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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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“Gasp… Huff… Ugh…”
The man ran, driven by the primal need to survive.
His breath hitched in his throat, and blood soaked his clothes, staining them crimson.
Despite his injuries, he kept running, his enhanced physiology—a gift from the Poison-Breathing Dragon—pushing him beyond human limits.
He turned sharply into a narrow alley, the cramped space offering some concealment. He couldn’t risk being seen in the open. He fought back the rising nausea, his lungs burning, forcing his legs onward.
“Aaaaagh!”
He cried out as he stumbled and fell, a searing pain ripping through his thigh. Clutching his leg, he managed to look down.
A bone shard, the size of his hand, was embedded deep in the flesh.
“Ugh… nnngh… ngh…”
Blood pooled beneath him, slick on the alley floor, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the shard free. His vision swam, his leg throbbed, but he scrambled to his feet and limped onward.
He had to escape. He had to live.
He stumbled to the end of the long alley, then froze. A grotesque creature stood waiting.
Its legs were humanoid but stripped bare of flesh, revealing only bone and sinew. Intestines, studded with sharp bone fragments like a barbed whip, spilled from its abdomen. Where its head should have been, a long, hollow tube protruded. The follower instantly recognized it as a follower of the Formless One.
The monstrous creature advanced slowly.
As the follower turned to flee, the intestines lashed out with blinding speed.
–Thwack!
“Gah…”
A sharp, blade-like tip pierced his stomach. The tendril writhed like a snake, then flung him backward. He landed hard, his own entrails spilling onto the blood-slicked ground. His vision dimmed.
‘I’m dying.’
The barbed intestines coiled, ready to strike the finishing blow.
–Thwack!
The creature flinched, freezing mid-strike as an arrow pierced its side, tearing through its flesh.
It was an arrow, slender and sharp-tipped like an awl.
As the arrow struck, the creature lifted its tube-like head.
–Thwack! Thwack!
More arrows struck simultaneously, piercing its flesh. It recoiled, its head, a tendril, and an arm vanishing, leaving a smooth, empty shoulder. The follower felt a surge of hope.
‘An ally? One of our priests?’
The thought of survival ignited a desperate spark within him. He struggled to rise, trying to escape.
–Thwack!
Before he could move, another arrow pierced his other thigh. He screamed, his eyes wide with pain and terror.
The arrows had been fired almost simultaneously, too rapidly for a single archer. Then, a figure emerged from the opposite end of the alley.
A man with cold teal eyes and dark, curly hair- Aslan.
Aslan lowered his bow and drew his axe from his back.
It was Ereta’s former weapon, a heavy, double-headed axe. He lowered his stance and charged.
The creature, seeing Aslan approach, immediately lashed out with its remaining tendrils.
The intestinal whips, studded with razor-sharp bone fragments, hissed through the air.
–Whoosh!
It swung downwards, aiming for Aslan’s head in the narrow alley. It was an attack nearly impossible to dodge. Aslan met the blow head-on, swinging his axe.
–Shhk!
He cut through it.
Despite the dense layer of bone fragments, Aslan precisely angled his axe, slicing cleanly between the shards.
He brought the axe back over his shoulder in a smooth motion as a second tendril whipped towards him. The creature possessed several of these intestinal appendages.
“Haa…”
Aslan inhaled sharply, twisting his body to evade the attack. The tendril scraped against the alley wall with a grating sound.
–Screeech!
Aslan slipped past it, closing the distance.
Three meters. Too far for the axe, but within reach of the tendrils.
A tendril whipped upwards from below. Aslan saw the whip-like appendage aiming for his chin and brought his axe down from over his shoulder.
–Swish!
He severed it cleanly. Though repeatedly losing its appendages, the Formless One remained impassive, emotionless. It calmly aimed its long, tube-like head at Aslan.
–Fwip!
With a soft hiss, a bone projectile, shaped like a large nail, shot out.
–Clang!
The projectile missed Aslan but struck his axe, knocking it from his grasp. Disarmed, Aslan faced the creature as it lunged, its intestines writhing, hungry for a new meal.
The follower of the Formless One was ravenous, driven by a primal desire for souls, for flesh and bone. The prospect of feeding blinded it to the subtle shift in the air.
It didn’t notice the faint glow emanating from Aslan’s hand until it was too late.
‘Pierce Heart.’
As the skill activated, Aslan’s hand pulsed with a faint blue light.
Pierce Heart was a martial arts perk, simple in effect; it granted his bare hands the power to pierce even the thickest hide, enough to shatter a beast’s heart.
His hand, now deadlier than a dagger, ensured the outcome was certain.
–Swish!
