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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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“…Ugh…”
Angie opened her eyes, blinking against the unfamiliar opulence of the room. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the room in warm hues, and a gentle breeze carried the faint scent of salt from the slightly open window.
The smell, the plushness of the mattress beneath her – everything was foreign. As she sat up, she realized even the ceiling was unfamiliar.
“Where… Ow…”
A sharp pain shot through her head as she sat up. She groaned, clutching her temples.
‘Where am I…?’
She pressed her palms against her throbbing forehead, trying to recall what had happened.
Her last memory was of crushing defeat.
The searing pain of the warhammer striking her head, faster than she could raise her arms. Three brutal blows. She instinctively touched her head.
‘No… wounds…’
Her jaw, temple, and forehead were smooth, unblemished. She traced the smooth skin with her fingers, her brow furrowed in confusion.
After becoming the vestige of the Old Gods, after Aslan had awakened her latent abilities with magic, she healed quickly, most wounds disappearing within half a day.
But this… this was different. This healing felt artificial, too complete, too fast for even her enhanced regeneration. This wasn’t natural.
‘Did Aslan heal me with magic?’
She didn’t know enough about magic to understand what he had done.
Perhaps her regenerative abilities had simply grown stronger, but if that were the case, she should feel some lingering weakness, some residual pain. But she felt fine.
Aside from the throbbing headache, she was completely healed. Angie sighed, a wave of relief washing over her.
‘I was… as good as dead back there.’
The High Priest was strong.
Overwhelmingly so.
Outmatched in strength, lacking any real combat skill, Angie hadn’t been able to defend herself, let alone fight back.
She had been knocked unconscious without landing a single blow. A complete and utter defeat.
‘If I were still in the Tail section… I would have died.’
Her name was Angela Tail. She had grown up in the Tail section, the slums where the impoverished Tails resided.
The Tail section was a brutal place where the weak perished.
Based on her experiences there, the moment the High Priest’s hammer struck her, she should have died.
But she was alive. Lying in a soft bed, a gentle, salt-tinged breeze wafting through the window. Undeniably alive.
And the reason was obvious.
‘Aslan saved me.’
A wave of frustration washed over her. She had been so confident, so full of bravado, only to be utterly defeated without putting up a fight.
She pushed down the frustration, flopping back onto the bed and closing her eyes.
“Damn it.”
She muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. Time seemed to slow as she replayed the fight in her mind, each memory a fresh reminder of her defeat. She bit her lip in frustration.
Then, a knock echoed through the room.
–Knock, knock.
Before she could respond, the door opened, and someone entered.
Angie opened her eyes and saw Aslan.
“Oh, you’re awake. Good.”
Aslan smiled, meeting her gaze, and walked towards her.
Angie looked at him, a question forming in her mind.
‘How is he so strong?’
The fact that she was alive meant that Aslan had done something to save her, to defeat the High Priest.
She didn’t know if he had defeated her or simply escaped, as he had suggested, but it was clear he was stronger than her, strong enough to survive.
‘He’s… so gentle… how can he be so strong?’
His strength, his actions, didn’t make sense.
Aslan was kind.
A rare trait in this world.
Even Angie, with her limited experience outside the slums, knew that such kindness was unusual.
His gentle nature belied his overwhelming strength.
It made him seem different.
She didn’t understand what he wanted, what motivated him, what his past held.
She hadn’t asked, and her instincts, while sharp, couldn’t piece together the puzzle of Aslan.
She sat up in silence.
“How are you feeling? Any pain? Headache?”
Aslan sat down on a chair beside the bed, offering her a bowl.
It was a simple porridge made from oats.
Angie accepted the bowl. She wouldn’t refuse food. She hadn’t been raised with such luxuries.
She spooned the warm porridge into her mouth, savoring the taste. The warmth spread through her, easing the lingering hunger. She quickly finished the bowl.
“I’m fine. I’m tough. It takes more than that to knock me out.”
Aslan chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re not discouraged. Being healthy is a good thing. Don’t downplay it.”
He took the empty bowl from her. Angie frowned.
His kindness felt strange, unsettling.
Perhaps it was because, in the Tail section, those with gentle natures didn’t last long. Or perhaps it was because she had grown accustomed to putting on a brave front, pretending to be tougher than she was.
“Don’t worry about the High Priest. We managed to escape. Thanks to you buying us some time.”
Angie stared at him, seeing through the lie.
“Don’t give me that. I… I wasn’t much help back there. But…”
She lowered her gaze, scratching her cheek, a hint of embarrassment in her voice.
“Thank you… for saving me.”
“…We’re comrades. It’s what we do.”
Aslan’s casual reply made Angie uncomfortable.
‘Someone to watch my back. That’s what he had said when he first asked her to join him.
She had been excited then, but now, she felt like she had been nothing but a burden, constantly needing his protection.
She hadn’t been able to help him, and the feeling of helplessness gnawed at her.
As she looked down, Aslan watched her intently, waiting until she finally raised her head to meet his gaze.
