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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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Rain poured down, a torrential downpour that seemed determined to wash away the world, to erase it in a flood of blue-grey.
Aslan trudged forward, the hood of his cloak plastered to his head, the faint taste of salt clinging to the damp fabric.
‘I feel like I’m being marinated alive.’
Having been captured by monsters before, Aslan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being prepared for consumption, seasoned and tenderized for a gruesome feast.
The air around the Shrine of Grief was thick with humidity, heavy with the scent of salt and decay.
It felt like walking across a giant, weeping eye.
The oppressive atmosphere was unsettling, bordering on terrifying, but he couldn’t turn back.
He had to reach the Shrine of Grief. He had to see what was happening.
Lost in thought, Aslan had lowered his stance. He reached out, pulling Angie down beside him, then gestured towards something beyond the curtain of rain.
“What is it?”
Angie asked, her eyes squeezed shut against the downpour.
Aslan kept his hand on her shoulder, his voice low.
“We’re almost there. Keep your voice down.”
He gestured again, and Angie, opening her eyes slightly, flinched as she saw a blurry shape moving through the rain.
A figure hovering in the air, its form indistinct, almost ethereal. A swirling mist with a single, sharp shadow at its core, a shadow that shimmered with a cold, blue light.
The shadow resembled a veiled woman. And a faint divine aura radiated from it.
It was a banshee.
The final form of a priest of the Goddess of Grief and Death, a soul that had chosen to remain in the mortal realm instead of passing on to the underworld.
In most fantasy games, they would be classified as undead.
But in Gelladrion, they were something… more. Creatures possessing a fragment of divine power, the ability to charm, a life-draining kiss, and a sonic attack.
Difficult to defeat, resistant to physical attacks and, due to their connection to an Old God, partially resistant to magic as well.
While they became little more than walking experience points if you knew how to exploit their weaknesses, they were formidable opponents best avoided if you lacked the proper tools.
Aslan continued forward, a grim determination in his eyes. Ereta and Angie followed close behind.
Moving from one faint sign to the next, Aslan drew closer to the shrine.
And as they approached, the monsters swept away by the river began to appear.
Dog-like creatures, grotesque mockeries of giants, long, serpentine bodies –
A menagerie of monsters, waterlogged and dying, littered the path.
Aslan, without hesitation, ended their suffering, driving the blade of his double-headed axe into their necks. He killed every monster they encountered.
Finally, after crossing several swollen streams, they reached the shrine. Aslan lowered his stance, peering through the downpour.
–Screech!
–Growl! Yelp!
Monsters were fighting at the entrance to the shrine, their forms barely visible through the driving rain.
Monsters brought by the priests, and banshees.
The banshees, their ethereal bodies allowing for incredible speed and agility, darted through the air, draining the life from their opponents or unleashing earsplitting shrieks that turned the monsters’ brains to mush.
The monsters tried to fight back, but the banshees simply floated out of reach, their movements unpredictable.
Aslan watched the scene unfold, a thoughtful frown on his face.
Even after all this time, even after the defeat of the Old Gods, their monsters and the monsters of the new gods continued to fight.
It was a strange sight, something he hadn’t seen in the game.
But the tide of the battle was turning. The monsters of the Old Gods couldn’t defeat the monsters of the new gods. The outcome of their masters’ war had already sealed their fate.
As the banshees, overwhelmed by the monsters’ relentless attacks, began to falter, their ethereal bodies dissolving, Aslan drew his bow.
The longbow he had requisitioned in the Margravate, the same bow he had used to pierce Ereta’s eye.
The heavy rain hammered against the weapon, but the monsters, locked in combat, didn’t notice.
Aslan aimed at the swirling mass of fighting monsters, pulling a bodkin-pointed arrow from his quiver and nocking it to the bowstring.
–Creak.
The bowstring stretched taut, humming under the strain. Aslan held his breath, then released.
–Thwang!
The arrow flew, its trajectory straight and true even in the driving rain, embedding itself in a monster’s head.
–Thwang! Thwang! Thwang! Thwang!
The twang of the bowstring echoed through the air as arrow after arrow found its mark, piercing the skulls of the giant monsters.
With each shot, another monster fell. They finally noticed him, turning their heads towards the source of the arrows, but…
–SCREEECH!
A banshee, swooping down from above, unleashed an earsplitting shriek. The monsters clutched their heads, blood pouring from their eyes, ears, and noses, before collapsing, lifeless.
The banshee, its scream its final act, was then devoured by a giant serpent.
Aslan, unfazed, loosed his last arrow.
–Thwang!
The arrow pierced the serpent’s head, its venomous fangs dripping, and silence descended upon the entrance to the shrine.
Aslan lowered his bow, exhaling slowly.
“What… was all that…?”
Angie, staring at the carnage, her voice filled with disgust, asked no one in particular.
“….”
Ereta bit her lip, her expression a mixture of horror and morbid fascination.
Aslan, understanding her reaction, didn’t comment. He simply patted her shoulder reassuringly and stepped forward.
He saw the trail leading to the shrine’s entrance, a path marked by footprints, some human, some not.
“…Wow.”
The interior of the shrine was unlike anything he had ever seen.
The dark, somber walls pulsed with a faint blue light, lines of glowing script covering every surface, forming what looked like words and sentences.
The glowing script stretched down a long corridor, and Angie gasped as they entered, her voice a mix of awe and disgust.
