Chapter 106
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 106
Chapter Title: Hunger
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After the ranking battles concluded.
Woojin had no choice but to schedule a meeting with the priest. What he'd done defied all common sense.
Rooms 209 and 110 housed some seriously powerful believers—valuable fighters with rare talents of their own. Yet both had gone down without putting up a fight, utterly powerless.
“How on earth did you pull that off?”
The priest handling the interview posed the question, and Woojin answered without a second thought.
“The answer's right there in your question, Priest.”
“...What do you mean by that?”
“They went down without a fight because I made damn sure they couldn't lift a finger.”
Those two believers possessed impressive talents.
Woojin had recognized as much. That's why he'd gone for a quick knockout blow, pressuring them before they could unleash their true potential.
The gambit paid off, letting him take them down with ease. A rematch later? No guarantee he'd win then.
“They've learned their lesson this time around. Next duel, the believers will come in way more cautious.”
Woojin brushed it off with that.
The priest crossed his arms, pondered for a moment... then nodded slowly. Nothing to pick apart there.
Woojin had barely tapped his own talents, relying purely on hand-to-hand to drop them.
209 had charged in blindly and eaten a single strike. 110 got careless, mumbling to himself, only to catch a headbutt and crumple. Physical prowess aside, their mindset was the real issue.
“Guess I'll ship those two off to the penance chamber for some attitude adjustment. Appreciate the cooperation.”
The priest waved him toward the door like he was shooing away a guest. Woojin bowed his head, then rose from his seat.
As he strolled out leisurely, he replayed the day's fights in his head.
...Did I rush it too much?
Half a day to climb from 308 to 110. Such a meteoric rise was bound to draw eyes.
But he'd weighed the risks.
Woojin had zero intention of lingering in this hellhole. Attention be damned—he wanted it done fast.
And so, a week later.
He threw himself back into the ranking battles, pushing his position even higher.
42.
Two digits now.
42 outclassed his previous foes, so this time Woojin deliberately ate some hits, selling a brutal slugfest.
To onlookers, it looked like a razor-thin victory. No follow-up interview from the priest this round.
Lucky. Doesn't seem like suspicion's brewing.
The Dark Cultists weren't onto him. Sure, there'd been a few grillings, but armed with their own memories, Woojin fielded every question with cool detachment.
Besides, this was deep in the Demonic Realm's heart.
An outsider slipping into this backwater? Impossible. The Grand Priest and his ilk just pegged Woojin as a hotshot newcomer.
Still, better pump the brakes on these ranking battles.
Too much spotlight already.
Position secured—for now, time to lay low and watch. With that in mind, Woojin sat out the rest.
Two-digit rank unlocked perks galore. No more grunt work, upgraded meals and quarters. And access to the sensitive stuff.
The Gatekeepers' Archives.
Dark Cultist reports, journals, all sorts of documents stacked high. Low-rank believers? Keep walking.
This was Woojin's endgame for climbing the ranks.
Brooch's in here somewhere...
He rummaged through his pockets.
Minutes later, his fingers closed around it: a hefty silver brooch, 42 etched boldly in the center.
Pinned to his chest, he approached the archives. The Dark Cultists on guard parted without a word.
“That One is always by our side.”
They traded the ritual greeting.
Inside: endless shelves of tomes and scrolls. Woojin let out a dry chuckle.
...Now what?
Books had never been his thing—then or now.
He'd cracked a few while picking up magic from Claire... but that was ages ago. Brain felt rusty as hell.
How to tackle this mountain? Felt trickier than a brawl.
Just skim for now.
Diving in blind, he wandered the stacks, eyes flicking over titles.
A few stood out.
Grab too many, and reshelving would be a nightmare. He snagged two, claimed a desk, and dove in.
First impression...
...All fluff, no substance.
Hoped for intel, got jack squat. Heavy on the religious drivel—all clouds, no thunder. Woojin skimmed a hagiography of some ancient saint with zero enthusiasm.
Who even reads this crap? Definitely not him.
Little more, then bail.
Waste of time, sure—but what if? He prowled a few more shelves.
Then...
The door creaked open. Another visitor.
A priestess in pristine white robes, her face hidden behind a butterfly mask. Woojin dropped to one knee on instinct.
“I see you, Bishop.”
Butterfly Mask ran this city—top dog among the faithful. Courtesy as a believer demanded it.
She laughed softly.
“Rise. No need for that here.”
She offered her hand.
Woojin paused, then took it, pulling himself up. Her skin was softer than velvet.
Then the question came.
“42. What brings you here?”
Her voice sang like a plucked harp string. A sweet, enigmatic scent bloomed. Her presence swelled, filling the room.
Woojin narrowed his eyes. She was pulling a fast one.
