Surviving the Evil Gods – Chapter 34

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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This persuasion was built on a foundation of lies.

Aslan knew that such deception would inevitably have consequences.

But he lied anyway.

Because he had no other choice.

Ereta’s recruitment hinged on those lies. Telling her the truth – that the Weaver of Fire wanted her back, that she hadn’t been abandoned – wouldn’t have worked.

The truth would only fuel her resentment, her desire to regain her former glory.

He couldn’t trust someone like that. Couldn’t risk having her at his back, even temporarily. He would have been better off killing her.

So he had lied.

He had manipulated her.

He justified it by reminding himself that she had already died once, died as a priest and been reborn as a human.

A human who hadn’t yet crossed the line he had drawn in the sand.

His principles remained intact, and he could live with the deception.

Especially since it had worked.

He glanced at Ereta, her head bowed, clutching the two swords, then turned towards the corpses.

Not the bodies of the giant priest and his monsters, but the bodies of the soldiers.

‘Horrific.’

Their faces were frozen in expressions of agony and terror, their bodies mutilated, their entrails spilling out.

Aslan’s gaze swept over the carnage, searching for identifying marks on their armor and cloaks.

He found it – two horns, one above the other, and a crescent shape beneath them, like an upturned bowl, representing the surrounding hills.

The insignia of House Helsingor, as expected.

He sighed, and Angie, who had been watching Ereta, turned to look at him.

Aslan waved his hand dismissively, as if telling her not to worry.

‘At least this part is following the main quest.’

The original main quest had unfolded like this:

Regardless of what happened in the Sangirus Margravate, the protagonist would choose their next destination – either the Vida Kingdom or the Baramunz Mountain Kingdom.

Upon arriving, they would be met by soldiers from that region.

The soldiers would offer to join the protagonist and provide information about the local situation.

And then came the crucial part. If the protagonist lingered too long, they would be ambushed by a priest.

While the type of priest was somewhat random, it was usually a priest of the Fated of the Universe.

‘A massacre… this soon?’

Even for Aslan, who had spent twelve years wandering through this brutal world, the sight of so many corpses was unsettling. He hated fighting, hated seeing the dead.

If it had been something he could have prevented, he would have felt some measure of responsibility, some regret. But he hadn’t had the chance.

He had arrived at the border of the Vida Kingdom to find the soldiers already dead.

The priest had been here before him.

‘There wasn’t a single scratch on him. A surprise attack, then.’

While the priest now lay dead, his skull crushed by the axe Aslan had thrown, he had been completely unharmed just moments before.

And the monsters had been unscathed as well. It was highly likely the soldiers had been ambushed, given no chance to fight back.

This could mean one of two things.

Either information about their movements had been leaked,

Or the Order of the Fated of the Universe was closely monitoring their movements, anticipating their actions.

‘A leak is unlikely.’

Aslan dismissed the possibility of a traitor. If there had been an informant, they would have been here as well. But he had only fought monsters and a priest.

And this small band of soldiers wasn’t a significant enough loss for the Helsingor Duchy to warrant placing an informant deep within their ranks. If there had been a human collaborator within the Duchy, the Order would have launched a more direct attack.

It seemed more likely that there had been a conflict, a direct confrontation, between the Helsingor Duchy and the Order of the Fated of the Universe. But he didn’t have enough information to be certain. He needed more details.

Aslan stood up, intending to bury the soldiers’ bodies after he had examined them.

He walked past Ereta and approached the priest’s corpse.

The priest, his skull split open, was clutching something in his hand. A letter.

“Just as I thought.”

Ereta and Angie looked at him, but Aslan, without explaining, picked up the letter. It was a piece of parchment, its edges stained with blood, but still legible.

He wiped the blood away and unfolded the parchment. The contents, as he had suspected, confirmed his theory.

The parchment, meant for the Helsingor soldiers, was a request for reinforcements to counter the priests heading towards the Shrine of Grief.

Orders to travel through the Margravate, minimizing contact, reach Belus Vida, gather reinforcements, and return.

Aslan read the letter and sighed.

Belus Vida was far to the northwest of their current location. The soldiers had died before completing their mission.

And the contents of the letter differed from his memories of the game.

‘Why are they targeting the Shrine of Grief?’

It didn’t make sense.

The Shrine of Grief was the sanctuary of the Goddess of Grief and Death, the last surviving principal Old God.

The area surrounding the shrine was perpetually plagued by rain and hailstorms, the sea routes impassable due to violent storms.

And the monsters… the area was teeming with wraiths and other spectral creatures, making it a place to be avoided, even by priests.

Neither the Margrave nor the Duke wanted the Shrine of Grief within their territories.

So why would the priests be going there?

Aslan couldn’t understand. It had never happened in the game.

In Eternal Dominion, the Shrine of Grief, along with the Swamp of Grief, the River of Grief, and even the Bay of Grief, were notoriously devoid of priest activity.

‘Things are getting complicated.’

He couldn’t be sure if this was a consequence of his twelve years of interference, or simply a result of the game becoming reality. He would have to see for himself.

Aslan tucked the letter into his pocket and considered his options.

His original destination had been the Honingal Barony, based on rumors that the Master of the Sword was there.

