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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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As Aslan and Ereta reached the forest and paused for a brief rest, the sun began its slow ascent, painting the eastern sky in hues of orange and pink.
A short respite, barely three hours, after a long night of searching and tracking. But it was enough for Aslan. And for Ereta, who had simply been following him, it was more than sufficient.
Ereta shrugged off her blanket, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, and looked up.
Aslan was perched in a tree, scanning the forest, his gaze following the trail.
The tracks led deeper into the forest, radiating a faint magical aura.
The same unsettling energy that emanated from the depths of the forest, a dark, ominous presence.
Aslan, a tired sigh escaping his lips, climbed down from the tree, his movements fluid and silent.
“You mentioned a… wild mage…? Do we really have to deal with them now?”
Ereta asked, rubbing her eyes. While she couldn’t sense mana, she could feel the ominous presence, a chilling premonition that settled deep within her bones.
They looked at the forest, the darkness beckoning, and spoke, their voices low.
“If we don’t deal with them now, they’ll only grow stronger.”
Aslan’s words were undeniable. Wild mages grew stronger with each passing day, their powers developing rapidly. Leaving them unchecked was a risk he couldn’t afford.
But Ereta had a different perspective.
“…Did you know there’s a shrine of the Fated of the Universe on the edge of this continent?”
Aslan nodded. The shrine was located on a peninsula on the eastern edge of the Vida Kingdom.
“Their territory extends throughout the Vida Kingdom. This forest… is within their domain. I believe it would be more efficient… to let this wild mage be, to simply bypass them.”
Aslan listened patiently, his gaze fixed on Ereta, even though he had anticipated her suggestion.
“If we leave the wild mage alone, they’re bound to clash with my former colleagues. I don’t know how powerful they’ll become, but I do know that the Order will suffer losses trying to subdue them.”
A wild mage who could manipulate souls. Even ordinary wild mages were incredibly dangerous and had to be dealt with swiftly. This particular wild mage posed a significant threat, even to priests.
That was Ereta’s point.
“We can weaken the Fated of the Universe without risking ourselves. Wouldn’t that be more efficient?”
It was a logical, reasonable suggestion. One that Aslan might have considered under different circumstances. He nodded.
“It would be more efficient. But I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long way from this forest to that peninsula. There are villages, towns, travelers… If we let them go, countless people will die, their souls… desecrated.”
Ereta couldn’t understand his reasoning.
“We have to kill them now.”
“And what if you die trying? If you die trying to save a few… insignificant lives… you’ll never achieve your goal.”
Her voice was cold, almost clinical. Aslan turned to look at her.
His gaze was neutral, devoid of judgment.
That was Ereta.
Undeniably a villain, her time as a priest having instilled in her a casual disregard for life. But a villain, not an evil god.
Aslan didn’t have the right to judge her.
He was just a human, a man from Earth trying to get home.
He wanted to punish the evil gods, to destroy them, not because he was righteous, but because if he didn’t do it, no one would.
It was his responsibility, a duty he had taken upon himself, to avenge those who had been wronged, those who had suffered at the hands of the gods.
But Ereta…
He hadn’t offered her forgiveness, or redemption.
She was a villain, and she would likely remain one.
But that wasn’t his reason for fighting her.
He would kill her if she attacked him, would stop her if she tried to harm others, but he wouldn’t waste his precious strength on punishing her, not now.
He needed to gather allies, regardless of their morality, to fight the gods, beings whose actions defied human comprehension.
Ereta’s punishment, her atonement, could wait.
Aslan stepped towards her. Ereta, realizing the implications of her words, flinched, her body tensing. Seeing his hand reaching out, she closed her eyes.
She braced herself for a blow, a flicker of anticipation in her eyes. Aslan’s hand gently rested on her shoulder.
“…”
Ereta opened her eyes, and Aslan, his gaze meeting hers, spoke softly,
“You’re right. It would be more efficient. I know that. I’ve considered it.”
