you be so sure?”
The Duke was a shrewd man, skilled in politics and administration, but not in matters of direct combat.
He was a ruler, accustomed to delegating tasks to his subordinates, to finding the right person for the job.
But the expert he had entrusted with hunting the Formless One was dead. So now, he stood here, surrounded by soldiers, his heart filled with apprehension.
What if something unexpected happened? What if he died here?
“Because this is how it always goes.”
Aslan replied casually, as if discussing the weather. His confidence was unnerving, like that of a woodsman heading out for a day’s work, or a farmer tending his fields.
He was the Master of Battle. There was no one in this world more skilled in the art of combat, the science of victory.
He was certain his plan would succeed.
He believed the Formless One’s priest would manifest within the warehouse.
And just as he expected, the ground began to tremble.
–Rumble…
Amidst the tremors, faint screams and monstrous roars echoed from within the warehouse.
Then came the sound of shattering wood and stone.
“L-look…!”
One of the soldiers shouted, pointing towards the warehouse. Something burst through the roof.
It was a pillar.
A pillar that stretched towards the sky, impossibly tall.
A pillar constructed of bone, muscle, and viscera. Even if it were smaller, the sight would have been nauseating. It writhed and pulsed as it reached towards the heavens.
“Aaaaagh!”
Splintered planks from the warehouse roof rained down on the soldiers, who cried out in fear, shielding their heads, their gazes fixed on the grotesque pillar rising before them.
Panic spread through the ranks like wildfire.
Aslan, standing amidst the chaos, calmly observed the pillar.
‘Just as expected.’
He was slightly surprised that the Formless One’s priest matched the description he had been given so perfectly.
Gods’ appearances and names were often misinterpreted or distorted by mortals. Their true names were often lost to time, their descriptions inaccurate.
The same often applied to their priests. Aslan hadn’t fully trusted the information Niel had provided about the Formless One’s priest.
But the creature before him matched the description exactly.
While other gods’ appearances were often misrepresented, this one was accurate.
‘Perhaps the information about its true form is accurate as well.’
A colossal, planet-sized organism. Aslan considered the possibility as he drew the axe from his back.
“H-how can this be…? Aslan! What are you…?”
The Duke stammered, seeing Aslan prepare for battle. Aslan, his eyes fixed on the warehouse, replied,
“This is necessary. To eradicate them completely, this is the only way.”
“What do you mean…?”
The Duke pressed for an explanation, but Aslan was already reviewing his plan, visualizing the coming battle.
The Formless One’s goal was to expand its influence. To do that, it needed a priest.
But its priests were vulnerable, easily dispatched by even a couple of ordinary priests. That’s why it had sent its followers to eliminate the competition first.
Despite the heavy losses, the Formless One hadn’t given up. It had continued to send its followers, relentlessly attacking.
Aslan realized that unless the Formless One itself gave up, the attacks would never stop.
It was a god, after all. Its power was practically limitless.
Engaging in a war of attrition against a being with infinite resources was a losing proposition.
So Aslan sought a faster, more decisive solution.
He focused on the fact that the Formless One was clearing Kardi to create its priest.
If its power was limitless, why not simply create countless priests?
There had to be a reason, some limitation.
And that realization offered a path to victory.
Let it create its priest. And then destroy it.
If that didn’t deter it, he would destroy the next one, and the next.
To ensure its defeat, Aslan had subtly manipulated events, guiding the Formless One’s plan.
He needed a specific ingredient.
Someone who was already a priest, or had been a priest, wouldn’t work.
Nor would someone whose death would significantly impact the world. It had to be someone whose quests were already completed, someone insignificant.
And someone who knew enough about the Formless One to survive the initial contact.
And such a person was readily available, conveniently imprisoned within the warehouse.
Not a priest, not a follower, with only a couple of minor side quests remaining.
Cornil Ashuld.
His experience serving the War God, his familiarity with priests, made him resistant to the mental assault that accompanied the Formless One’s ‘contact’.
Fortunately, everything had gone according to Aslan’s plan. Cornil Ashuld had become the Formless One’s priest.
He had gained the power he craved. He had become a priest.
Whether it was the kind of power he had envisioned was irrelevant. Aslan suppressed a wry smile, drew his axe, and pulled the sword from the Duke’s scabbard.
The Duke gasped, startled, as Aslan spun the blade in his hand.
“Wait… you…”
“Borrowing this.”
A finely crafted curved sword. Aslan examined it for a moment, then touched the flat of the blade to his forehead.
Only one thing remained.
To kill the priest.
Something he had done countless times before.
‘Purity.’
He closed his eyes, whispering the name, and the sword erupted in white light.
Beyond the blade’s blinding glow, he saw them, swirling shadows materializing in the air.
Countless followers of the Formless One.
Aslan glared at them, raising his sword.
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