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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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“Horrific.”
The old man’s low voice resonated through the audience chamber. The scene before him was a tableau of death and the gruesomely mangled remains of those who had abandoned their humanity.
Crushed, shattered, pierced – the evidence of brutal violence was everywhere.
Death hung heavy in the air.
As the old man moved through the carnage, the silence of the dead was broken by the clatter of his armor. Each step echoed through the chamber, a stark counterpoint to the stillness of the corpses.
“Truly… truly horrific.”
The old man’s words were layered with meaning. He was horrified by the sheer brutality of the scene, but also by the knowledge that those who lay dead had forsaken their humanity.
He approached the Emperor’s corpse, its neck twisted at a grotesque angle.
“…Your Majesty…”
His face was etched with weariness, a profound fatigue mirroring Aslan’s own exhaustion. Ileana, noticing this, quietly clasped her hands.
“If only you had trusted me… If only you had spoken to me… Why resort to abandoning your humanity…?”
The old man in armor, Sir Reynald, the Dusk Spear, gently lowered the Emperor’s body to the floor.
He carefully straightened the broken neck, closed the staring eyes, and wiped away the blood.
“I never imagined… that I would fail in my duty… twice…”
His voice was heavy with grief. He lifted the Emperor’s body into his arms. Ileana forced a sorrowful expression onto her face.
“Are… are they truly gone?”
Reynald asked, his eyes closed in grief.
Ileana, her face impassive, thought back to Aslan’s words.
She knew that if her involvement in the Emperor’s death, even indirect, was revealed, it would create problems for the transition of power and her ascension to the throne.
That’s why Aslan had vanished after instructing her to summon the captain of the Imperial Guard. He had given her specific instructions, words to relay to Reynald, making it easier to shift the blame.
And now, she offered those words as her testimony.
“Yes. As soon as they killed His Majesty… my brother… a strange energy enveloped them, and then they vanished. Just like that.”
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“…What? We didn’t use any strange energy.”
Three figures, cloaked and hooded, moved swiftly through the bustling city streets.
Despite their concealing garments, they blended seamlessly into the crowd, attracting little attention.
The girl with fiery red hair hidden beneath her hood spoke, her voice muffled by the fabric.
Aslan, his dark hair and striking teal eyes partially obscured by his hood, glanced at her.
Harod adjusted his rough, cloak-like garment and looked at Angie, who, feeling their gazes upon her, let out an irritated huff.
‘Harod will explain.’
Aslan thought, deferring to the Dragonkin. He glanced at Harod, whose slitted, golden eyes met his.
“Indeed. The magic you used is relatively common. Many shamans in Belus Alpen practice it. It wouldn’t be considered ‘unknown’…”
To properly address Angie’s comment, Harod should have pointed out that they hadn’t used any magic to escape. But he seemed to have missed that entirely, simply looking at Aslan.
Aslan, exasperated, explained,
“It was to create the misconception that the vestige of the Old Gods is already affiliated with a deity, that they already serve a god.”
“A misconception…?”
“Yes. To make them think the vestige has a divine patron.”
That was the purpose of the vague description. In Gelladrion, a world of gods and Old Gods,
In this era where all forms of magic were supposedly known and categorized, the only power that could truly be called “unknown” or “unidentified” was divine power.
But neither Harod nor Angie seemed to fully grasp the reasoning. They both stared at him blankly.
‘Even Harod, who has close ties to the nobility, doesn’t understand this…’
While Angie’s ignorance was understandable, given her background, Harod’s lack of awareness surprised Aslan. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face.
Angie, seeing his expression, shrugged.
“Whatever. Why does it matter? If any priests show up, we’ll just beat them up.”
She grinned, brimming with confidence. Aslan glanced at her.
It wasn’t just bravado.
Her easy victories against the priests, combined with the success of Aslan’s plans, had inflated her confidence.
Aslan shook his head.
“That works against a single priest. But against multiple priests, or especially a High Priest, we’d be in serious trouble.”
Angie looked disgruntled, but she listened as Aslan continued.
“A High Priest is a monster you can’t defeat without preparation. We need to avoid drawing their attention while we build our strength.”
He added, “That’s the entire point of this deception,” but Angie simply stared at him, unimpressed.
“…But you told that pretty princess that she wouldn’t know unless she fought, that she’d lose for sure if she didn’t.”
Aslan chuckled.
Angie’s childishness was endearing.
