Subduing the Evil God
The subjugation of the Evil God. A descending silence, the knight commander's headless corpse. Standing atop the body, I released the strength gripped in my hand.
The tip of my sword touched the floor, and countless gazes fixed on me. I'd unleashed a slashing strike toward the swarming succubi, collapsing the entrance itself. The adventurers' corpses had already been neatly gathered in one place before they arrived. If the succubi had used them for desecration upon entry, rage might have boiled over. But that wouldn't happen—they burst through windows, flew in from the skies, smashed walls—like zombies, the succubi surged. The adventurers hurriedly reformed their broken lines. Weak members clustered in the center, combat roles spreading out like a shell for protection. While priests and mages chanted skills in preparation, those with shields or swords stood firm in confrontation. No unnecessary words; they moved with disciplined precision, as if they'd done this a hundred times. Even the archers, out of arrows, gripped their bows like swords and took stances.
Their resolute determination to fight to the death overflowed with fighting spirit from my viewpoint. But ignoring them, the succubi charged en masse toward the platform and the decapitated corpse. I cleaved the lead succubus lunging like a rabid wolf. Her head split, contents spilling to stain my face, but without a blink, my blade—carrying the full momentum of the swing—severed the neck of the next approaching one. These upper-tier monsters, capable of human speech and reason, seducing without distinction of gender, had lost all rationality, charging like frenzied swine in heat, emitting repulsive cries as they flew moth-like toward death.
Slash—swing, strike down. A monotonous repetition of actions. Within it, from elbow to forearm, then wrist. Attacks that once relied on one arm now distributed power across both, growing freer, dancing amid the succubi like wings flapping, scattering blood like feathers across the floor. No matter how drenched in gore, the pristine white blade and the blood-soaked human clutching it. Alone, tirelessly felling succubi one after another. One adventurer, tense in standoff, even foolishly lowered his sword. But no one paid mind; even the succubi showed no interest—the space brimmed with a single presence.
Succubi, mindless from their own pheromones, lunged recklessly. The figure standing unscathed after slaughtering them all. Silently wiping blood from his face with an unknown cloth, he lifted his head and exhaled deeply. Countless beauties reached out in death at his feet, and from the human at the center emanated a faint sacred light of starlight. In that pitch-black night, untouched even by moonlight—where not even gods could peer—a lone hero stood nobly radiant.
"Did the parties split up?" Radamu turned to ask the adventurers. They were elite groups, minimum B-rank. Even counting the dead, the numbers here were absurdly low.
After a moment of hesitation at his question, the leader-like swordsman sheathed his blade, approached cautiously, saluted with hand to chest, nodded, and spoke. "Yes, the vanguard followed His Majesty to fight the Succubus Lord. We were tasked with holding back the knight order members enthralled by succubi charms and the succubi themselves from ascending."
Of course... But straining my ears, no sounds of battle reached us. Too far away? I stared wide-eyed, gently closing the dead knight commander's eyes. Perhaps my gaze held pity and sorrow, for the priests rushed with urgent comfort—"Don't dwell on it too much"—and bestowed blessings and healing graces upon me.
"Succubi enchantment rots the soul first. Corrupted to the marrow by yin demonic power, they become faithful slaves. They'd even cut down family if desired—total strangers. Better to end their lives and send them to the gods... that's mercy for them."
Priests prayed toward the fallen knights' corpses. The adventurers handled it routinely, as if commonplace. But I'd only seen such horrors through screens before. At best, words in books—mere indirect observation, thinking so that's how it is. Now dropped into the epicenter, I felt the blood stench, the heavy atmosphere, the indescribable emotional currents.
"Will you follow?"
"Yes, I'll provide support."
Leading the adventurer party, we headed toward the castle's core where the vanguard had gone. I received a few memorized spellbook pages from a mage, and for contingencies, begged a potion from a priest. "I'll repay later," I said, but they handed it over gladly—"Consider it payment for our lives."
The archer, with only a few shots left, offered one arrow coated in deadly poison from a folding crossbow. "Might not pierce the Evil God, but use it if needed."
"...Aren't you scared?" I asked as we climbed the stairs. Not "might die"—someone would die for sure.
