Chapter 135
Chapter 135
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 135
Chapter Title: Star Fall (20)
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“Undead?”
“Yeah, undead. The Blue Line’s crawling with them.”
“But if there are that many undead... wouldn’t the churches just leave them be? Whether it’s the Church of Light, the Church of Abundance, or one of the five major churches, they’d have purged them ages ago.”
Borca wasn’t wrong. Ever since the Dark Wars seventy years ago, when the undead rose up, not just the churches but the royal families and noble houses of every nation trembled at the mere mention of them. The memory of that day, when humanity was pushed to the brink of extinction, was so vivid that even after bloody territorial battles, both sides would pause to clean up the battlefield. The moment even a hint of morale gathered or a half-shattered skeleton was spotted, heavily armed holy knight orders would swarm the area. In the sunlit and shadowed corners of this Third World, there was hardly any place left for the undead to dwell.
Except for one spot: the mountain range with its unique environment, the Blue Line.
“This needs some explaining. Borca’s tribe lives so far removed from human society that you might not know.”
Borca looked puzzled, so Ottoman picked up where I left off.
“The Blue Line, as widely known, is a sacred mountain range formed where mana-rich ley lines surge to the surface. It’s overflowing with mana-infused plants and minerals that wizards and alchemists covet, but because of the monsters influenced by that mana, it was off-limits to anyone without knight-level strength. Then, seventy years ago during the Dark Wars, the great black mage, Karkan Demanus of the Black Clouds, tampered with those ley lines—known to the masses as dragon veins, the arteries of the earth. Part of the Blue Line became corrupted as a result. The potent black magic from his hand burrowed deep into the dragon vein’s core, tainting its tributaries. The mana rivers flowing through the ley lines became polluted with black mana power, turning the area between surface layers into a convergence point for dark mana.”
“A mana zone pooling with black mana power... There must be some seriously strong undead there.”
“You said it. Skeleton hordes of all sorts of monsters and beasts roam in packs, ghost-type monsters blanket the skies, and high-tier undead like death knights, dullahans, and shadow wights—rare even back then—lead legions in raids on people. The churches couldn’t purify it because the black mana had dug too deep into the dragon vein, so the Blue Line ended up divided: the black mana zone teeming with high-tier undead, and the non-black mana zone where powerful mana-using monsters that migrated from there now prowl. Either way, it’s treacherous enough that even a decent knight order wouldn’t return if they ventured too deep.”
“Got the picture? That’s why trade goods from the eastern desert nations, way farther than the elven forest, are cheaper than elven wares. Most elven goods are loaded onto cloth balloons by wind mages on the far side and floated over the mountains. Shipping costs a fortune.”
“I see. So it wasn’t just greed that led them to ransack the churches’ supply depots like that.”
“You bet! There was~ meaning behind it all!”
Borca nodded in understanding as he gathered the scattered luggage.
“So where to now?”
“Hmm... Probably along what’s called the Ray Line. Even in the Blue Line, it’s where the dragon vein’s energy is weaker, so the five major churches periodically purge and purify the surface, making it somewhat traversable. Right?”
“Half right, half wrong.”
“Hm? What’s that mean?”
“As you know, we need to head to the heart of the elven forest where the World Tree is, but no one knows exactly where that is. Trade goods are carried by sylphs to prearranged spots with wind mages. Only the elves know the true location, and around Lordric, their kind’s been kidnapped so much they’re practically wiped out.”
I quickly pulled out the map, drew a line in charcoal from Kingsland straight to the Ray Line’s center, then sharply bent it toward the Blue Line mountains’ core, dotted with red and black X marks.
“We’re going here: the ‘village of exiled elves’ in the deepest part of the Blue Line. We’ll hire a guide there for the fastest, most accurate path to the elven forest. It’s the quickest way. The elven forest is absurdly vast, laced with illusions from all sorts of spirits—if you wander in, you’ll end up back at the entrance. Even with the right path, breaking through the elves’ spirit barriers would take days for an average mage or spiritist. And who says the elves will sit idle? The only orthodox method is entering with ‘elven guidance.’”
“I see... So instead of sticking to the Ray Line like that line you drew, we veer off the safe zone and traverse the Blue Line ridges?”
“That’s right.”
“That line you just drew has over nine X marks on it?”
“We’ll have to wind along the terrain, so a few more overlaps.”
“And those areas include territories of infamous monsters everyone knows, like the ‘Phantom Three Knights,’ ‘Eight-Time Dead Wildcat,’ and ‘Half-Dragon Kartaniyka’?”
