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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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Aslan’s call brought forth the figure of Cornil Ashuld, a face familiar to him.
Cornil had often appeared whenever matters involved the Calus Empire, and Aslan had encountered him numerous times within the game.
But the primary reason for the familiarity was that Aslan had personally ended Cornil’s ambitions.
Twice, Aslan had been responsible for the death of an Emperor. Cornil, who had suffered setbacks even during the first assassination, was completely ousted when Ileana, a girl harboring resentment towards the War God, ascended the throne.
Cornil’s current disheveled state wasn’t entirely surprising, as he had appeared similarly downtrodden in the game after his fall from grace.
The only inconsistency was his location. In the game, his reappearance occurred after he had fled to the Southern Continent, not here in Kardi, on the Northern Continent.
Aslan frowned at this strange, unexpected meeting, wondering where the timeline had diverged. Cornil, seeing Aslan’s frown, glared back, his eyes blazing.
“Aslan…!”
He spat the name, his voice thick with anger and contempt. Aslan casually rested the longsword he had taken from the follower on his shoulder.
As the Pierce Heart effect faded, the blade returned to its ordinary, greyish-white appearance.
“How much more do you have to take from me?! What did I ever do to you?!”
Cornil raged, straining against the chains that bound him, the metal links rattling with his movements.
A collar, designed to suppress magic, encircled his neck, rendering him completely harmless.
Aslan observed him, piecing together the situation.
Cornil Ashuld had lost his power and influence upon Ileana’s ascension and had fled. His intended destination was likely the Southern Continent, but his escape hadn’t gone smoothly.
For some reason, he had been captured by priests of the Fated of the Universe – a plausible fate, given his previous allegiance to the War God.
“You look terrible. You should have taken my offer back then.”
“Shut up… Shut up! Because of you, I…!”
“I gave you a chance. I offered you a way to make your meaningless life significant. You were the one who refused.”
“You call that insane rambling an ‘offer’? What could I possibly gain from that?!”
Cornil shouted, his voice filled with bitterness. The nobleman-turned-mage, his beard grown out and unkempt, glared at Aslan, his eyes burning with resentment.
Aslan recalled the offer he had made to Cornil six years ago in Gelladrion.
He had proposed that Cornil abandon the War God and join him, promising him the power and glory he craved.
He had tempted him with the possibility of becoming the most powerful mage, a figure revered by all.
But Cornil, unlike now, had vehemently refused.
Aslan narrowed his eyes, a hint of disappointment flickering within them.
“A lot. Peace, respect, humanity, power that is truly your own, not some borrowed strength from those damn gods who strut around acting high and mighty.”
“You’re insane. Peace? Respect? Humanity? What use are those pathetic things?! They’re weaknesses, easily crushed by the hands of the truly great!”
“That’s precisely why they’re worth protecting. But it seems we disagree.”
Aslan sighed and stepped further into the warehouse. Despite his height, the space felt cramped. Behind him stood Ereta and Angie.
“I never expected you to understand. I didn’t kill you then, nor in the Imperial Palace, simply because you were purely human and posed no threat. So just stay quiet back there.”
“You… you son of a bitch…!”
As Cornil hurled insults unfit for a nobleman, Aslan turned his attention to the priest.
The priest, whose throat Aslan had slashed earlier, clutched his neck, glancing nervously between Cornil and Aslan.
“If he’s your target, then take him and…”
“No, I didn’t come here for him.”
The priest had assumed Aslan was here for personal revenge against Cornil, but Aslan cut him off, shaking his head.
“Why would I track him down to a place like this? I came here for you.”
Aslan pointed his sword at the priest. Cornil’s eyes widened, and he struggled against his chains again.
His struggles were futile, only causing the chains to rattle louder.
He continued to shout curses at Aslan, but Aslan completely ignored his furious outburst.
The priest watched this exchange, then, cautiously, lowered the hand covering his throat.
The wound had already healed, new scales covering the regenerated flesh.
The priest asked again.
“For me? What do you want?”
Kardi was a city open to all manner of priests and followers.
Priests could walk freely within its walls, and as long as they caused no trouble, they were generally left alone.
If this were anywhere else, Aslan’s intentions might have been clearer, but this was Kardi.
‘Does he know?’
The priest wondered if Aslan knew about his mission, but there was no sign of it.
Aslan’s demeanor was nonchalant, giving nothing away.
Reassured, the priest considered his options. Aslan remained silent.
‘Should I attack first?’
No, it wouldn’t work. Aslan stood relaxed, his sword resting on his shoulder, but his stance was wide, ready to move at any moment.
‘Then escape…’
He glanced towards the entrance, but saw the vestige of the Old Gods standing there, arms crossed, blocking the way.
‘He’s cut off my escape route.’