“That’s true. She’ll lose if she doesn’t fight. And she won’t know unless she tries. But… a fight with a priest is different. You can’t just jump into those unprepared.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hmm… how to explain this…”
Aslan led the way through the crowded streets, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
“With your and Harod’s help, I can defeat a regular priest even if I’m caught off guard.”
He paused, stepping against a wall to avoid the flow of people. His companions’ eyes were on him. He continued,
“But High Priests… they’re different. You can’t win against them unprepared.”
Even ordinary priests were incredibly powerful, but High Priests were in a league of their own.
Possessing far greater strength and divine powers, they were practically demigods.
Even Aslan wanted to avoid a direct confrontation. Even with meticulous planning and preparation, victory wasn’t assured.
Perhaps things were different now that he had leveled up, but he wasn’t willing to gamble with his life.
Harod, hearing the mention of High Priests, nodded gravely, leaning against the wall beside Aslan.
“Angela Tail, even with your increased strength… you should be wary of High Priests. Master Aslan is right. They are monsters. Heed his warning…”
“As if we’ll even see a High Priest! You worry too much!”
Angie scoffed, then strode off ahead of them.
Harod watched her go, then turned to Aslan.
“She’s a bit too confident, isn’t she?”
Perhaps becoming the vestige of the Old Gods, gaining superhuman strength so easily, had gone to her head.
Aslan considered this.
“…Not really. Remember? Angela Tail has always been like this. Fearless, even against overwhelming odds.”
Harod shook his head.
Aslan remembered his first encounter with the girl.
She had been like that from the start.
“Unlike me.”
Harod’s voice was quiet, tinged with regret.
Aslan sighed, pushing himself off the wall.
“Enough with the self-pity. Before Angie completely disappears…”
Just as Harod opened his mouth to protest, a chilling premonition seized Aslan.
More than a tingling sensation, it felt like an ice pick being driven into his brain.
The unmistakable effect of his heightened Luck.
Aslan’s eyes, guided by the chilling sensation, snapped towards a figure standing near the base of a drawbridge in the distance.
The woman wore a linen cloak similar to theirs.
But the cloak couldn’t conceal her kind pink eyes and shock of white hair.
Or the massive double-headed axe strapped to her back.
Aslan recognized her.
And she recognized him.
Their eyes met. Aslan channeled his mana, shouting,
“Angie! Get down!”
The mana surged through his body, erupting from his palm and forming a shield.
The cloaked woman, far away, hefted her axe. The massive weapon, its handle taller than she was, moved with her as she drew it back.
A chilling premonition washed over Aslan, raising the hairs on his arms. He gritted his teeth.
He knew what was coming.
A thrown axe.
–WHOOSH!
The air screamed as the axe flew towards him, a thunderous roar echoing through the streets. It tore through the crowd, bodies ripped apart, limbs flying.
The axe hurtled towards Aslan, a blur of motion.
–BOOM!
It slammed into Aslan’s mana shield. The sound wasn’t the clang of metal on metal, not the sound of a weapon striking a hastily conjured magical barrier.
It was the deafening roar of a cannon blast.
“Ugggh…!”
The shield buckled and groaned, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Harod gasped.
Blood trickled from Aslan’s eyes and mouth. He strained, arms outstretched, desperately trying to maintain the shield, then…
–Crack! Shatter!
As the shield exploded, he yanked his arms back.
He gripped his sword hilt, drawing the blade in a fraction of a second, and swung upwards.
–CLANG!
Another deafening roar. The axe was deflected, its blade scraping along the ground before slamming into a nearby building, sending chunks of stone and wood flying.
Aslan’s arms screamed in protest, the pain almost unbearable. He had nearly lost his grip on the sword, despite using wild magic to enhance his strength. The implications were clear.
He plunged his sword into the ground, his face grim, gasping for air.
Angie, seeing what had happened, ran back towards him. People screamed and fled, scrambling over the bodies of those caught in the path of the thrown axe.
“What… what happened?!”
Angie reached out a hand, and Aslan, gripping it tightly, slowly pulled himself to his feet, his legs shaking.
Harod, surveying the scene and Aslan’s condition, drew his weapon and raised his shield with a sigh.
“Great Weaver of Fire…”
Aslan wiped the blood from his eyes, his voice strained with exhaustion.
“Angie… I think we’re in serious trouble.”
Angie stared at him, her face creased with confusion, but Aslan, ignoring her reaction, pulled his sword from the ground.
“I don’t know why she’s here… but that High Priest I mentioned… she’s arrived.”
As Angie stared at him, speechless, the woman, who had now crossed the drawbridge, smiled.
As if she had heard his words.
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