Surviving the Evil Gods – Chapter 17

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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Cornil Ashuld nervously chewed on his fingernails.

The mages around him shared his anxiety, but the overall mood of the procession was surprisingly calm.

Most of the group were soldiers, oblivious to the true reason for Cornil’s apprehension. And then there was Aslan’s presence.

Cornil glanced at Aslan, positioned near the center of the group, then resumed his nervous chewing.

‘Damn it, when are they going to arrive?’

The source of Cornil’s anxiety lay outside the procession.

He believed he had no way to control Aslan.

Aslan was powerful, and to make matters worse, he was traveling with the vestige of the Old Gods.

Attempting to subdue them with just soldiers and mages, without the help of War Monks, would be suicide.

Cornil preferred to betray them when he had the upper hand. He had sent numerous messages to the Imperial City, requesting the assistance of War Monks.

Twelve messages so far, and not a single War Monk had arrived.

Aslan, meanwhile, was growing irritated by the same lack of response.

‘There should have been at least one or two War Monks by now… it’s strangely quiet.’

Based on his experience, both in the game and in Gelladrion, Aslan had anticipated encountering War Monks. He had even formulated a plan.

But the War Monks were nowhere to be seen.

He wasn’t panicking, though. Unforeseen circumstances were within the realm of possibility.

The absence of War Monks could only mean one thing.

‘The other priests are making their move. Sooner than I expected.’

The other gods and their priests were mobilizing, keeping the War God in check. Perhaps they were even clashing directly, engaged in a bloody conflict.

That’s why Aslan wasn’t concerned, even though things weren’t going exactly according to plan.

The more priests involved, the better. And if they were killing each other, even better.

If they were too busy fighting amongst themselves to pay attention to him, it would make his own movements easier.

While some adjustments to his plan were necessary, this unexpected development presented an opportunity.

Aslan was lost in thought, his hand resting on his sword hilt, when one of the soldiers pulling a cart called out to him.

“Master!”

Aslan snapped out of his reverie, his thoughts coalescing into a plan.

He turned, a little slowly, to look at the soldier.

The soldier, unfazed by the delay, smiled warmly.

“Are you tired? There’s room on the cart. Why don’t you ride with us?”

“Ah, no thank you. I prefer to walk. Keeps my senses sharp.”

Aslan declined with a wave of his hand. The soldier smiled sheepishly, looking slightly disappointed.

Aslan turned to Angie, who was walking beside him.

“What about you? He seems eager to give you a ride.”

“Me?”

Angie blinked her golden eyes, then shook her head.

“I don’t need a ride.”

Her tone was dismissive, almost childishly defiant, as if she was trying to prove her independence.

Aslan chuckled at her puffed-up pride. The soldier, noticing her reaction, smiled.

“That’s a shame! If you change your mind, just let me know!”

Angie gave a curt nod, and the soldier, seemingly unfazed by her aloofness, hurried forward, disappearing into the crowd of soldiers.

As the procession stretched out, Aslan noticed the mages casting resentful glances in his direction. Glances filled with a mixture of animosity and fear, quickly averted when he met their eyes.

Aslan sensed two conflicting emotions flowing through the procession.

His efforts to gain favor with the soldiers hadn’t been in vain.

While not entirely calculated, his actions, both genuine and strategic, had painted him in a positive light.

Even the meaning of the title “Emperor’s assassin” was beginning to shift among the soldiers.

They had heard whispers of the circumstances surrounding the assassination.

He killed the Emperor to protect a child.

While a shocking act to the nobles, it didn’t resonate as strongly with the common soldiers.

Emperors and nobles were all the same to them – distant figures of authority.

His image management had been effective. The soldiers treated him with casual familiarity.

‘They’ll spread that image in the capital as well.’

Two weeks had passed since they left the Scholunkund Barony, traveling through the Ashuld Barony.

It was time to consider the effects of his preemptive measures.

Aslan believed they would be effective, even if not dramatically so.

Everything was going according to plan. Aslan, his thoughts now organized, refocused on his surroundings. The front of the procession was growing noisy.

“What’s going on?”

Angie frowned, irritated by the commotion, but no one offered an explanation. The procession slowed to a halt, and then, something approached.

Cavalry.

A group of over twenty riders thundered towards them, splitting into two flanks and converging on Aslan.

‘So this is how it’s going to be?’

Aslan smirked, recognizing the insignia on the cavalry’s armor.

As the soldiers murmured nervously, the cavalry surrounded Aslan.

They stopped just outside the reach of the soldiers’ weapons, a perfect distance for a cavalry charge.

Aslan’s smirk faded as he calmly observed the riders, his earlier amusement replaced by a quiet understanding.

A knight emerged from the ranks of the cavalry.

His gleaming armor was the color of dark ink, and the spear he held shimmered with a similar hue.

A black eye patch covered his left eye, and deep wrinkles etched his face, testament to a life lived on the edge of battle.

The knight rode towards Aslan.

“Master of Battle, Aslan. The Emperor summons you. Come quietly, and no harm will come to you.”

His voice was laced with contempt and a hint of anger. Aslan, despite recognizing the knight, feigned ignorance.

His teal eyes flickered towards the soldiers, their faces a mix of confusion and unease.

Aslan knew exactly how to react.

He stood tall, tilting his chin upwards, and replied,

“No.”

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“No? Why?”

Everything was burning.

An inferno consumed the forest, flames licking at the sky, smoke rising in thick, red-tinged plumes.

Sparks danced in the air, a scene of apocalyptic devastation. And amidst the chaos, a figure sat, observing the scene with quiet amusement.

