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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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–Crack!
The sound of bone and flesh splitting echoed through the alley. The man responsible for the sound remained impassive, while the victim, the target of his blow, saw and heard nothing more.
The axe, embedded in the follower’s head, quivered slightly. The follower’s eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the ground.
Blood pooled around his body, soaking into the alley floor. The man standing over him took a shaky breath, his body trembling slightly.
The alley, moments ago a scene of chaotic pursuit, was now strangely silent, the aftermath a gruesome tableau.
The followers of the Formless One lay scattered, either dead on the ground or impaled on the alley walls, their bodies twitching faintly.
The corpses skewered against the grey brick walls were mostly Angie’s handiwork, while the dismembered bodies littering the ground were mostly Ereta’s.
Interspersed among the mangled remains of the Formless One’s followers were the corpses of those who served the Poison-Breathing Dragon.
Their numbers had been small to begin with, and their bodies now seemed like macabre decorations scattered amongst the carnage.
Amidst the silence of the dead, only four figures remained standing.
Ereta, her face splattered with blood, a grim smile playing on her lips, held an axe and a warhammer.
Angie, her arms stained crimson, stood guard at the opposite end of the alley, her expression fierce.
Aslan, having just dispatched the fifth follower, his axe still embedded in the corpse’s head, turned his gaze towards the fourth, the priest-to-be.
And the priest himself, the last survivor of his group.
Silence hung heavy between them, their eyes locked in a tense standoff. Mostly between Aslan and the priest.
“Shit…”
The priest muttered under his breath. Aslan remained impassive, his cold gaze fixed on him. The priest, realizing he had spoken aloud, glanced around nervously, searching for an escape route.
Running wasn’t an option. He had seen what Angie could do. He had witnessed her terrifying strength and agility during the earlier fight.
He had seen her split a follower of the Formless One in two with her staff, had seen her catch a lashing tendril and slam the creature into the ground.
He knew he couldn’t outrun her.
And escaping towards Aslan, towards the infamous Master of Battle and the former High Priest standing beside him, was suicide.
–How do I get out of this alive?
He thought frantically, his eyes darting around, his sword held defensively before him. Aslan shifted his stance.
He didn’t draw his axe. Instead, he raised his fists, holding them near his eyes.
A classic fighting stance. The priest frowned.
The Master of Battle, choosing to fight him hand-to-hand?
He was a follower whose transformation into a priest was nearly complete.
While not as strong as a full priest, he was far beyond the capabilities of an ordinary human.
And followers of the Poison-Breathing Dragon gained increased durability and the ability to wield poison as their power grew. His entire body was covered in scales, tough enough to deflect most weapons. And yet, Aslan intended to fight him with his bare fists.
Arrogant.
Seeing Aslan’s relaxed posture, his apparent lack of concern, the priest gritted his teeth, his pride wounded.
“You bastard!”
Fueled by a surge of anger, he charged at Aslan.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, he disregarded defense, bringing his sword down in a powerful overhead swing.
–Whoosh!
The blade whistled through the air, propelled by superhuman strength. But it struck only empty air.
Aslan had simply turned his body, dodging the blow.
The priest, his breath catching in his throat, immediately followed up with a diagonal upward slash, aiming for the space where Aslan would reappear. The alley wall was right behind him; there was nowhere to dodge.
But Aslan didn’t dodge. He simply kicked.
His foot struck the priest’s knee before the sword could connect, shattering the joint, disrupting his balance.
–Crack!
In less than half a breath, Aslan pressed his advantage, stepping forward, trapping the priest’s sword arm with his right hand, and slamming his shoulder into the priest’s chest.
“Ugh…!”
The sword clattered to the ground. The priest staggered back, breathless. Before he could recover, Aslan spun,
–Thwack!
…delivering a sharp roundhouse kick to the side of his head.
His head snapped back, pain exploding behind his eyes. He struggled to focus, to understand what was happening.
‘This isn’t normal strength… He’s using some kind of trick!’
Just as the thought formed, another kick struck him, this time a spinning back kick to the face, sending blood spraying from his nose. Aslan pressed his attack relentlessly.
–Thud!
An elbow strike to the cheek.
“Gah!”
A knee to the gut, doubling him over, forcing bile up his throat.
Aslan stepped back, avoiding the vomit, then swept the priest’s legs out from under him. The priest crashed to the ground, landing hard on his shattered knee.
He tried to stand, his mind reeling.
‘This isn’t human strength!’
He had sacrificed countless humans to reach this level of power. He had fought and killed those who resisted. He knew the limits of human strength.
And Aslan’s blows far exceeded those limits.
He was right.
Aslan’s permanently enhanced strength from wild magic, combined with the temporary boost from his mana-infused muscles, gave him the striking power equivalent to a Strength stat of 3.
