—————————————————————–
Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
—————————————————————–
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
“Eat everything. Leave nothing behind.”
The man commanded, and the monsters, obeying, swarmed the corpses, their hands plunging into the torn flesh, emerging slick with blood and gore, clutching handfuls of meat and entrails.
With each plunge and scoop, the soldiers’ bodies diminished, disappearing piece by piece into the monsters’ gaping maws.
The giant man watched the gruesome feast, his hands resting on his hips, a faint smile of satisfaction playing on his lips. He was particularly fond of the monsters under his command, and watching them feed always pleased him.
The monsters, in turn, were fiercely loyal to him. One of them, a one-eyed giant, lumbered towards him, a low growl rumbling in its chest, holding something in its outstretched hand.
–Groooowl.
It offered the object to the man, who smiled and accepted it. It was a letter.
“Thank you. Now go finish your meal.”
The monster bowed its head and returned to its feast. The man, a priest of the Earth-Shattering Giant, unfolded the letter, about to read it, when…
–Rustle.
A sound from the nearby bushes made him pause.
A woman emerged from the foliage.
She wore a black silk nun’s habit, her benevolent face tinged with a subtle melancholy. Her striking white hair and pink eyes marked her as an unusual beauty.
And someone he recognized.
Ereta, the Saint of Slaughter.
A former “colleague” of sorts, a priestess serving a different aspect of the same triune deity.
A cruel smile twisted his lips as he looked at her.
“…Well, well, if it isn’t the Little Spider.”
Little Spider. Ereta flinched at the familiar nickname, though she had no memory of him.
“Will you help me?”
She went straight to the point. He didn’t seem to be a high-ranking priest, judging by his unfamiliar face, but that didn’t matter to her.
“Huh? The Little Spider asking me for help? And so politely, too? Where’s that arrogant, all-knowing attitude of yours?”
The man sneered, and Ereta’s face flushed, a flicker of annoyance beneath her melancholic facade.
“That’s not important right now. We’re colleagues. And this is a chance to capture the vestige of the Old Gods. Please, help me. All I want…”
“No.”
Her desperate plea was cut short. Her face twisted in frustration, but she was powerless. She was no longer the Saint of Slaughter.
She couldn’t afford to threaten him, as she usually would. She would be lucky to escape with her life.
The priest, clearly aware of her weakened state, smirked, looking down at her.
“Colleagues, you say? I like the sentiment. But you’re not our colleague anymore, are you? You’re not even a High Priest. Why should I help you?”
“…Capturing the vestige of the Old Gods is our top priority…”
“Sure, it is. But that doesn’t mean I have to help you. Besides…”
The giant priest, his large frame draped in a heavy robe, stepped closer. The thick fabric dragged along the ground, kicking up dust.
He approached her, a predatory gleam in his eyes, and Ereta instinctively stepped back, a sense of unease washing over her. The priest smiled, his expression cruel.
“You seem to be under a misconception. The Weaver of Fire has been… removed. The Three Evil Gods are no more. All the other ‘spiders’ are either dead or devoured.”
He pointed a thick finger at her, his voice dripping with malice.
“We received a new oracle regarding you. Kill you, consume you, and reclaim the divine power.”
Ereta’s eyes widened in horror. She remembered Aslan’s words.
‘Go talk to the Giant’s priest first.’
‘…What?’
‘Ask for his help. Betray us if you want. Do as you please.’
Aslan had pushed her towards this encounter, and she had seen it as an opportunity.
And she had failed.
‘He knew… all along…’
As realization dawned, she saw the priest and the monsters closing in.
The monsters growled at each other, as if discussing which part of her to devour first.
“Don’t take it personally. We weren’t exactly close, even when you were one of us. You would have done the same, wouldn’t you?”
The priest’s grin widened, his face, nearly four meters tall, looming over her.
“Well, you have a pretty face. Perhaps I’ll play with you a little…”
–Thwack!
Just as he reached out a thick, tree-trunk-like arm, something flew from the bushes, embedding itself in his forehead.
A double-headed axe.
Ereta’s axe.
The force of the throw made the axe’s handle vibrate. The priest, the axe head buried deep in his forehead, his eyes rolling back, collapsed.
–Thud.
The monsters, startled by the sudden death of their master, growled and whimpered.
“…Don’t take it personally. You ambushed those soldiers, didn’t you?”
A man emerged from the bushes, his voice calm and steady.
He wore a cloak, a leather jerkin, and quilted armor, his teal eyes cold as he surveyed the monsters.
He held a hand axe and a warhammer, one in each hand.
His face, though weary and melancholic, radiated an aura of quiet strength.
His name was Aslan.
The Master of Battle.
And the Master of Battle was prepared.
As the monsters lowered their stances, preparing to charge, Aslan’s hand brushed against the edge of his vision.
[Angela Tail]
[Strength: 7] [Agility: 4] [Vitality: 7]
[Aslan]
[Mana: 6] [Luck: 5] [Fighting Spirit: 7]
He allocated three points to Angie’s Vitality, two to his own Mana, and one to Luck.