...Charm ability.
Silk Moth beast trait.
Females pumped out pheromones to lure males. Caught in the haze, they lost all reason—mindless slaves to her will.
Time to play along.
Turn the tables. Woojin inhaled deeply, for show.
His mind fogged, drunk-like.
“Y-Yes? What... what'd you say...?”
Dazed tone, like he was losing it. She seemed pleased, chuckling as she pressed.
“What book were you after?”
“The One... Holy Prophet. Always with us... that's what I was hunting for.”
Stumbling words.
The One.
Holy Prophet to the rest.
To Dark Cultists, He was their messiah. First saint to commune with the outer gods beyond the gates. Supreme leader of every night gatekeeper.
His return kicks off the holy war. That's their gospel.
“Why seek Him out?”
Butterfly Mask cocked her head, intrigued. Woojin hesitated, then spoke.
“...Blasphemy, I know... but I wanted proof He even exists.”
That One is always by our side.
Every Dark Cultist chants it, but sightings? Zero.
A young believer doubts. Curiosity pulls him to the archives for evidence.
“Forgive my sin.”
Confessional tone. She laughed it off.
“Understandable. Nobody admits it, but everyone doubts once. No sin in that.”
Doubting God? Childhood fever—passes. Close your eyes, world doesn't vanish. The Prophet watches eternal.
“Your choice to believe or not... but I've met Him. Face to face.”
She confessed straight-up contact with their leader. Woojin's interest piqued.
“How do I meet Him?”
“The faithful get summoned. Happened to me. Answered the Holy Prophet's call, crossed the mountains... blissful as a dream.”
She paused thoughtfully, then added with magnanimity.
“Heading there soon myself. Care to join beyond the mountains, 42?”
“...Me? Really?”
“Why not? No reason against it.”
Come with to Dark Cultist HQ.
Her words tangled Woojin's thoughts.
What now?
Storm the base, wipe 'em out—northern campaign ends easy. But intel's thin.
One wrong move, he's stranded enemy central, solo.
...Came this far. Quitting feels like a waste.
He nodded.
“I'd like that.”
Ingots fresh from the forge packed into crates. An assortment of metals.
Silver, gold... and frost steel, worth more than both. Eighty percent headed beyond those mountains—to the Dark Cultists' stronghold. Woojin drew escort duty.
Mountains of Madness.
That's what the slaves called 'em.
A chain of colossal volcanoes. Slaves dreaded the place. Even beasts shied from getting close.
The ox-beasts hauling cargo ground to a halt. Hating the approach, they flopped bellies-down in the dirt.
Dead weight now.
Cargo stalled.
Butterfly Mask fluttered one arm like wings, robes billowing.
Pink light particles spilled out. Sweet scent assaulted the air. The oxen glazed over.
She commanded.
“Forward along the path.”
They lumbered ahead obediently. The entranced Dark Cultists trailed without protest.
Sleepwalkers, all of 'em. Woojin blended into the march.
Handy trick.
First he'd seen beasts leashed like this. Explains her bishop gig.
Hours of trekking later...
They summited an nameless peak. The crater brimmed with crystalline blue water—like a volcano's crown caved in post-eruption.
Volcanologists call 'em calderas.
Baengnokdam vibes.
Woojin mused as he walked.
No clue why, but Butterfly Mask dispatched the oxen and cultists straight to the lake.
Topping off water supplies?
Lake looked pristine.
...Which screamed local beast territory.
Pffft!
She drove her dagger into an ox's nape herself. Brutal pain, yet the pheromone-drunk beast didn't even register the wound.
Blood pattered the ground. She beckoned toward the lake.
The ox trudged bleeding to the water's edge. She bellowed.
“O Outer Gods!! Accept this tribute—!”
BOOM!!
The surface erupted. A snake's head breached—massive, eye-defying.
Body thick as bundled logs. It yawned wide; fangs gleamed like elephant ivory.
...An Old One.
Not quite heavenly tribulation dragon tier, but Old One material easy.
The serpent flicked its tongue.
The ox locked eyes with that savage glare and froze. Charmed haze shattered on contact.
“Moooo—!”
It wheeled to bolt, legs pistoning. Too late—hooves dangled midair.
Snake chomped, gnashed a few times, reared high.
Gulp.
Down the gullet whole.
Throat ballooned grotesquely. Woojin tracked the bulge sliding down. Clear as day.
Soon deflated like a spent balloon. Hissing tongue probes. Gaze raked the Dark Cultists.
Woojin muttered under his breath.
“...One ox ain't cutting it, huh?”
Looked half-starved still.
As if in answer, the serpent threw its jaws wide and shrieked.
“Kiyaaaaak——!!”