Surviving the Evil Gods – Chapter 29

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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‘What… is this?’

The axe blade was glowing white, a light, a form, unlike anything Aslan had ever seen. Even the name, flickering in broken characters on the system window, was unfamiliar.

The garbled text itself was unsettling.

Had the system window ever malfunctioned during his twelve years of wandering?

Never. Not once.

He had never even heard of a text corruption bug, not even back when it was just a game.

‘It’s not hot. What does it do?’

Aslan touched the axe blade with his other hand. The white glow didn’t feel like fire or heat. It radiated a faint coldness.

He couldn’t even understand what he had supposedly completed or obtained. The broken text offered no clues.

As he stared at the axe, his confusion growing, he felt a surge of heat beside him and turned his head.

“…What?”

A blast of hot air washed over him, the smell of sulfur and fire thick in the air. His hair whipped around his face, momentarily obscuring his vision.

Then he saw it.

Ereta, her body mangled beyond recognition, her limbs, head, and torso severed, was regenerating.

It was a shocking sight.

He had killed her.

He had used Shadow Flip to its limit, hacking her to pieces, making sure no trace of her regeneration remained.

He had even severed her head. It should have been a fatal blow, even for a High Priest of the Weaver of Fire, known for their regenerative abilities.

Especially for a High Priest of the Fated of the Universe, whose powers were weaker than those of other gods, a High Priest who still clung to a human form.

She shouldn’t have been able to survive.

And yet, defying all logic and reason, Ereta was regenerating.

Aslan saw a flicker of movement amidst the flames and the rising heat, a writhing shape.

Ereta’s shadow, normally fragmented and scattered, was now coalescing into an unnatural form.

Aslan understood and cursed.

“Weaver of Fire…!”

A High Priest was a god’s agent, their avatar in the mortal realm.

The connection between a High Priest and their god was strong, reinforced by the divine power they wielded.

And a god, especially one less… transcendent, could become attached to their High Priest.

Ereta, the Saint of Slaughter.

She was clearly a favored priest of the Weaver of Fire.

Aslan, seeing her regenerate amidst the flames, her wounds closing, her flesh knitting itself back together, stumbled back, pushing himself to his feet.

“Even at the cost of your own power… you’re willing to do this…!”

The world was sealed. The Goddess of Grief and Death, in her final moments, had partially closed the pathways between the divine and mortal realms. Because of this, the gods could only exert limited influence, enough to create priests, but not enough to directly intervene.

Unless they were willing to sacrifice a portion of their own divine power.

And that’s what the Weaver of Fire was doing, burning its own essence to restore Ereta.

A self-inflicted wound, a desperate act, tearing its own flesh to feed its avatar.

The consequences were clear. The Weaver of Fire would regain Ereta, but its power would diminish, its influence weakened.

The other gods would see an opportunity, circling like vultures, ready to pounce. The entire Fated of the Universe faction could be weakened.

And yet, the Weaver of Fire was willing to pay that price.

Aslan frantically searched for a solution.

“You madman! You’re willing to go that far?!”

He gripped the axe tightly.

He could try to disrupt the regeneration, to further mutilate the body, but he was at his limit.

His body was battered and broken, his blood loss critical.

He couldn’t use wild magic to heal himself. His mana was depleted.

Even if he managed to further damage the body, it wouldn’t solve the problem. The divine energy, already flowing into Ereta, would simply heal her faster than he could hurt her.

Aslan raised his arm, shielding himself from the intense heat, his jaw clenched.

‘What can I do? How do I stop this…?’

He had Heat Metal and the axe. But destruction wasn’t the answer. And yet, he had no other options.

Just as he resigned himself to another desperate attack, a garbled message flickered across his vision.

[!!G?d’s Bl??d!! Eff!ct?]

[Can sever the connection between god and priest.]

[Will not be extinguished as long as the user has Fighting Spirit.]

[Obt??n?d thr?ugh ?n ?nkn?wn qu?st.]

The distorted system window vanished as quickly as it appeared, overwritten by the now empty main quest log.

‘Sever the connection… between god and priest?’

A timely message, its effect perfectly suited to his current predicament.

Aslan’s first thought was that it was a hallucination, a trick.

It seemed too good to be true, appearing at such a crucial moment. Suspicion, honed by twelve years of survival, was his first instinct.

As the heat intensified, he glanced at the axe.

The white glow emanating from the blade, unwavering even in the face of the inferno, seemed to urge him to trust it.

He was skeptical.

But he had no other choice.

A gamble with an unknown outcome, or certain failure. The choice was obvious.

Aslan gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. The hot air seared his lungs. Ereta, her regeneration almost complete, stood before him.

His twelve years of survival hadn’t been easy. He hadn’t had the luxury of hesitation, of choosing his battles.

He would do whatever it took to survive, to return to his own world.

That was his promise.

And for that promise, a gamble like this was a small price to pay.

He gripped the axe tightly and charged.

–ROAR!

The searing heat roared like a monster, and amidst the inferno, he heard a voice, a woman’s voice, mixed with an unnatural, guttural sound.

The sound, carried on the waves of heat so intense they seemed almost red, flowed into Ereta, lifting her broken body.

Her regeneration was complete. Her wounds were closed, her flesh whole, her body untouched by the flames.

She stood, her eyes vacant, her pupils dilated.

And behind her, a monstrous figure emerged from the flames and shadows.

A creature resembling a spider, but with dozens of legs, a mane of fire, and sixteen eyes.

The Weaver of Fire.

Aslan, seeing the monstrous deity shimmering amidst the flames, ignored the throbbing in his head and pressed forward.