[Mana: 560]
His mana, having reached 6, had more than doubled from 240 to 560.
Mana increased exponentially at certain thresholds. This surge of power granted him more options, more tools.
Feeling the power coursing through him, he gripped the warhammer and hand axe, one in each hand, and stepped forward.
“Angie.”
He called out.
Angie emerged from the bushes, a six-foot staff in hand.
Simple, blunt weapons suited her.
She was too wild, too strong, for refined blade work or technical maneuvers.
Even if her technique improved, her sheer strength would always be her greatest asset.
Hence, the staff.
A cheap, versatile weapon that could be used like a two-handed sword or a spear, capable of inflicting significant damage regardless of where it landed.
Even if it broke under her strength, replacing it wouldn’t be a problem.
Aslan’s weapons, on the other hand, were Ereta’s. Weapons forged by divine hands or plundered from master craftsmen, their quality exceptional.
And those exceptional weapons, gleaming crimson, flew towards the monsters.
–Crack!
The first to fall was the one-eyed giant. It wasn’t agile enough to dodge the blow aimed at its knee.
The axe blade, splitting its knee and emerging on the other side, sent the giant stumbling.
–Thud!
Aslan spun, his movements enhanced by wild magic – a combination of Strength and Agility enhancement – and brought the warhammer down on the giant’s temple, crushing its skull.
–Clang!
As the giant clutched its head and roared, Angie charged, her staff held firmly in both hands. She spun, putting her entire weight and strength into the blow.
–Crack!
The staff slammed into the giant’s skull, cleaving it in two. The staff, entering through its jaw, emerged from the top of its head.
–Thwack!
“Gah!”
But the wide swing left her open. Angie was struck by another giant, seeking revenge for its fallen comrade.
She was thrown back, tumbling across the ground before coming to a stop. She spat out a mouthful of blood and stood up.
“Damn it.”
It was a blow that would have pulverized an ordinary human. But Angie, her Vitality at 7, possessed superhuman resilience. Only her teeth rattled from the impact.
As Angie charged again, Aslan focused on disabling the remaining giants, crippling their mobility to make them easier targets for her.
He kicked one in the knee, then leaped onto its shoulder, slashing at its eye with his axe.
–Roar!
He jumped down, stomping on the monster’s foot, then, as it tried to regain its balance, struck its other leg with both weapons, sending it crashing to the ground. Angie’s staff slammed down on the blinded, incapacitated giants, crushing their skulls.
Ereta watched the carnage unfold, her face a mask of bewilderment, as the monsters’ heads exploded like overripe fruit.
“Angie!”
There had been nine giants in total.
Aslan, having disarmed the eighth giant, shattering its knee with his hammer and severing its ankle with his axe, spun around and kicked it in the groin, then shouted. Angie thrust her staff forward, driving it deep into the one-eyed giant’s remaining eye socket.
–Gurgle.
The monster gurgled and died. The last remaining giant, terrified, ripped a tree from the ground.
Ignoring the fate of its companions and its master, driven by pure instinct, it lifted the massive tree above its head.
–Roar!
–Whoosh!
Aslan, seeing the incoming tree, adjusted his grip on his weapons.
‘Dragonslayer.’
The hand axe turned black. He threw it.
‘Call Lightning.’
A fraction of a second later, the warhammer, wreathed in white light, flew from his hand.
The axe reached the giant first, passing straight through the tree and embedding itself in the monster’s eye.
–ROAR!
As the blinded giant roared and stumbled,
–Crackle!
A thunderclap echoed through the forest, and the tree was thrown back, flying along its original trajectory,
–CRUNCH!
…and crushing the giant’s skull.
The giant’s body, impaled on the tree, slammed into another tree, which fell, triggering a chain reaction, a cascade of falling giants and trees.
The forest floor trembled, the sound echoing through the trees.
When the sound finally subsided, silence returned.
Only the corpses remained, scattered across the forest floor – soldiers, giants, and the giant priest.
Aslan, standing amidst the carnage, his breath coming in ragged gasps, checked his status.
He still had over half his mana, 310, and he had only used two points of Fighting Spirit.
To have defeated a priest and several powerful monsters with so little expenditure was a significant improvement.
‘Having more mana definitely gives me more options.’
The ability to enhance his physical abilities for defense and evasion was proving invaluable, and he was less fatigued, having conserved his energy by fighting more efficiently.
Satisfied with the results, Aslan retrieved his weapons. He held the hand axe and warhammer in his left hand and pulled the double-headed axe from the priest’s skull.
“Aslan, what should we do with her?”
He turned to see Angie standing over Ereta, her staff, coated in the giant’s blood and brains, pointed at the unconscious woman.
“She’s a traitor. Should we kill her?”
Her tone was casual, but her words were chilling. Aslan shook his head and approached Ereta. Angie stepped aside.
Ereta remained motionless, her eyes closed.
Aslan stopped before her, leaning on the double-headed axe.