"...This is my hometown," the leader swordsman replied with a wry smile. Others cited high pay and following the party leader; unyielding justice against the Evil God threatening the world; or resolve that leaving it unchecked would bring greater harm to home and family. Various reasons, but beyond money or honor, thinking of others warmed something in my heart. In my old world, risking life for others was rare. There were righteous souls stepping up, praised and cheered—but also the jealous, the critics, the backbiters hurling insults they'd never say face-to-face.
Sure, such people exist here too. But slandering those staking their lives? Nothing filthier. Noble sacrifice demands respect simply for being taken, meaningless or scorned.
"Survive and come back."
──Ascending the stairs, we reached the castle's heart: a vast hall piled with countless succubi and nobly dressed corpses. Had they too fallen to enchantment, attacking adventurers? But a hooded rogue paled, noticing what I did. Relief at no vanguard here was fleeting. The kingdom's retainers' cause of death: sword wounds. Clean cuts, dried blood. The vanguard, battling succubi, had no time to notice; others with leeway did. Keen-eyed high-rankers quickly realized—not succubi, but sword—guessing how few in this nation wielded such precision. An ominous premonition flashed; gut said my deduction would hit disgustingly right.
No battle sounds. All the way up, combat traces but this quiet against the Succubus Lord? Crossing the wide hall to the sealed audience chamber door, only vanguard signs. Were these truly battle marks? Or someone else carved them, vanguard just passing? Maybe the Succubus Lord was weaker than thought, or a hidden powerhouse feigned weakness. Clutching vague hopes, I flung open the doors.
Following the red carpet to its end: the king's throne, queen's smaller seat. At center, a black bud-like something floating. Silently, I drew my spirit sword. Heart pounded wildly. Adventurers drew weapons but trembled, morale shattered. In the chamber: adventurers standing, noses bleeding profusely, drooling like drug addicts, eyes rolled back, gripping weapons rigidly. Pupil-less eyes, soulless puppets—not even breathing. Heads exploded on some, yet bodies stood oblivious.
"Sto—!"
Trembling adventurers froze at the threshold. I entered alone, sealing the door behind. Creak—the hinges echoed deafeningly in the silence. Bang—as it shut, the bud unfurled petals, blooming.
"──A shining soul has arrived."
This nation's king, a Master, groveled, head to the floor.
"──Come, brave one... I'll grant you pleasure."
Her voice compelled obedience. Her form—beyond madness—brain-melting allure in her smile. Bare, unadorned nudity. Four tall horns crowning her head. Three pairs of bat wings unfolding. Just inhaling made my heart lurch; exhaling, smiling at me—dizziness hit, legs buckling. Innocent boy or celibate monk—before her, mere rutting beasts thrusting hips.
Claiming this castle as domain, subjugating countless powerhouses at her feet. Among Evil Gods, she could devour the Trust Union solo if inclined. Twisting minds, seizing souls, inverting reason to ruin. For any living, loving, rational being—irresistible captivation.
Smiling at the pitiful soul before her, the Succubus Lord gazed. A beautiful soul like night-sky constellations, brimming with stars. Its light so vast, eclipsing her grasp. Beautiful, valuable. Unprecedented prize. Even she nearly fell in love with its lethal poison beauty, reaching out──
──Her sword swing to the neck clanged off.
Radamu's eyes wide; Succubus Lord stared shocked at the repelled blade.
"──Ahh, a heart tempered like forged steel... But regrettably... I didn't expect such a pitiful soul unable to wield mana."
Pfft—the Succubus Lord laughed. Like a demon mocking a child with a stick. Scoffing, she seized the white blade barehanded, pulling the human into embrace—but shunk, palm gashed, the white sword pulsed, erupting brilliant light, growing.
Eyes wide in disbelief, she unleashed mana, shoving Radamu to the doors. Uncoiling voluptuous legs atop the king, she stepped onto the red carpet, rising.
"Impossible! That light! A mana-less body that can slay gods?!"
"Regrettably, spot on."
Breathing tore lungs; facing her burned eyes. Clear Mind braced fraying reason; sheer willpower and endurance suppressed agony. Disrupting the Evil God's malice, one step forward. Unbelievable—before, immovable—bad matchup. Gripping the spirit sword two-handed, the hero charged the Evil God.