Even the sight of a monster, impaled on a spike trap, its body mangled and contorted, didn’t fully diminish her astonishment.
Aslan approached the dead monster, shifting his bow to his other hand.
It was a pressure plate trap, the trigger hidden amidst the glowing script, almost invisible. The spikes that had impaled the monster glowed with the same faint blue light as the writing on the walls.
Beside the trap, he saw blood splattered on the wall, forming a trail leading deeper into the shrine. Aslan frowned.
It was a trail.
A trail left by the priests.
Aslan followed the trail, gathering information as he went.
With each triggered trap, the number of footprints decreased. New bloodstains appeared, indicating that some had been injured along the way.
They weren’t having an easy time.
Some of the blood was venomous, allowing Aslan to deduce the composition of the group.
The presence of a dead giant among the monsters meant the Giant’s priest was with them. And the venomous bloodstains indicated the presence of the Poison-Breathing Dragon’s priest.
While the group consisted mostly of monsters, there were also a few human followers, judging by the footprints.
Aslan, piecing together the information, turned to Ereta.
“Ereta, is there an Order base near here?”
“…No. The closest one is in the Forest of Laughter, further north.”
Ereta, who had been unusually quiet, answered his question, her grip tightening on her weapons. Aslan finally understood.
They were in a hurry.
And they were desperate.
They were looking for something, something important enough to make them push forward recklessly, sacrificing their followers to the traps instead of proceeding cautiously.
The trail led to a large cavern filled with sarcophagi.
A campfire and several bedrolls lay in the center of the cavern.
It had clearly been used as a campsite, but it was now cold and deserted, save for a pile of corpses.
Aslan approached the bodies.
‘Most of the weapons are piled up beside the bedrolls. Theirs, then?’
The weapons were neatly stacked, which was unusual.
The bloodstains scattered across the floor suggested there had been a struggle, some resistance, but they hadn’t had time to arm themselves.
They had been caught off guard, attacked while they weren’t expecting it. And judging by the lack of defensive wounds, the attack had likely been ordered, not a spontaneous act of violence.
‘They were attacked by their own. Betrayal? Infighting? Or…’
Whatever the reason, the ambush hadn’t been entirely successful. There had been resistance, but the attackers had pressed their advantage, preventing their victims from arming themselves.
Most of the corpses were giant monsters, their followers, and their priest.
Aslan’s gaze settled on the giant priest, a woman.
Her throat was torn open, her face contorted in a rictus of pain, the venom from the wound clearly having been the cause of death.
While he couldn’t be sure of the reason for the infighting, he wasn’t one to let a good opportunity go to waste. He walked towards the bedrolls and picked up a large, single-edged dao, adding it to his collection.
“Angie, gather any usable weapons. You too, Ereta.”
“…I’m fine.”
“I’ve already got some.”
Ereta declined, and Angie was already holding a mace and a strangely curved sword. As soon as they were ready, Aslan continued to follow the trail.
As they moved deeper into the shrine, beyond the cavern, the number of triggered traps and corpses increased.
They were getting closer to the heart of the shrine.
A faint tension filled the air, and a putrid smell, like rotting flesh, assaulted their nostrils.
Aslan inhaled the stench, a grim realization dawning on him.
They were close to the dungeon boss.
The trail led to a long corridor, its walls covered in glowing blue script, stained and splattered with blood, littered with corpses impaled on traps.
The deepest part of the Shrine of Grief.
Aslan raised a hand, signaling them to stop, as a sound reached his ears.
“…Kill…”
–Screech!
A distant cacophony of clashing metal and guttural roars. Aslan listened to the sounds, the screams and shouts, and cautiously moved forward, his bow drawn, an arrow nocked to the string.
He reached the end of the corridor and peered into the brightly lit chamber beyond, his brow furrowing at the scene before him.
The Shrine of Grief was a dungeon. And like all dungeons, it had a boss, a named monster.
A creature said to be the result of the Grief and Death Goddess’s most devout priest going insane after his god’s death.
The Daughter of Grief, a named banshee.
And she was fighting the priest of the Poison-Breathing Dragon.
Most of the monsters lay dead, scattered across the floor, but a few still remained, their bodies battered and broken, desperately attacking the banshee.
The Dragon priest, his decaying skin oozing pus-like venom, fought with a frenzied desperation, his eyes rolled back, showing only the whites.
It was a brutal, chaotic fight.
‘…At this rate, the Daughter of Grief will win.’
The tide of the battle had clearly turned. The priest was missing half his torso, and his remaining monsters were either dead or dying.
The Daughter of Grief, however, seemed relatively unharmed.
Aslan, watching from the shadows, raised his bow, aiming.
He intended to kill whoever survived. It was the most efficient approach.
He was about to step out of the shadows when,
–Crack!
The banshee, which had been slashing at the Dragon priest with its claws, its ethereal body flickering, suddenly snapped its head around.
Its head twisted at an unnatural angle, its gaze fixed on the shadows where Aslan hid, its glowing blue eyes locked onto him.
“…What?”
Aslan stared, his surprise evident, the banshee turned, its white dress swirling around it as it floated towards him, its movements swift and direct.
It ignored the monsters and the priest still attacking it, its focus solely on Aslan. A chilling killing intent radiated from its ethereal form.
“…Damn it.”
Aslan, seeing the banshee change its target, cursed, discarding his bow and drawing his axes, his face a mask of annoyance and frustration.
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