“…Do you still not believe you’ve been abandoned?”
Ereta didn’t answer, her expression blank. Aslan looked down at her, a flicker of pity in his eyes.
“Is it because it’s the first time you’ve been discarded? After a lifetime of taking?”
His mocking tone finally elicited a reaction. Ereta’s eyes opened.
Her soft pink eyes were filled with fear.
The fear of someone who had lost everything, their familiar life shattered, their power stripped away.
Aslan, seeing that fear, spoke softly,
“That’s what it means to be a god’s tool. Gods don’t have human emotions. To them, all life is equally worthless.”
Ereta’s face was impassive, as if she wasn’t listening, but Aslan continued,
“Priests think they’re special… but that’s just human arrogance. That’s what gods are.”
A hint of loathing crept into his voice, a chilling undercurrent that made Ereta’s mouth open slightly.
“…Why…”
“Why am I telling you this? Why am I not killing you?”
Aslan placed his foot on the axe head and leaned down, his teal eyes meeting hers, his gaze cold and hard.
“Why do you think?”
His eyes, his expression, his tone – all laced with loathing.
Ereta suddenly remembered her death.
The moment Aslan’s axe had torn her apart, the cold, precise movements that had ended her life.
She instinctively touched her neck, her hand coming away damp with sweat.
She trembled, the memory vivid, visceral.
And with each replay of that memory, she felt a strange tightening in her stomach.
It was unusual.
She had always felt a sense of satisfaction, of excitement, when she killed, when she heard the screams of her victims.
She had believed it was her nature.
But now, she felt a different kind of excitement, more intense than anything she had ever experienced.
As if everything she had felt before had been a lie, a pale imitation of her true nature.
The source of this excitement was clear.
The memory of Aslan killing her.
And now, his cold, hateful gaze, his voice filled with loathing.
A heat spread through her, a strange, unfamiliar warmth. She trembled, her face flushed, a mixture of confusion and arousal.
Aslan, seeing her flushed face, her dazed expression, growled,
“You’re not a priest anymore. You’re Ereta. Ereta, the Master of the Mace.”
It was true. She was no longer a priest, but she was still a Great One.
“The Fated of the Universe will try to consume you. And all the other priests and gods will see you as just another morsel, another worthless life, no different from any other human.”
That, too, was true. She would be lucky if they didn’t treat her even worse.
“You were up there, among the chosen. And now, you’re here.”
Aslan’s finger pointed towards the ground, towards where she knelt. His voice softened, the earlier loathing replaced by a weary resignation.
“With us. Just like everyone else. Just another worthless life.”
Ereta looked up at the change in his tone, her eyes meeting his.
There was no hatred in his teal eyes.
He spoke,
“Follow me.”
Ereta’s voice was barely a whisper.
“…And if I refuse…?”
Aslan’s gaze lowered, his voice indifferent.
“You die.”
Did he mean he would kill her? As Aslan saw the question forming in her eyes, he clarified,
“Following me doesn’t guarantee your survival. If things go wrong, if you make a mistake, you could still die. But…”
He leaned down again, his face close to hers. Ereta swallowed, feeling a flush rising in her cheeks.
“If you don’t follow me… you will die. Someone who hates you, a priest, a god, a power-hungry wild mage. Someone will kill you.”
He straightened up, the faint scent of his sweat filling the air. Ereta clenched and unclenched her hands.
“I’m not offering you false hope. I’m offering you a blood-soaked path. You have to fight for it.”
What will you choose? He let the question hang in the air, then dropped the two swords he had been holding onto the ground before her. The clatter of metal echoed through the forest.
“Certain death, or a chance at survival. The choice is yours. If you choose to live… pick up the weapons.”
Ereta looked at Aslan, his gaze lowered, then at the two swords lying on the ground.
They were the swords she had used as a priest.
Weapons that had once blazed with divine power, wreathed in flames.
But now, no matter how hard she willed it, no fire ignited. Only her reflection, her tear-streaked face, stared back at her from the bloodstained metal.
‘…I truly have… been abandoned.’
She finally understood.
She was a discarded priest.
Lucky to be alive. Most priests died the moment their power was taken away.
She closed her eyes, swallowing the rising tide of regret.
Regret was pointless.
She picked up the swords. They felt heavy in her hands, no longer light and easy to wield as they had been when she was a priest.
She placed them on her lap and looked up at Aslan.
He was watching her, his expression unreadable.
There was no killing intent in his eyes. Just a clear, calm gaze, like a cloudless sky.
He killed priests and monsters without hesitation, showed no mercy to any who challenged him.
That was the Aslan she knew.
The Aslan who had killed her.
She had to ask.
“Why… why didn’t you kill me?”
Aslan’s answer was immediate, without hesitation.
“Because you’re human now.”
At his decisive words, Ereta lowered her gaze, a long silence filling the air, punctuated only by the rustling of leaves outside the cell. Then, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’ll follow you. Teach me… how to survive.”
Aslan didn’t reply, but Ereta believed she had heard his answer.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