“Then…”
“But the path I’m walking… isn’t about efficiency. You know that, don’t you? It’s… impossible.”
Ereta couldn’t argue with that. His goal, to kill the gods, did seem impossible.
“Do you know what it takes to walk an impossible path? It’s not efficiency. It’s the small struggles, the constant effort, the attention to detail, the unwavering focus.”
Aslan’s hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek, his touch gentle. Ereta’s eyes flickered.
“I’m going to kill all the gods. I’m going to change the world. And I can’t afford to take the easy way out, not even against a single wild mage.”
He patted her cheek lightly, then withdrew his hand.
“I’ve accepted my burden. I’ve chosen to fight. So you don’t have to worry. …But thank you… for your honesty.”
Ereta touched her cheek, her expression dazed. She understood him a little better now.
While she couldn’t comprehend his motivations, his moral compass was clearly different, unique, unlike anything she had encountered in this world.
She realized, a moment too late, that he was walking towards the forest.
“Ah…”
She murmured, and Aslan turned to look at her.
“What are you planning to do?”
He had said he would kill the wild mage. But he wouldn’t just charge in blindly. He would have a plan.
“I’m going to talk to them first.”
Ereta blinked, surprised, and Aslan smiled.
It wasn’t unusual for these seemingly simple “side quests” to have hidden depths, unforeseen consequences.
Every action had a reaction.
And as a gamer, Aslan understood that.
So, talking to the wild mage first was the logical first step.
He entered the forest, Ereta following close behind.
The deeper they went, the stronger the magical aura became.
So strong, in fact, that its source began to manifest.
Wraiths, or rather, wraith-like creatures, formed from souls and infused with mana.
Aslan watched them, lurking in the shadows, their gazes fixed on him and Ereta, as he continued deeper into the forest.
The trees grew twisted and gnarled, their branches intertwined, forming an unnatural canopy that obscured the sunlight, creating pockets of deep shadow. The forest, despite the bright sun above, was strangely dark.
Aslan, following the trail, finally reached his destination.
A clearing in the heart of the forest, dominated by a grotesquely twisted tree, its branches spiraling outwards, its bark scarred and gnarled. And standing beneath it, a Giant.
It had four arms.
Each arm, long and spindly, was twisted at an unnatural angle, twitching and spasming.
Its hands, if they could be called that, each had twelve fingers and were covered in bluish boils.
Its torso was even more grotesque, with six breasts oozing pus, the viscous fluid pooling on the ground.
Its legs were bent and twisted, making them seem shorter than they actually were. But its head, despite its deformed lower body, was the most disturbing part.
Four eyes, two in their sockets, two embedded in its forehead, rolled and twitched, leaking bloody tears.
Aslan, sensing the potent magical aura emanating from the creature, knew it was the wild mage.
A Giant wild mage. A rare occurrence.
Giants rarely produced mages, but it wasn’t impossible. This was simply the first time he had seen one.
Aslan, after a moment of contemplation, addressed the deformed Giant.
“I’m Aslan. I’ve come to see you at the request of the Giants.”
The Giant didn’t reply, its eyes simply rolling in their sockets. Aslan tried again.
“Can we talk? I don’t want to hurt you.”
Still no response. The Giant took a step towards him, a faint killing intent radiating from its massive form.
Aslan frowned, then drew his sword, the blade appearing in his hand as if by magic, its tip pointed at the giant, now towering over him, its height well over four meters.
“No room for negotiation, then.”
The blade shimmered, a white light emanating from its surface. The pure, divine energy of the Grief Goddess, an energy that could burn even souls, flowed from the blade. The deformed Giant paused.
“Mother?”
Now it was Aslan’s turn to be startled. He frowned, about to question the creature, to ask what it meant by “Mother,”
But before he could speak, his enhanced Luck, his heightened intuition, made him pause.
A chilling sensation, emanating from the deformed Giant.
A familiar sensation, a feeling he had encountered before.
He stared at the Giant, and then he realized.
The energy was similar to the energy within the sword he held, the pure, divine energy of the Old Gods.