And with the doubled damage from Anicca, his fists struck with a force the priest couldn’t withstand.
As if to prove the point, Aslan rained down blow after blow on the kneeling priest.
–Thud! Thwack!
“Ugh… Kuh…”
A downward strike, followed by an upward hook. The priest’s vision blurred, his head snapping back and forth. Aslan grabbed his hair, pulling his head down, and delivered another brutal knee strike to his face. The unrestrained violence continued, blow after blow landing on the priest’s face. He sobbed, tears streaming down his battered face.
“Please… mercy… mercy…!”
His plea was cut short by another fist. Aslan released his hair, and the priest crumpled to the ground. Aslan drew his dagger and plunged it into the priest’s shoulder.
“Heat Metal.”
The magic stored within his tattoos activated, and the dagger glowed red-hot.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!”
The priest shrieked, his body convulsing as the burning metal seared his flesh.
Aslan watched impassively, his voice cold.
“Tell me everything you know about the Formless One. And everything related to it. Leave nothing out. Don’t try to be selective.”
He twisted the blade, and the priest sobbed, finally broken.
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The Emperor of the Calus Empire had changed twice in a short period.
Both times, at the hands of the same man. While unusual, Gelladrion was a world where power dictated reality.
Where the strong could defy the established order.
That intoxicating freedom was what he had craved, what had driven him to seek power.
And it was why he was now imprisoned here.
He wanted to be strong.
Not just wield magic, but wield power, the power to shape the world.
So he had abandoned his passion for magic and turned to faith.
He served the War God.
He had maintained his position through the changing emperors, dedicating himself to the War God’s cause.
Though ostracized by his own family, House Ashuld, he had risen through the ranks, gaining influence throughout the Imperial territories, becoming the Emperor’s Investigator.
While his authority stemmed from the Emperor’s decree, he had spread the War God’s influence throughout the Empire, maintaining and managing his network.
He had believed he would become a War Monk, the first War Monk to wield magic. He had been confident.
Until his plans crumbled.
The new Emperor, Ileana, had purged the War God’s influence, driving out his followers.
The official reason was their failure to protect the previous Emperor, but no one believed it.
It was clear Ileana was determined to rid the Calus Empire of the War God’s influence.
She, the seemingly powerless girl, had acted with surprising ruthlessness and political cunning, isolating and eliminating the War God’s followers within weeks, a feat that should have taken months, even years.
He had entered the Imperial territories as the Emperor’s Investigator, but he had left as a traitor.
So he had fled, crossing the border, only to be captured.
It was a simple story.
He considered himself lucky, at least, not to have been captured by the notoriously cruel Saint of Slaughter.
The priest of the Poison-Breathing Dragon, the one who held him captive now, seemed… reasonable.
But even this reasonable priest’s patience was wearing thin.
“Why haven’t any of them returned?”
He muttered, his voice filled with frustration.
Ambushed by the Formless One, driven from their stronghold, their network shattered.
His agents, his spies, all dead. Their base of operations destroyed.
He had been lucky to escape. Those who hadn’t been so fortunate were torn apart by the monstrous creatures.
He remembered the chaos, the relentless onslaught of the Formless One’s followers, the seemingly endless tide of monstrous flesh and bone. He hadn’t sensed any guiding intelligence behind their attacks, just mindless aggression.
He had hoped that escaping to this safe house, this hidden warehouse on the outskirts of Kardi, would buy him some time.
A warehouse with a secret underground passage leading outside the city walls. His last resort.
He had ordered his remaining followers to regroup here.
But now, hours later, only he and his prisoner remained. No one else had arrived.
The priest clenched his fists, suppressing his anger and frustration.
His forces were gone, his situation dire. And yet, he couldn’t leave Kardi. He still had a task to complete. A mission to capture the vestige of the Old Gods, to bring his god to this world.
That mission kept him here, trapped.
He closed his eyes and prayed to the Fated of the Universe, hoping that at least a few of his followers had survived, that they would find their way here.
And then, he heard it. Footsteps approaching the warehouse. Three sets of footsteps, moving quickly, urgently.
“Ah, finally…”
He thought, relief washing over him. He walked towards the warehouse door, reaching for the latch.
Before he could open it, something pierced the metal door.
A sword blade.
It glowed with a faint blue light as it sliced through the metal, then swept downwards, severing the latch. The door creaked open.
A familiar face stood there.
A face no priest could forget.
The priest clutched his throat, his voice choked.
“Master… of Battle…!”
Aslan stepped into the warehouse, his expression unreadable.
His gaze swept across the room, taking in the details, comparing them to the information he had gathered. His eyes stopped, narrowing slightly.
Aslan frowned.
“Cornil Ashuld…?”
The prisoner, Cornil Ashuld, flinched at the sound of his name.
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