“If territories haven’t shifted, ‘Offspring of Corruption, Gestrug’ is in there too? We avoid the dragon, punch through the rest. Aldrich, you scared? We’ve got two light warriors and soul mages here. Rare lineup against undead.”
“You... stretch the definition of light warrior a bit.”
“That’s why I packed all this.”
I knew it. I’m no light warrior—more a physical water-attuned one who can’t even channel a scrap of holy power. That’s why I looted so hard.
Crack!
Professor smashed the top seal on the “Handful of Light” I’d handed him and tossed it at Aldrich’s feet, his face screaming “death by idiocy.”
Click, click, click.
“Hm? What the—”
Crack. Flash!
“Gwahhh!”
The pre-set hooks dug into the seal, destabilizing the Handful of Light. It couldn’t contain the pressure, splintering into dozens of cracks before erupting in blinding radiance.
“My eyes! Aaaah, my eyes!”
“Grrr! Eyes! Boss! What’d you do! Can’t... can’t see!”
“What else? Better to experience it now than get flashbanged blind in combat. You gotta feel it firsthand to shut your eyes at ‘fla—!’”
No joke. Lessons from hard experience.
The Handful of Light—aka holy flashbang—is one of the Church of Light’s most popular signature items. Simple, familiar grenade-like use. Design evoking that famous “Hallelujah bomb” from some old game. Instant blind and heavy holy damage to undead? Top-tier!
While the Church of Abundance boasts tasty, filling, nutrient-packed “Harvest Festival Potions,” the Church of Valor has the bucket-sized all-in-one buff elixir “Baptism of Valor” poured over your head pre-battle, the Church of Wisdom offers the circlet that reveals evil when worn, and the Church of Mercy the “Sanctuary of the Praying” that provides steady slow heals when planted in the ground—the Church of Light, true to its light-worship, reps with this flashbang, or “Ro-Haram eye-fuck.”
“Eyes! Burning! Water! Water now!!!”
“Gwooo! Eyes hurt! Bui-toom and friends go home! Nirvana! Like baby troll dragged to river! Gwooo!”
Hm, killer effect. Even on trolls with high status resistance. Church of Light quality.
“Anyway, you all see the effect? Save HP and MP for real-deal undead or spirit beast-tier monsters. Trash undead? We flash and push through. Questions?”
“Ughhh... Knew you were nuts, but...”
“Heard rumors of the Handful of Light, but not like this...”
They grumbled, but faces were way more hopeful than map-staring. They’d felt its power firsthand.
“All~ planned out. Humanity’s fate hangs in the balance—can’t waste a second. Shortest path, max speed. Let’s move. To Estarnik Village, where the Ray Line—the only pass through the demon realm Blue Line mountains—starts.”
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Estarnik Village lay straight west from the capital Kingsland, just follow the road. No tough spots en route, no big towns—just boring, peaceful path over a few small woods and hills.
The week-long trek to Estarnik should’ve been that easy.
Caw, caaaw!
Crackle, crackle—
“Damn, endless. Nose numb again. Switch, boss.”
“Yeah. Good work, Borca.”
I stepped off the cart, advancing ten paces ahead of the group as Borca, our scout, pinched his nose and shifted back to humanoid form.
Focusing senses, widening vision—onslaught of info.
Ding-!
[Broken palisade: Anti-cavalry tactic. Shattered by heavy impact.]
[Three deep, sharp gashes in ground: Narrow, pointed something raked through. Shape suggests downward claw strike.]
[Charred bone piles x N: Most bones crushed or missing—count impossible. Faint mana residue. Fully incinerated by magic.]
[Embedded boulders: Similar ones scattered. Too big for current catapults, but embedment and soil suggest fired from extreme distance.]
[Blood-soaked ground + massive crater: Confirmed traces (hoofprints + full plate boot marks + shield-wall formation + concentrated bloodstains) indicate human formation’s core here. Unlike surrounding soil, crater interior carbonized. Massive something swung with immense force, shattering the line in one blow. Sloped inner gouges suggest attempt to block that strike.]
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“The western front... way worse than imagined.”
Magic-charred bone piles still smoldering faintly.
Palisade chunks soaked in red blood and mutant fluids, ahead of a moat where blood festered, maggots writhing.
The map-marked small woods? Chomped off like a monster bit it.
Magic barrages flipped the earth’s skin, blood-splattered boulders stood like tombstones, aura-infused sword slashes and claw marks checkered the ground everywhere.