It was a woman.

Of average height, with a slender waist and long, shapely legs, her form concealed by a silken nun’s habit.

Her short, white hair gave her an innocent appearance, and kindness shone in her gentle pink eyes.

Despite her benevolent appearance, the woman sat casually, using a large, double-headed axe as a makeshift chair, her gaze fixed on the figure kneeling before her.

“It’s almost nap time. Why are you making this so difficult? I’m already tired.”

She whined. The kneeling figure coughed up blood.

Unlike the woman, who appeared perfectly human, the kneeling figure was clearly not.

A large, insect-like head with scorched antennae, its mandibles broken and mangled.

A typical War Monk, but this one was missing its left arm, and its carapace was cracked and broken.

The War Monk clacked its remaining mandibles, its voice raspy.

“W-well… if you offer me your head… I might tell you.”

The woman’s face fell, as if saddened by his words. She reached out, her hand gently caressing the War Monk’s face.

–Crack!

“Aaaaaagh!”

She pressed her fingers into its multifaceted eyes. One of the eyes burst with a sickening pop. The War Monk reached out with its remaining hand, trying to grab her arm, but…

“Why would you say such mean things? You’re making me feel bad for asking so nicely.”

The woman, her expression unchanged, continued to press on the remaining eye, then plucked it out.

The War Monk gasped, blood and viscous fluid oozing from its empty sockets.

“It wasn’t even a difficult question. Just tell me where the vestige of the Old Gods is, and what it’s doing.”

The woman pouted. The War Monk, its mandibles clicking, chuckled.

“Nicely…? You think this is… nice…?”

The War Monk gasped for breath, its remaining eye scanning its surroundings.

Everything was burning. And amidst the flames, it recognized several familiar faces.

Faces that were all insectoid, bodies clad in chitinous armor, now broken and lifeless.

At least six War Monks. Enough to take on a nobleman’s entire army without suffering a single casualty.

And they were all dead.

Even considering the element of surprise, this shouldn’t have been possible.

Shouldn’t.

The War Monk chuckled again, then coughed, the thick smoke making it difficult to breathe.

“Well, I’d say this is quite polite.”

The woman, hearing the War Monk’s laughter, rested her chin on her hand.

“Everyone knows the War God has the vestige of the Old Gods, you know? That’s why they’re all sending their priests. We just happened to be closest to your territory, so we were the first to arrive.”

“You’re not listening… who was it that threw an axe at me the moment I appeared?”

The War Monk’s tone was sharp, but the woman simply caressed its cheek, her hand burning hot. The hairs on its chitinous face sizzled and curled under her touch.

“Hiss…”

“That’s why I said this is polite. If we had kept the vestige of the Old Gods, wouldn’t you have sent the War God’s Sword?”

The War God’s Sword. Despite its insectoid face, the War Monk’s expression twisted in a grimace.

“Well, we sent a High Priest, didn’t we?”

The woman said, patting her chest.

The War Monk chuckled, a hollow sound.

The fact that the words “War God’s Sword” had been spoken so casually was both absurd and understandable.

High Priests were that powerful.

Priests were superhuman. Wielding divine power, possessing enhanced strength and unique abilities.

And High Priests were, in a sense, priests above priests.

Possessing physical abilities far exceeding those of ordinary priests, and wielding divine powers worthy of being called a god’s right hand.

Only one High Priest could exist for each god.

Beings that could be considered demigods.

The only exception to this rule was the gods served by the woman before him.

The Fated of the Universe.

The three great evils that would bring about the end of the universe.

And she was one of their High Priests, the High Priest of the Weaver of Fire, and the Master of the Mace.

“The Saint of Slaughter, Ereta.”

“Oh my, you finally figured it out? Should I give you a prize?”

The woman giggled, as if amused by the War Monk’s words, or perhaps by the flames licking at her body. She patted the War Monk’s head.

The War Monk, undeterred, sneered.

“How amusing. Do you really think you, a mere Master of the Mace, a Saint of insignificant creatures, can compare to the War God’s Sword?”

As the woman’s hand stilled, the War Monk snarled,

“How can a creature that worships such insignificance comprehend the will of a god? Comparing yourself to the War God’s Sword is the height of arrogance…”

The woman, her lips pursed in annoyance at the War Monk’s continued insults, reached out and pressed her thumb into its remaining eye, popping it out.

“Aaaaagh!”

“Honestly, you have no understanding of a woman’s heart. It’s polite to pretend not to notice the things that bother us.”

“H-how… ironic… the Three Evil Gods… talk big… but all three of them are needed… to stand a chance…”

“Are you going to keep saying mean things?”

The woman’s hand tightened around the War Monk’s chitinous face, the flesh sizzling beneath her touch.

“If you won’t talk, then I’m done with you. I’ll find it myself.”

The War Monk, blinded and losing consciousness from the burning heat, slowly raised its head and grinned.

“One day… the War God’s Sword… will take… your head…”

Ereta, the woman, stared at it in silence. The War Monk’s grin faltered as it sensed something in her silence. She finally spoke.

“You didn’t know I’ve been following you, did you? I know you’re heading to the capital~”

“…Why…?”

As the War Monk’s grin turned to a grimace of confusion, the large, double-headed axe descended.

The axe cleaved through the chitin, burning flesh and bone.

The War Monk’s body, split in two, twitched, then fell to either side. The woman smiled, answering the dead creature’s question.

“Well, why not?”

In the burning forest of the Sizedinal Mountains, the woman laughed, the flames reflecting in her pink eyes.

Surrounded by fire, she remained untouched.

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