He deflected the incoming tendril with an upward chop, severing it as cleanly as if with a masterwork blade.
This clearly unnatural feat startled the Formless One. As it hesitated, Aslan’s hand shot forward.
–Thump!
His hand punched straight through the creature’s head.
Maintaining his grip, Aslan spun, lifting the creature.
“Do you know how to fall?”
The creature’s legs flailed as it was spun around and slammed onto the ground.
–Thud!
The impact drove the air from its lungs. It twitched feebly as Aslan’s foot descended.
A merciless stomp.
–Crack!
The creature’s body shattered, its movements ceasing.
Aslan poured oil from a flask over the corpse.
Once the body was thoroughly soaked, he put the flask away and pointed a finger.
“Ignite.”
–Poof!
A spark flew from his fingertip, igniting the oil. The stench of burning flesh filled the cramped alley.
Amidst the spreading smoke, the follower of the Poison-Breathing Dragon watched, relieved.
He didn’t recognize Aslan.
Aslan approached and offered the follower his hand. Unable to stand on his own, the follower grasped it gratefully.
“Th-thank you. Are you perhaps one of our priests…?”
He never anticipated what followed.
Aslan, instead of helping him up, yanked him forward, gripping his hand and collar, then slammed him onto the ground using the same martial arts throw he’d used on the Formless One’s follower.
–Thud!
“Gah…!”
–Crack!
“Ugh… uhn…”
He hit the ground hard, bones snapping. Aslan drew his dagger and plunged it into the follower’s shoulder. The man gasped in pain and shock, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Aslan’s voice was cold.
“You thought the one who shot you in the leg was your ally? You haven’t learned your lesson, have you.”
–Grind.
“Aaaaagh!”
He twisted the blade. The follower screamed, the raw agony tearing through the alley.
“Ugh… uhn… Why… why are you doing this…?”
Aslan stopped twisting the dagger. The follower looked up, his eyes wide with terror.
“I have a few questions. Answer truthfully, and quickly, and there won’t be any problems.”
“W-will you let me live… if I talk?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“I-I won’t talk if you won’t let me live! I… I… Aaaaagh!”
Aslan, his expression glacial, ripped the dagger from the follower’s shoulder and plunged it into the back of his hand.
–Thwack!
He slowly dragged the reversed blade upwards, slicing through bone, muscle, and skin. Blood flowed freely.
“Does pain not concern you? I can offer you more, if that’s what it takes. Tell me everything, don’t leave anything out, or you’ll regret it.”
Aslan pulled the dagger free and pressed its tip against the follower’s cheek. The follower gasped, terror evident in his eyes.
“A-alright… alright… Please… please…”
The follower begged for mercy, but Aslan remained unmoved, his gaze cold and hard.
The sheer lack of emotion in his eyes made the follower shrink back, trembling. After a long, tense silence, Aslan spoke.
“It’s over. Come out.”
“Okay.”
“Yes.”
Angie and Ereta emerged from opposite ends of the alley, where Aslan had stationed them to cut off any escape.
They approached the captured follower, their expressions distinct.
Ereta watched Aslan’s ruthlessness with a disturbing fascination, her hands clenching and unclenching the fabric of her cloak. Angie looked away, disgusted, then blushed, remembering her earlier boast about handling the interrogation herself.
Only the follower of the Poison-Breathing Dragon was truly terrified. He waited, teeth chattering, for the questions to begin.
The first question was straightforward.
“Tell me everything you know about the Formless One.”
“Th-the Formless One?”
Without hesitation, Aslan stabbed the follower through the cheek with his dagger, piercing it and pulling the blade out through his mouth. The follower choked back a scream, blood pouring from the ragged wound.
“Answer me. That’s all you’re allowed to do.”
“H-He’s a god! A god!”
“Why is this god attacking you?”
“Th-that’s…”
He hesitated, and Aslan’s dagger flashed again, slicing across his eye. The follower cried out, clutching his face.
–Crack!
“Ugh… uhn…”
“Why is this god attacking you?”
“I… I don’t know… I don’t know… Suddenly… suddenly…”
Aslan stabbed him again, this time in the arm, twisting the blade, grating it against bone as if peeling flesh away. The follower arched his back, screaming.
“Why is this god attacking you?”
He repeated the question as he pulled the dagger free, but the follower could only gasp, shaking his head, repeating, “I don’t know.”
‘Does he really not know?’
Since arriving in Kardi, Aslan had relentlessly hunted the Formless One’s followers, discovering the strange fact that they were attacking each other.
He had interrogated several captured followers, but none knew the reason. Their consistent claims of ignorance led Aslan to conclude that the rank-and-file knew nothing.