‘Could it be…?’
Aslan, a flicker of disbelief, then horror, in his eyes, asked,
“What’s… your name?”
The deformed Giant, its four eyes rolling wildly, finally spoke, its voice a garbled mess, thick with phlegm.
“Burial… God… of… Burial…”
The God of Burial.
A minor deity, one of the lesser Old Gods, not one of the principal gods that ruled Gelladrion.
Minor gods, with limited power and small domains, had been slaughtered after the fall of the Old Gods.
Some had been devoured by priests and monsters, others killed by humans.
Aslan, despite his shock, understood.
The God of Burial, a minor Old God, had possessed this Giant wild mage.
He had to ask.
“What… happened to you?”
How had a god, a divine being, ended up in the body of a Giant, a wild mage, a creator of wraiths?
The God of Burial, its eyes rolling wildly, haltingly explained.
Its words were slurred, difficult to understand, but Aslan patiently pieced together the story.
And the story wasn’t much different from what he already knew.
The God of Burial had been killed by a Giant.
A long time ago, but the Old God before him had died.
Should have died.
But somehow, it had survived, its essence lingering, able to possess another being.
And now, trapped in this body, it sought revenge.
The raw hatred in its broken words made Aslan wince, a wave of sadness washing over him.
The consequences of the gods’ actions, their disregard for mortal lives. It was a tragedy, even if it had happened long ago. He couldn’t dismiss the Old God’s pain, its resentment.
“Is there… anything I can do… to help?”
The deformed Giant slowly shook its head.
“Mother… happy… to see you… Want… nothing…”
He couldn’t tell her she wasn’t his mother, but he understood.
This Old God, having gained an understanding of souls, could now perceive and understand the souls of others.
And the divine energy within Purity, the energy of the Grief Goddess, would resonate with this fallen deity, a symbol of motherhood, of connection.
That’s why it saw him as its mother.
Aslan sighed, then offered a suggestion.
“…Then why not… reclaim your wraiths and live among the Giants? The Giants who killed you… they’re long dead. The current generation… they don’t know what happened. They would… welcome you. They’re simple creatures.”
In fact, they would likely be pleased by the presence of an Old God, a being of divine power. Giants, after all, were creations of the Old Gods.
But the deformed Giant, the wild mage, the minor deity, frowned at his suggestion, its mangled face somehow capable of expressing emotion.
“No…”
“…Why?”
Aslan asked, even though he knew the answer. He hoped, against all hope, that it might be different.
But its answer, as he expected, was swift and predictable.
“They… must… die… Kill… them… all… Humans… Giants… all…”
Aslan closed his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips.
He felt a pang of sorrow, watching a minor deity, a victim of circumstance, consumed by hatred, transformed into an evil god. He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting the creature’s.
“Your anger… your hatred… it’s all valid. Justified. But…”
He raised his sword, its tip pointed at the monstrous being, and it stumbled back.
“What you’re doing is wrong. You’re an evil god.”
“Evil… god…”
The words echoed, a broken record repeating itself. Its eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. Aslan reached for the axe at his back.
“I’ve decided… I won’t spare any of the evil gods. I have to kill them all.”
–Click.
He drew the axe, spinning it in his hand, then adjusted his grip on the sword in his right hand, pointing it at the creature. The wraiths surrounding them were reflected in the gleaming blade.
“So… I have to kill you.”
His voice was calm, his declaration unwavering. The minor deity, the God of Burial, was stunned.
Its mother, telling it she would kill it. The chilling certainty in her voice, the undeniable killing intent.
It felt sadness.
But the sadness, the shock, was fleeting, quickly replaced by a surge of hatred and resentment.
Hatred for the mother who hadn’t saved it.
Resentment for the world that had wronged it, that had abused and discarded it.
Its eyes rolled wildly, tears of blood streaming down its mangled face, mingling with the dark streaks of dried blood. Then,
“Dieeeeeeee!”
The minor deity charged.
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