Chapter 484: The Chief Was Relieved
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 484: The Chief Was Relieved
Descent. It meant summoning a god to this earth.
If one were to utter such words on the continent, especially within the Theocracy, an inquisitor would hunt them down immediately. They would pull out your teeth so you could never chew meat again, or rip out your fingernails and toenails, all while chanting:
"Admit that you are a heretic."
From the perspective of certain fanatics, the West itself was a breeding ground for heresy. Had it not been for the threat of the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult, a full-scale war between the continent and the West might already be in full swing.
As recorded in history, the West and the continent had waged bloody wars in the past over their differing ideologies. Conflicts of religion, conflicts of language—those with different outlooks on life often sought to enforce their will through steel. If the rulers willed it, such tragedies were easily repeated.
Of course, those rulers might have started wars under the guise of religion just to secure some material benefit, but fortunately, the present was no such era. Punishing the "heretics" of the West when the Demon Realm Holy Land Cult was operating in broad daylight? Anyone who suggested such a thing would be branded a madman. No one would agree with them.
Over the long years, the West had finally come to be respected as a distinct culture. "Heretic" and "barbarian" were now merely derogatory terms used by the narrow-minded.
Of course, Geomnarae did not care whether anyone called him a heretic; he simply revered the god he believed in.
"Bite, tear, and rip them apart."
It was sorcery.
Black smoke billowed from the charred piece of wood Geomnarae held in his hand. The smoke did not disperse; instead, it coalesced into a shape before him. Its pointed, upright ears were white, while the rest of its body was entirely black. The white ears stood out starkly against the pitch-black smoke.
"Go."
The inside of Geomnarae's open mouth was crimson. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. The moment he finished speaking, the legless smoke wolf surged forward. Its body undulated, making it look as though it were sprinting despite having no legs. Its two white ears drew twin lines through the air.
Awooooo!
Accompanied by a wolf's howl that vibrated in the gut, the black smoke wolf slipped through the tribesmen in the blink of an eye and bit into a giant's thigh.
It targeted one of the beasts that had been stealthily slipping away, trying to escape the reach of Rem's axes. No matter how strong Rem was, he only had one body. He could not stop dozens of giants all by himself using only physical prowess without sorcery.
Just as a few were slinking backward, the wolf appeared and sank its teeth into a thigh. Fangs made of smoke pierced the giant's thick hide. It was a bizarre sight—through the translucent smoke, flesh could be clearly seen being bitten and torn away.
Crunch!
Purple blood splattered through the smoke.
Graaa!
The giant shrieked and flailed its hand. The smoke dispersed briefly before reforming into its original shape.
Crunch.
The wolf summoned by Geomnarae utterly ignored the giant's flailing. It bit once, then twice, tearing away continuously. Flesh ripped and blood sprayed. The wolf buried its head into the shredded meat. The giant's screams grew twice as horrific as before.
Aaaargh!
It was only natural. Being bitten by a normal wolf would hurt, but the fangs of the wolf god carried a curse of pain. A bite from it hurt more than having needles driven under one's fingernails. It was like having a finger jabbed into a festering, ruptured wound and wiggled around.
When the giants had invaded previously, their sorcery had been blocked—perhaps by some prank of the Sky God. It was likely the work of the Fortune-teller Tribe or some mage from the enemy continent, but there was no such interference now. No disruptions.
Of course, they had prepared for potential interference, but in a situation like this, even if Geomnarae himself were the enemy commander, he would have thrown his hands up in defeat. How on earth could anyone predict and react to this?
"Son of a... bitch..."
"Hey, you..."
"You..."
The enemy leader was visible, unable to even speak properly because a sword kept swinging relentlessly at his mouth. Though his body constantly blurred to deflect the blade, how long could he keep that up?
The foreigner named Encrid showed no signs of tiring. How could he swing his sword with such serene composure?
Why did I ever agree to spar with him?
Even to a courage-filled Westerner, the display was simply absurd.
"Blegh."
Regardless of his idle thoughts, Geomnarae could not suppress the sudden wave of nausea and coughed up blood. It felt as though someone had grabbed his stomach and was wringing it out. His innards had twisted from the strain of forcibly summoning the wolf god. In the past, he would have pushed himself even harder to appear fine, but there was no need for that now.
"Don't overdo it. You should've just stayed back and watched. Why is a patient out here anyway?" Rem's shout echoed from up ahead.