The situation was grim. The escape tunnel beneath the warehouse was his only way out of Kardi, but reaching it wouldn’t be easy, and Aslan would undoubtedly catch him before he got far.
It was a checkmate. The priest lowered his gaze, his voice tight with frustration.
“Alright. What do you want?”
His only chance was to appeal to Aslan’s mercy.
If Aslan hadn’t come here specifically to kill him, perhaps cooperating would save his life.
But his hope was misplaced. Aslan slowly moved the longsword resting on his shoulder, tapping it rhythmically against his leather armor, the sound echoing in the quiet warehouse.
The silence stretched, and the priest, unable to read Aslan’s intentions, watched him warily.
Their eyes met. Just then, a figure peeked out from behind Aslan – the woman whose silhouette he had glimpsed earlier.
She pushed back her hood, revealing striking white hair and sparkling pink eyes.
“Oh my.”
The priest recognized her instantly.
The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow.
“Ereta…?”
“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, Niel.”
Her smile was bright, but her eyes held a coldness that sent a shiver down his spine. The priest, Niel, cursed inwardly.
The Weaver of Fire had lost a significant amount of its divine power, and Ereta had been stripped of her priesthood. He had assumed she was dead.
But here she was, alive and well.
The former Saint of Slaughter. Niel instinctively took a step back. Ereta stepped out from behind Aslan, entering the warehouse proper.
Niel, his face a mixture of rotten flesh and scales, his hand hovering over the flail at his belt, stared at Aslan and Ereta, unable to comprehend the situation.
“Do you know anything about the Formless One?”
Aslan finally broke the tense silence. Niel swallowed hard.
The priest looked surprised by the question.
“…Is that all you want to know?”
Aslan didn’t answer. He simply lowered his sword, gripping it firmly.
But that single movement was a potent threat. Ereta, mirroring his action, gripped the axe and warhammer at her waist, spinning them idly in her hands.
The message was clear: answer, or face the consequences. Niel, a priest who had survived for a long time, knew when he was outmatched. His survival instincts screamed that fighting now meant certain death.
He had no choice but to talk.
“I… I don’t know much. Only what the Twin Evils deigned to tell us. According to them… the Formless One is a colossal planet. A living planet… made of flesh, bone, and viscera.”
A living planet. Aslan didn’t question the absurdity of the concept.
He had encountered stranger things among the evil gods.
“Planet? What’s that?”
“Shh.”
Angie interrupted, confused by the unfamiliar term. Ereta silenced her with a look, and Angie pouted but remained quiet. Aslan prompted the priest.
“Continue.”
“Uh… right… He… that thing… has no priests, apparently. It hasn’t established much of a presence in Gelladrion. That’s why so little is known about it… Even the Twin Evils admitted they don’t know its true nature.”
That made sense, Aslan thought.
If it rarely manifested in Gelladrion, it was understandable that little information existed.
“So you know nothing else?”
But simply knowing nothing wasn’t enough. Aslan tightened his grip on his sword, and Niel swallowed nervously.
“N-No! There’s one more thing! Information the Twin Evils shared only with priests who performed great deeds! I… I heard it!”
Aslan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Ereta, silently asking if Niel was truly a priest of such standing.
Ereta smiled, seemingly pleased by the eye contact, and nodded. Aslan turned back to Niel, who spoke quickly, his voice tense.
“Speak.”
“First, guarantee my safety. Then I’ll tell…”
Before he could finish, Aslan moved. He stepped forward, pushing Niel’s knee with his own, throwing him off balance.
The priest instinctively spat poison, but his aim was wild.
Aslan easily dodged the venom, twisting his body and swinging his sword with the momentum. The blade sliced diagonally through the priest’s arm and into his chest.
–Sizzle!
“Gah…”
The sound of the poison dissolving the warehouse wall mingled with the priest’s choked gasp. The precise strike had ruptured his chest cavity and crushed his poison sac.
Aslan stared down at him, his eyes cold.
“Priest of the Poison-Breathing Dragon. It’s obvious you’d try to spit poison. If you don’t want to die, talk. This is your last warning.”
He twisted the sword embedded in the priest’s chest, angling the tip towards his heart. Niel felt the sharp point scraping against bone and gasped, sweat and venom dripping from his chin.
“The Formless One… steals… body and soul. Humans whose bodies and souls are stolen… become its followers… transformed… The process… is like normal priestification… It happens through dreams.”
Aslan hummed thoughtfully, frowning. He twisted the blade slightly.
Priests were sometimes chosen after demonstrating devotion and performing great deeds, but most were chosen directly by their god.
The god would appear to an individual in a dream, demanding their service. If they agreed, they became a priest, shedding their humanity.
If the Formless One used the same method…
Aslan asked,
“Then aren’t they priests? Not just followers?”