Over the past week, scenes worsened the farther west we went.
Caaaw! Caaaaw!
“Not superstitious, but those crows are bad omens. Hey, Aldrich—any chance they’re mutant scouts?”
“Hmm... Soul’s clean, at least. Screeching from hunger. Makes sense, right? Show up to the feast, smell the gore, but no scraps left.”
Aldrich, eyes aglow with blue will-o’-wisps from [Soul Eye], watched the circling crows.
“Humans recover and burn every reachable corpse. Mutants do the same—eat theirs. No bodies left.”
“Gwohk. Ghost old man master. More coming.”
“What? Already? Ugh... For real. Hey, Professor! Wave incoming! Prep up!”
At Aldrich’s shout, Notum dropped the cart and pulled a small white pebble. Aldrich uncorked his soul jar, Ottoman began mudras atop the cart.
Thud thud!
“They’re here! Late scouting far out!”
“Gwok. Big little human. See anything?”
“Lights! Not seeing things—definite human fire! Close to village for sure! Block this wave, we reach Estarnik!”
“No wonder vengeful spirits ramped up. Drawn by living energy toward the village. If we hadn’t cleaned up coming here...”
“Who knows. With spirits roaming like this, village can’t be unaffected. [Water Shield]”
Sizzle—pop!
Ottoman uncapped holy water and chanted; water rose from ground, laced with white holy lines, forming a shimmering watery veil.
“Wait a sec! Catch breath first!”
“Water Shield’s gotta be cast on the move.”
“Eek! [O, Ottoman Baudelaire’s Water Shield!]”
Splash!
Professor’s strained voice layered on, birthing a crappy whirlpool blob atop Ottoman’s veil like a boil. Ottoman sighed.
“You... Copy spells can’t half-match origin spells. No— you crank out complex origin like Blood Armor no problem, but botch Water Shield, basic water mage spell? As educator, mortifying!”
“Can’t help focus! Last time Notum missed a ghost pack looking away—they got shredded in this holy water shield! Squeeze brain, no defense image—just napping inside!”
“That’s why you conjure nonexistent spells fine, but not a real shield’s form! Spent week begging you master just Water Shield!”
“Hey, soggy mage pals—quiet down. Notum needs focus now.”
Ottoman facepalmed, Professor remudra’d. Notum, eyes closed before cart, fixated on the clattering white pebble in her hand.
Aldrich’s week-long labor: makeshift soul jar, totem-like for soul mages. Seeing spirit swarms, he couldn’t pass it up—rushed one for Notum. Outer wood from blood-drinking war tree burl. Inner white pebbles: five of Notum’s finger bones, one of Aldrich’s, ground up. Troll Notum regenerated fully with potions long ago; human Aldrich couldn’t.
“Gwok. Don’t need this—souls obey me. Waste, ghost old man master. Cut finger for weird instrument.”
“Heh heh heh! You haven’t let go since getting it. Say thanks, punk. Soul mage tradition: master crafts jar with body part holding disciple’s soul shard for thread-entered pupils. Call it my whim. Glory not given to all—being master to history’s peak soul mage.”
Notum gazed at her odd totem. Bones rattled in response.
Far off, grudge-cloud spirits swarmed.
“Come on, show it, Notum. You who converse with souls via senses, awakened Soul Eye—imagine the waves when you truly step into soul mage realm!”
Notum eyed Aldrich’s bandaged index finger, cracked her neck, stepped forward.
Hearts drummed like warbeats as spirits neared.
Learned soul arts, spells from Aldrich. But instinct whispered before the horde: closer. Deeper. Face them.
Clack, clatter! Clack! Crack! Crackcrackcrack!
Spirits neared, heart pounded, totem thrashed in sync. Deep breath. Facing hate-soaked swarm, she drew ancient cry from chest depths. Ancestral, soul-embodied. Oldest race’s truth!
Huuuuh—
“GWOOOOOOORRRRK!”
Gulp—
Gulp—
Gulp—
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Clack.
Frenzied totem stilled. Brain-boring curses, grudge whispers, chill aura—gone without trace.
Yes. Vanished. Not absorbed, contained—purely erased. Sky even cleared a bit.
“Uh... Notum? I said infuse sincerity?”
“Did. In our race’s tongue, closest to emotion. Instrument works well.”
“No—I gave it to hold those souls, but what’d you say they just... vanished?”
Smirk—
“‘Get lost.’”
Aldrich speechless at Notum’s proud grin. She’d uttered greenskin culture: battle cry of orcs, trolls, ogres.
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