The Shrine of Grief, however, was to the southeast, closer to their current location, but not on the way to Honingal.

He thought of the Shrine of Eternal Night.

The site of his first defeat, the place where he had parted ways with the Master of the Sword he had been traveling with.

A ruined sanctuary.

That was the problem.

According to the main quest line, he had to visit every shrine, every place where a god had died.

And now, the priests, for reasons unknown, were converging on the Shrine of Grief.

This wasn’t good.

While there were two Shrines of Eternal Night, there was only one Shrine of Grief.

If it was destroyed, he would have to either find the Goddess of Grief and Death in the underworld, or locate her remains amidst the ruins of the shrine.

If the priests’ goal was to destroy the shrine, it could disrupt the main quest line.

His twelve years of wandering had already created significant deviations from the game’s storyline. He couldn’t afford to have the main quest derailed as well.

He didn’t have many options. If he could prevent the shrine’s destruction, he had to. He looked at his companions.

Angie, her gaze fixed on Ereta with a mixture of suspicion and annoyance.

And Ereta, staring blankly ahead, her eyes unfocused.

Both girls reacted to his gaze.

Aslan smiled wryly.

“I think… we need to change our plans.”

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Rain lashed down, relentless, as if eager to consume everything in its path.

The river, swollen by the downpour, surged and churned, soaking those who dared to cross.

A monster, caught in the current, shrieked and thrashed, but the rain showed no signs of stopping. Even the monsters felt the sting of the icy rain, mixed with hail.

–Roar!

A four-legged, dog-like monster, its low stature making it vulnerable to the rising waters, was swept away, its pitiful cries fading into the roar of the river. The large woman leading the group gritted her teeth and shouted,

“Just hold on! We just need to cross the river!”

But her words were swallowed by the storm, lost to the wind and the rain. Her encouragement turned to a grim silence as more monsters were swept away by the current.

The downpour was blinding, making it impossible to see even a few feet ahead. The priests and monsters finally reached the other side, stumbling onto the muddy bank, the ground so saturated that their feet sank up to their ankles.

Better than being swept away. The monsters, relieved to be on solid ground, shook the water from their fur.

The scrawny man trailing behind them spoke,

“How many were lost?”

The woman, a priest of the Earth-Shattering Giant, didn’t reply. The rain was too loud.

The man approached her, poking her shoulder.

“I said, how many were lost?!”

“…About ten.”

The giant priest finally answered, her voice barely audible above the storm. The scrawny man wiped his face, then pulled back his hood, revealing a gaunt, sickly face.

His skin was scarred and pockmarked.

A priest of the Poison-Breathing Dragon, another aspect of the Fated of the Universe.

His expression was grim as he walked ahead. The giant priest, watching him, pulled back her own hood and followed.

The woman, her angular face framed by long, curly hair, gritted her teeth and gestured to the monsters. The creatures, still shivering from the cold rain, obeyed her silent command.

In the distance, the entrance to a shrine, its architecture striking and imposing, came into view.

The priest at the front of the group frowned, his face etched with desperation, as he looked at the shrine.

It had all started with the Weaver of Fire’s foolishness.

The Weaver of Fire, in its desperation to save its favorite toy, had wasted a significant amount of its divine power. A reckless expenditure, but they had seen no other option.

And as a result, the Three Evil Gods were no longer whole. The balance of power within the Fated of the Universe had been disrupted.

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

The Weaver of Fire’s actions had weakened not only itself, but the entire Fated of the Universe faction.

They were now vulnerable, their power within reach of the other gods.

The other gods were now openly targeting them, their hunger growing.

They had to find a way to replenish their divine power, to restore their strength, or they risked being devoured, erased from existence.

That’s why they were here, seeking the Shrine of Grief.

To steal the divine energy contained within, to restore their order to its former glory.

The priest of the Poison-Breathing Dragon stared at the shrine, his expression grim.

“…Are you sure… this is the right place? Are you certain there’s divine energy here? It’s been ages since the Old God died…”

To anyone else, it seemed like a desperate gamble, a fool’s errand.

The giant priest approached him, and the Dragon priest, his gaze fixed on the shrine, spoke with unwavering conviction,

“Yes. It’s here.”

But his certainty was hollow, unsupported by any evidence. The giant priest, shielding her face from the rain, asked,

“Why are you so sure? I’d like to know as well.”

The Dragon priest scoffed, as if the answer was obvious.

…Obvious?

“That’s…”

His memories were murky, like bones sinking into a swamp. Bubbles of air rose to the surface, distorting the images, the fragmented memories.

He frowned, his mouth opening and closing, his mind struggling to grasp the elusive memory.

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t recall why, or who had told him.

He simply knew, with an unshakeable certainty, that the divine energy was here.

‘Why here, of all places?’ The echo of the thought, like a ripple in the still water, made a single tear of blood roll down his cheek.

“…It just is, okay? If you have a better idea, let’s hear it. Otherwise, just shut up and follow me! We can argue later!”

The giant priest, her face a mask of annoyance, stepped back. The Dragon priest was equally irritated. And so, driven by an unknown compulsion, they entered the Shrine of Grief.

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