Surviving the Evil Gods – Chapter 30

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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“Gah… Aaaaagh!”

Ereta screamed the moment she opened her eyes.

The scream was born not just from the lingering memory of her body being torn apart, but also from the absence of the divine power that should have surged through her.

A High Priest was a god’s closest confidant, their avatar in the mortal realm. Their power stemmed directly from their deity.

A High Priest severed from their god was just a human. And if their body had been altered by divine power, the loss of that power could have devastating consequences.

War Monks, for instance, would be crushed from within by their own augmented muscles, suffocating the moment their connection to their god was severed.

Fortunately, Ereta’s body hadn’t been altered.

She still retained a human form, so the loss of her divine connection hadn’t resulted in immediate death.

She felt no physical discomfort, no lingering pain. Her fully healed body sent no signals of distress.

“Ugh… hic… Mother… where…?”

Her cries were purely from a sense of loss.

The overwhelming power that had filled her, the potent presence granted by her connection to her god, was gone.

She gasped for breath, her body trembling.

Ereta, the Saint of Slaughter, after a torrent of tears and screams, finally took in her surroundings.

“A… prison…?”

She realized she was in a cell. A shackle bound her ankle, and though the dim light made it difficult to see clearly, she could make out the bars.

Her defeat was undeniable.

Her head lowered, her usually benevolent face now a mixture of sorrow and self-mockery, she heard footsteps approaching.

The hard stone floor echoed with the sound of metal and leather boots, drawing closer with each step.

The predator, whose life had been defined by heightened senses and superhuman abilities, slowly sat up.

“…Anything… you need…?”

“…No… nothing…”

The distant voices, echoing through the corridor, were too faint, too distorted, for her weakened senses to decipher.

She waited in silence, until the footsteps stopped outside her cell.

She retreated further into the shadows, sensing a figure standing just beyond the bars, watching her.

Their eyes met.

Ereta flinched.

A chilling gaze, as if seeing straight through her. The memory of her death flashed before her eyes.

Her arms, her legs, her torso –

The axe blade, a blur of motion, tearing her apart. The relentless attacks, precise and brutal, impossible to predict even with her enhanced senses.

And then, the final blow, severing her head.

Ereta’s legs gave way, and she collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

She was terrified of Aslan.

Terrified of his teal eyes.

Terrified of his gaze, watching her from beyond the bars.

Amidst the confusion and terror, one thing was clear.

She had lost. And Aslan had won.

And if they fought again, she would lose again.

Especially now, without her god’s power.

Aslan watched her struggle to control her breathing, her fear evident, and he knew his plan was working.

He adjusted the bandages on his wounds and limped towards the cell, nodding to the guard, who opened the door.

“Ah…?”

Ereta’s eyes widened as Aslan entered the cell.

“You…”

His casual approach was both unsettling and terrifying.

It wasn’t how one treated a High Priest.

Just as she wondered if he had somehow realized she had lost her divine powers, Aslan spoke.

“How does it feel to be abandoned by your god?”

“…How…?”

Aslan didn’t answer her question. He saw no reason to, no value in explaining. He simply looked down at her.

His silence, his steady gaze, made Ereta’s composure crumble.

Like a dam bursting, tears streamed down her face, her hair falling forward, obscuring her features.

“N-no… I… I haven’t been abandoned… This is just… a test from Mother…”

“Do you really believe that?”

“…!”

Ereta’s eyes were filled with terror.

The terror of a High Priest, a powerful being, stripped of her power.

That terror, mixed with the profound sense of loss, made her acutely aware of Aslan’s absolute control over her fate.

She no longer possessed her regenerative abilities.

Nor her superhuman strength.

She was the Master of the Mace, but she had been defeated even with her enhanced physical abilities. She couldn’t possibly overpower the Master of Battle in her current state.

Aslan, reading her thoughts, knelt, lowering himself to her level.

He was within easy reach, yet she didn’t move, paralyzed by fear, her breath catching in her throat.

‘Just as planned.’

The unknown technique he had used against her, its origins still a mystery, had been effective.

Ereta’s reaction was genuine, undeniable.

Defeated, severed from her god,

A Master of the Mace, but now just a woman with some combat training, unarmed and vulnerable.

Aslan was certain.

Ereta was neutralized.

And he had a proposition for her.

“You’ve been abandoned. Defeated by a mere human, a Great One, no longer a priest, no longer a threat. The Weaver of Fire wanted to discard you, to dispose of you like a broken toy.”

“That’s… a lie…”

“Does it seem that way? It wouldn’t be unreasonable for a god to reclaim its divine power from a defeated priest. Look at yourself. Not a single scratch.”