From this, he inferred something else, the Formless One wasn’t just attacking Kardi; it was waging war against the Fated of the Universe within the city.
Whether it was a one-sided conflict or not remained unclear, but the targeted aggression was undeniable.
How the Formless One identified the followers of the Fated of the Universe and why it attacked them so aggressively, causing significant civilian casualties, was still a mystery.
‘What’s its motive?’
Aslan wondered, sheathing his dagger.
Gods, even the evil ones, usually had some discernible motivation, even if it was just base emotion.
The Formless One’s actions seemed utterly random, almost mindless.
He had initially suspected it might be the entity behind his predicament, but its actions seemed too crude, too lacking in subtlety.
Perhaps it was a smokescreen, but for now, it didn’t fit the profile of a calculating mastermind.
“I… I don’t know anything… Milord, please… please let me go… Kardi… the Kardi branch… destroyed… I don’t know anything… It won’t help…”
The follower begged, his words slurred by his split cheek. Aslan looked down at him, his face impassive. He looked human.
Aslan drew his dagger again and slid it beneath the follower’s torn clothing.
–Rip.
“Ugh…”
He ripped the fabric, revealing dry, cracked skin beneath. Scales clung to the rotting flesh, and the pungent smell of venom filled the air. Clear evidence of Partial Priestification. Proof he had abandoned his humanity.
Aslan spoke, his voice flat.
“No. You die here.”
“N-no…”
–Crack!
Aslan drove the dagger into the follower’s forehead. The man shuddered, then went still. The dagger quivered in his skull.
Aslan pulled the dagger free, stood up, and glanced at the corpse of the Formless One’s follower.
Hunting them down had been relatively easy. Their unclear motives and the reasons behind their actions were frustrating, but the hunt itself was manageable. Even the transformed followers, while powerful, were still just followers, not priests.
The real difficulty lay in finding them. He recalled the instantaneous, grotesque transformation. Without a way to identify them beforehand, ambush was almost guaranteed.
Fortunately, Aslan had two methods.
The first stemmed from the realization that the Formless One’s followers were actively hunting the Fated of the Universe. Identifying the Formless ones was hard, but finding the Fated followers was easy with Ereta’s help.
He could track them, wait for the ambush, eliminate the attackers, interrogate the survivors, check for Partial Priestification, and then imprison or kill them.
The second method, inspired by the Duke’s negotiation with the Dragon priest, involved using himself as bait. If other gods could sense their followers, the Formless One likely could too. And Purity, radiating the unfamiliar divine energy of an Old God, was the perfect lure.
Once drawn out, Aslan could rely on his heightened senses, honed by experience and amplified by his Luck stat, to detect them first.
He had caught many followers this way.
The problem was the sheer number.
“How many is this now?”
“Seventy-one.”
It was an excessive number, even for a cult’s standard recruitment. Considering there were likely more hidden within Kardi, it was deeply unsettling.
“…Isn’t that too many? We’ve already caught that many?”
Even Angie found the number alarming, and Ereta frowned, tilting her head thoughtfully.
Gods didn’t typically deploy their followers so recklessly. While the death of followers didn’t diminish a god’s power directly, they were still valuable assets.
Aslan puzzled over the Formless One’s strategy. It lacked the usual patterns, the typical motivations – whether emotional or logical – that drove the other gods.
‘What is the Formless One’s goal? What does it want?’
He felt close to an answer, but a crucial piece was missing. Frustration gnawed at him. He considered hunting down a priest, hoping for more information, when…
“—Monster! This way—”
A shout interrupted his thoughts, followed by the clash of steel.
He recognized the inhuman screech of the Formless One’s followers. The sounds of fighting, mixed with fleeing footsteps, echoed from a nearby street, heading towards their alley.
“Just through this alley…!”
The sounds stopped, and eight men stumbled into the alley. They were followers of the Poison-Breathing Dragon, their faces marked by scales and rotting flesh, their weapons bloody, their chests heaving.
“They’re coming! Run! Go!”
The leader froze upon seeing Aslan, then was pushed forward by his companions. Aslan kicked his discarded axe back into his hand.
A horde of Formless One followers appeared behind the fleeing Dragon followers, blocking the alley exit.
The Dragon followers crowded into the center of the alley, trapped between Aslan and the Formless ones.
The leader, the one with the most advanced transformation, groaned, his face contorted in despair.
“Of all the rotten luck…”
He recognized Aslan. He knew who he was. He recognized the former High Priest and the vestige of the Old Gods beside him.
Aslan, seeing the recognition, smiled faintly.
The final piece of the puzzle.
“Don’t kill that one. Let him live.”
Aslan instructed his companions.
The lead follower’s face paled, his despair turning to terror.
“They’re coming…!”
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