“D-different. The Twin Evils said… its contact is too… indistinct… destructive. Human bodies and souls can’t withstand it. Only rarely… those who endure it… or see through its true nature… become priests.”
Interesting. Aslan had never heard of such a god.
His suspicion about the Formless One’s identity grew. He twisted the blade further, breaking ribs.
“One last thing. What about its priests?”
“What do you mean? What…”
“Physical abilities, appearance, habits, powers. Anything.”
As Niel hesitated, Aslan pushed the blade deeper. The priest screamed as the wound in his chest tore open further.
He gasped for breath, then spoke, his voice choked with tears and pain.
“Its… its priest… is a colossal… pillar of flesh and bone. It devours… all life around it… producing more followers… It acts as a relay tower… channeling the Formless One’s divine power…”
“…Is this pillar strong?”
“N-No. The Twin Evils said… one or two priests could easily destroy it…”
Aslan listened, then pulled his sword free and kicked Niel away.
Niel rolled across the floor, coughing up blood and venom.
“So that’s how it is.”
Aslan muttered, recalling the battle just before he had found the warehouse.
The Formless One’s followers had prioritized attacking the priest and his followers. He remembered the desperate shouts of the fleeing Dragon followers. He remembered the countless ambushes he had witnessed while hunting the Formless One’s followers in Kardi.
There seemed to be no emotional reason, no hatred or revenge, behind their attacks.
But now, knowing about the Formless One’s priest, it all made sense.
It was simple.
The Formless One wanted to expand its influence in Gelladrion.
It targeted Kardi, a populous and resource-rich city.
But Kardi already had a significant presence of priests and followers from other gods.
Creating priests was difficult, and the resulting priests were vulnerable. So, the Formless One decided to eliminate the competition first.
That explained the attacks within Kardi.
It still didn’t answer the question of ‘Why now?’, but Aslan was certain.
He turned his gaze towards Angie.
She was looking not into the warehouse, but towards the street outside.
As if confirming Aslan’s suspicions, the sound of footsteps echoed from the street.
Heavy footsteps, light footsteps, a cacophony of approaching feet.
“Aslan, there are people coming… huh?”
The footsteps changed. The scrape of metal on stone, the splash of water being poured onto the ground. A variety of sounds, then the approaching presence slowed.
Aslan understood what was happening and cursed inwardly.
An ambush by the Formless One.
–Crash!
“Heh… hehe… They came… They came…”
Niel laughed weakly. Aslan glared at the Formless One followers breaking through the warehouse walls.
“There are a lot of them. This feels… dangerous.”
Even Ereta, her voice low, sounded uneasy, sweat trickling down her temple. At least fifty followers, their grotesque forms filling the broken doorway, poured into the warehouse.
The sheer number of them, their combined presence, was oppressive.
Aslan surveyed the diverse forms of the creatures that had once been human, then glanced around the warehouse.
His gaze fell on Niel.
A priest. Someone Aslan should kill, not save. He had already extracted all useful information.
Then his gaze fell on Cornil Ashuld.
The main quest involving him was long past. At most, he might trigger a side quest or two, but Aslan already knew the potential rewards and saw no reason to pursue them.
Aslan hummed thoughtfully, sheathing his longsword and drawing his dagger.
He didn’t need to fight all of them himself.
He had promised to eliminate them within two weeks, but that didn’t mean he had to kill them all personally, right now.
Traps, pitting enemies against each other, manipulation, using the environment – he had always used every available tool to survive.
There was no reason not to do so now.
Aslan decided it didn’t matter whether he dealt with the Formless One followers now or after they had finished dealing with the priest.
“Angie, Ereta.”
“Yeah.”
“Speak.”
Angie stood ready, gripping her staff confidently. Ereta spun her weapons, her eyes gleaming. Aslan nodded to them.
“Let’s run.”
“Sounds good.”
“…Huh? What? Wai—”
Before Angie could finish, thunder cracked from the dagger in Aslan’s hand.
‘Call Lightning.’
–Crackle!
He threw the dagger, wreathed in white light.
It struck the foremost follower, sending it flying back into the others.
The impact created a momentary opening as the followers stumbled and tangled.
Aslan glanced back at Niel.
“Niel, was it?”
“I don’t like you people. Kill each other, for all I care. I’ll come back for the survivor. Do whatever you want.”
His words were cold. He turned and ran, Angie and Ereta following close behind. The Formless One followers didn’t try to stop them. Their attention was fixed solely on the priest.
Aslan had been right. The priest was their priority.
Niel stared blankly at Aslan’s retreating back. Cornil Ashuld, still chained, screamed after him.
“Aslaaaaaaaaaan!”
His scream abruptly turned into a shriek of terror.
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