He tilted his head slightly, a gentle smile gracing his lips. His reassuring gaze made Angie blurt out,
“Why are you so strong?”
Aslan’s eyes widened in surprise, then he rested his chin on his hand, considering her question.
After a moment, his teal eyes flickered with emotion.
“Well…”
He smiled.
But it wasn’t a happy smile.
It was a melancholic smile, tinged with sadness.
Angie sensed the complex emotions swirling within him.
Regret, pain, sorrow.
Like an animal sensing the vulnerability of a wounded human, her instincts picked up on the weight of those emotions.
She fell silent, and Aslan lowered his gaze, lost in thought.
Seeing his melancholic expression, Angie remembered the other times he had seemed… different.
His morality. His insistence on doing what was right, his refusal to accept what was wrong.
His disgust, his anger towards the priests and the monsters.
She remembered him saying he didn’t spare priests, the way he had snapped the Emperor’s neck, the care he had taken to bury the corpses of those killed by the monsters.
His gentleness, his compassion – she didn’t understand it.
The weak died. Those who showed weakness perished.
And everything Aslan had shown her was a sign of weakness.
Yet, he was unbelievably strong.
Seeing the weight of his past, the pain he seemed to carry despite his strength, Angie wondered,
‘What makes him fight?’
‘What’s his secret?’
She wanted to be strong. She didn’t know why, but she craved strength.
“…Why… why do you fight?”
Aslan, lost in thought, looked up.
The emotions that had flickered in his eyes faded, as if he had shaken them off.
“That’s…”
He had been about to say he fought to survive.
But the intensity in Angie’s eyes told him she was looking for something more.
It was like a nudge from his Luck stat, a gut feeling. He paused, considering his answer.
A world filled with priests and monsters.
A world corrupted, without a future.
People dying meaningless deaths, gods slaughtering without reason.
In this grim, dark fantasy, why did he fight?
Why did he refuse to give up?
After a moment of contemplation, a memory surfaced.
Words spoken by a face he would never see again.
A bright smile, framed by two dark lines.
Pushing down the rising emotions, Aslan spoke,
“…Because I’m the only one who can.”
Angie remained silent. Aslan’s serious expression softened into a wry smile.
“What am I saying…”
He reached out and ruffled Angie’s hair. She blinked, surprised by the sudden contact, one eye closing as his hand messed up her fiery red locks.
He stood up.
“You’re feeling alright now? Then let’s get going.”
Someone’s looking for us, he added.
Angie, as if suddenly realizing where she was, looked around.
The view from the window was unfamiliar.
“…Now that you mention it, where are we?”
Aslan simply smiled, offering no answer.
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“Welcome to Sangirus.”
Aslan led Angie to the training grounds.
The grounds were spacious, filled with soldiers running drills, carrying water jugs, and engaging in various activities.
The man who greeted them there was a complete stranger to Angie.
A man somewhere between middle-aged and elderly, with a neatly trimmed beard and well-groomed reddish-brown hair.
He wore simple training clothes, much like Aslan, and held a wooden practice sword.
Harod stood beside him, leaning heavily on a practice sword as if it were a cane, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man addressed Angie.
“It’s been a week. Glad to see you finally awake.”
Angie’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping her lips.
She clearly hadn’t realized she had been unconscious for a week. Her surprise was evident.
The man chuckled.
“Didn’t explain anything, did you?”
He directed the question at Aslan, who shook his head.
“I thought it would be better coming from you.”
“Ah, I see. Makes sense.”
The man nodded.
“Well then… it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Torel Sangirus, lord of these lands. Most people call me Margrave Sangirus.”
“…It’s… nice to meet you too.”
Angie, unaccustomed to formalities, returned the greeting awkwardly. The Margrave smiled.
“Good to meet you as well. Now, to business… I won’t repeat myself, so listen carefully. It’s been a week since you collapsed. You’re currently in… Sangirus, a city in the Sangirus Margravate, quite a distance northeast of the capital, Belus Ma’kel, where you were… attacked.”
Angie frowned, trying to process the fact that she had been unconscious for a week, but the Margrave continued,
“And while you were asleep, something rather interesting happened.”
“Interesting?”
“Indeed. Very interesting. Two days east of Belus Ma’kel, in the Imperial City of Asan, there was a battle between the War Monks and the priests of the Fated of the Universe.”
“The Fated of the Universe?”
Angie’s question was innocent, and the Margrave seemed to expect it.
“Yes, those who rarely venture beyond their own territories. They attacked within the War God’s domain. Confident, they must have been. But the War Monks were defeated. The Fated of the Universe were victorious. And now, they are marching north.”
Angie looked confused, struggling to follow the story, but the Margrave pressed on.
“They’re heading this way.”
“Oh.”
Angie understood that some priests were coming, even if she didn’t understand the details. The Margrave stepped closer.
“And I know why they fought.”
His dark eyes met Angie’s, and she flinched.
“They’re looking for you, vestige of the Old Gods.”
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