Ereta looked down at her arms, her stomach, her neck, realizing he was right. Her body was completely healed.

Aslan patiently waited for her to process this, then continued,

“You were dead. And then you were resurrected. The Weaver of Fire reclaimed the divine energy used to bring you back. It’s a common practice for defeated priests.”

His words, spoken with calm detachment, were true. Aslan had witnessed it countless times, both in the game and in Gelladrion. For Ereta, however, it had only been a rumor.

And yet, his words were incredibly convincing. Her normally benevolent face was now etched with despair, a profound sense of loss. She looked like a child abandoned by its parents.

“Mother…”

Mother. That’s what the followers and priests of the Weaver of Fire called their god.

Unlike other followers, she had truly seen the Weaver of Fire as a maternal figure.

That’s why she was struggling to accept Aslan’s words, her eyes darting around, searching for a counterargument.

But there was none.

No matter what she told herself, she could no longer feel the Weaver of Fire’s presence, its divine energy.

Her powers as a High Priest were gone. She couldn’t deny the truth in Aslan’s words.

She had been defeated.

Her power had been taken away.

And the man before her was just a human.

Tears streamed down Ereta’s face, tears of despair, thick and heavy.

Aslan watched her cry, considering his options.

The enemies would only grow stronger as the main quest progressed. That was an undeniable fact.

And he and Angie would grow stronger as well, leveling up as they faced these challenges. That, too, was almost a certainty, as long as they survived.

Perhaps one day, he would be able to defeat a High Priest without risking his life.

But not today.

Even against Ereta, one of the weaker High Priests, he had faced death multiple times.

He couldn’t rely on luck anymore. He only had one life.

He needed allies.

Allies who weren’t priests, allies strong enough to fight them.

And the best place to find such allies was among the Great Ones.

Those whose skills were coveted by the War God.

From superhuman beings to ordinary humans, the Great Ones were those who had reached the pinnacle of their respective crafts.

While some might become priests, they were still a safer, more reliable source of allies than random mercenaries or mages.

And Ereta, in that regard, was the perfect candidate.

She would require some… persuasion, some… convincing, a taste of reality.

‘There’s no better candidate.’

If those severed from their gods could become priests again, Ereta would have already been restored.

The fact that she hadn’t meant that even the Weaver of Fire couldn’t reach her.

He had been skeptical because it was an effect that stemmed from an unknown technique, but it had been more effective than he could have hoped for.

He could safely rule out the possibility of her becoming a priest again.

She was a Great One, so her combat abilities, while requiring some adjustment, were guaranteed.

And even if she died in battle, he wouldn’t feel any regret.

She had been a priest, a clear enemy. He had no qualms about using her.

That was the source of his deception, his manipulation.

Ereta’s tears subsided, her pink eyes now filled with suspicion and a flicker of fear, her gaze fixed on Aslan.

Her suspicion was multifaceted.

Why hadn’t he tortured her? Why hadn’t he killed her? Why imprison her? How did he know all this?

But the most important question, the one that truly mattered, was clear.

That question, voiced with a trembling voice, echoed through the dimly lit cell.

“What… what do you want?”

Her voice still held traces of fear and tears, but Aslan was satisfied.

Seeing the arrogant High Priest humbled was a pleasure, especially for someone who loathed all priests and gods.

He spoke, carefully controlling his own disgust.

“I’m taking you prisoner.”

“…Prisoner…?”

Ereta echoed his words, and Aslan smiled. Then,

–Thwack!

He punched her in the stomach.

A swift, precise blow, delivered with enough force to cause pain, but not enough to inflict serious injury.

Ereta gasped, doubling over, her body convulsing as she choked back bile.

Aslan grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back.

“Don’t question me.”

Ereta looked up at him, tears welling up in her pink eyes, and nodded. But Aslan, still unsatisfied, released her hair and slapped her across the face.

–Slap!

Ereta’s head snapped to the side. She fell to the ground, clutching her cheek, her body trembling.

“Answer me.”

“…Yes.”

Ereta’s voice was barely a whisper, her head bowed submissively.

She looked nothing like the High Priest she had been just a few days ago.

She was docile, obedient. A demeanor that invited betrayal, manipulation. But Aslan had no regrets.

This was the best way to break her.

Ereta, the Saint of Slaughter.

The seemingly sadistic woman, in reality, was a deeply repressed masochist.

Aslan, seeing the dazed, almost vacant, expression in Ereta’s eyes, sighed inwardly.

He wasn’t sure if it was a sigh of relief or a sigh of self-disgust.

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