“…Aslan…”

Ereta’s throat healed, the flesh knitting itself together amidst the flames. She lunged, her fist a blur of motion, aimed at Aslan’s head.

Aslan ducked low, avoiding the blow, which would have been like being hit by a cannonball. His hair whipped around his face as the fist and the flames passed over him.

Just as the Weaver of Fire, using Ereta’s mouth, opened its jaws wide, preparing to unleash a torrent of flames, Aslan swung the axe.

–SLASH!

The wound on his shoulder reopened, spraying blood, but his swing was perfect, honed by years of practice, unwavering even in his weakened state.

The axe blade, glowing white, sliced through Ereta’s body, from hip to shoulder.

–FWOOOSH!

Blood and flames erupted from the wound. Ereta collapsed.

The wound on her body instantly closed.

But the figure behind her didn’t fare so well.

The form of the Weaver of Fire, split by the axe, roared in fury, spewing flames, blood, and burning threads.

The monstrous form began to recede, pulling away from Ereta, as if repelled, drawn back towards some unknown realm.

‘Did it… actually work?’

Aslan watched as the figure, separated from Ereta’s body, thrashed its limbs, as if in a seizure.

It wasn’t just a temporary disruption. The connection had been severed. Aslan realized this, and the spider-like form shrieked, its voice filled with anguish.

–SCREEECH!

The sound was like the frustrated cry of a child whose toy had been taken away.

Aslan, hearing that cry, knew he had succeeded.

The Weaver of Fire, its precious toy, its avatar, snatched away, even after it had poured its own essence into its resurrection.

Ereta was just a human now.

Aslan smiled, and the Weaver of Fire, gathering its remaining power, charged.

Aslan didn’t flinch at the sight of the giant flaming spider hurtling towards him.

“If you value her so much…”

He simply raised the axe. Dealing with a creature charging in a straight line was easy.

“I’ll gladly take her from you.”

He planted his foot, his injured leg screaming in protest, and swung the axe downwards.

The incoming flames met the white-hot blade and were extinguished, cleaved in two.

–SCREEECH!

“So go to hell.”

As the axe struck, the spider shrieked, a death cry. The monstrous form, split in two, dissolved into flames and white light, its divine essence dissipating.

As the white glow on Aslan’s axe faded,

–BOOM!

The Weaver of Fire exploded.

The oppressive presence of the deity vanished instantly.

Severely weakened, its divine essence damaged, the Weaver of Fire retreated. Aslan stood alone, between the unconscious bodies of Ereta and Angie.

He breathed a sigh of relief, seeing that Ereta was no longer a threat.

It was time to go home.

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“…Are you alright?”

“Better than most. How is the Margrave?”

“Just exhausted.”

Amidst the scattered corpses of spider monsters and their partially transformed human followers,

Stood the Margrave’s soldiers, the Margrave himself, and Harod.

Each with their own families, their own homes, yet now, bound together by something stronger than kinship, supporting each other, leaning on each other for strength.

Behind the line of soldiers, their shields locked together, lay several bodies.

Harod stood in the center, his shield dented and broken, wielding a makeshift club fashioned from a broken spear shaft.

Several of his fingers were missing, and his shield was now strapped to his arm.

Fortunately, one of his hands was still intact, making him better off than most of the soldiers.

Over thirty soldiers were dead or injured, and less than ten remained unscathed.

Not even the Margrave himself had escaped without injury.

He walked among his battered and exhausted soldiers, his sword still in hand. His role had been to hold the line, to cut down any monsters that broke through their defenses.

They had won.

The monsters and followers had attacked relentlessly, and the soldiers, unable to fully utilize the terrain to their advantage, had been pushed to their limits. But their training, their discipline, combined with the Margrave and Harod’s individual strength, had carried them through.

The battle had been hard-fought, and the soldiers, including the Margrave, remained on high alert.

If they relaxed their vigilance, even for a moment, the monsters could return.

As they stood there, their weapons gripped tightly, the bushes rustled, and a figure emerged.

The soldier at the front, startled, lunged forward with his spear.

The spear was caught.

“…That’s dangerous.”

It was Aslan.

He carried two unconscious women, one on each shoulder, supporting them with his arms.

The spearhead, inches from his face, was coated in monster ichor.

“Uh… wha…”

The soldier was stunned.

Not just because his attack had been so easily blocked, or because he had mistakenly attacked an ally.

Aslan stepped past him, moving through the ranks of soldiers. The soldiers with shields parted to make way for him. Harod stared, his reptilian eyes wide with surprise.

–Squish.

Aslan left a trail of blood in his wake, his footprints starkly red against the earth.

His body was covered in blood, and his teal eyes, usually sharp and alert, were now dull and unfocused. He reached the back of the formation, where the injured and the dead lay side by side.

“Great Weaver of Fire…”

Harod gasped.

“You…”

The Margrave, his voice strained but calm, watched as Aslan gently lowered Ereta to the ground.

“This… is the former High Priest, the Saint of Slaughter, Ereta. She no longer possesses any superhuman abilities. Imprison her, but don’t kill her.”

His voice was low, almost a whisper. No one spoke. Aslan swayed, his grip on Angie loosening, and he gently laid her down.

He remained bent over, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Please… tend to their wounds.”

With those words, he collapsed, face-first into the dirt. Blood seeped from beneath him, staining the ground crimson.

A trail of blood marked his path from the forest, through the ranks of soldiers, to the spot where he now lay.

The soldiers stared, their mouths agape, for five long seconds.

Then, as one, they moved.

To provide aid, to save the man who had saved them.

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