He's watching me cough up blood even in the middle of all that?
The words were grating, but they brought a strange sense of relief.
"Worry about yourself," Geomnarae replied, wiping his mouth.
Rem didn't even pretend to listen. In truth, he probably hadn't even heard.
Now that Geomnarae had stepped forward to the point of spitting blood, the tribal warriors raised their spears high.
"The earth shakes. The earth shakes. Mother of the Earth, watch over us, watch over us."
Seeing this, two shamans shook their bells with a jingle-jingle and muttered. It was a ringing sound like a child's toy. To their allies, it was merely a pleasant, easily ignorable sound, but to the giants, it was different.
Groooan.
The beasts shook their heads, their eyes losing focus. A few of them even stumbled. It was a sorcery that focused sound waves to strike at their heads. Between the wolf god, the bells, and the brave Western warriors leaping into the fray, the giants actually seemed manageable.
Of course, the one showing the most overwhelming performance among them was Rem.
"Don't go getting yourselves killed for nothing. Ayul, take command."
He spoke while continuously swinging his two axes. Even in the dead center of the giant horde, Rem spoke with ease.
"Dalle, Maru, Tamu, and Altan—projectiles. Lange, Naran, Geut, Tan, and Hun—javelins."
Ayul was the commander of the Western warriors. She was the one who had led the warrior caste when Geomnarae collapsed, serving as one of the pillars holding up the shaken tribe.
Hearing Ayul's orders, the warriors shifted their formation. Four of them pulled out slings, spreading out to create distance. The remaining warriors held spears with black tips. The spearheads tightly bound to the ends of the sturdy wooden shafts were made of obsidian. Their durability was poor, but there was no better weapon for delivering a single, lethal blow.
It was all preparation to face the giants. The Western tribes were no fools; they had all prepared for battle. They would have fought even without Rem, though it would have been a desperate, losing struggle. Now, that struggle had become a battle they could comfortably watch as if lounging on a straw bed.
"Hup!"
The beastman raging on one side was also extraordinary. As she fought, weaving through the giants, her movements seemed possessed by a god. Stepping on a giant's thigh, she launched herself into the air, grabbed the giant's greasy hair, and slammed her elbow into the crown of its head.
Crack!
The sound of a skull collapsing inward echoed. The struck giant stumbled, trying to hold its ground, but the beastman followed up her elbow strike by clawing through the inside of its head before leaping aside.
Gurgle.
With a bizarre groan, the giant collapsed sideways. The blood and brain matter oozing from the crown of its head were proof enough that it would never rise again.
*
The chief went to rub his eyes but stopped, thinking it would be a loss if this was a dream and he woke up. Of course, it was no dream. He knew all too well. The chief was no fool; he could distinguish reality. It was just that everything felt so utterly surreal.
On one side, there was a man constantly turning into smoke, pursued by relentless sword strikes. The wielder of that sword was the foreigner, Rem's companion.
"All cultists are my enemies. I shall beat them all to death."
The Frok fought, puffing out her cheeks and muttering continuously as if possessed by a spirit. Just listening to her sent chills of pure murderous intent down one's spine.
And then there was the beastman fighting the giants. Yes, since those three were foreigners, such feats were possible. Even to the chief's eyes, their skills were difficult to measure.
But the last one was different. Rem, the hero candidate who had brought the foreigners.
The chief's gaze stopped on one spot. There, the prodigal son who had returned was busy "chopping firewood."
"Axe."
Whenever one broke, he would call for a new one, entirely absorbed in his task. The only difference was that what split under his axe was not green wood or dry timber, but giants. The horde of cannibal giants that had threatened the tribe was being split apart like worthless kindling.
To say it wasn't deeply satisfying would be a lie. The chief had been holding on, literally pissing blood from the stress. The pressure he had endured was enough to wither a man to death. Sleep eluded him, his chest felt suffocated, and his heart would pound wildly of its own accord. His worsening anxiety had robbed him of his appetite.
He had lost weight rapidly, his face growing hollower by the day. Had it not been for the patterns painted on his face, his sickly complexion would have been laid bare for all to see. That was how it had been. It had been that difficult.
Because the chief understood reality better than anyone.
We are ruined.
The dark clouds hanging over the West blocked the sun and shrouded the sky. Whether it was within his power or not, he did whatever he could. Searching for minority tribes? He had tried that even before Rem. It was just that none of them had responded. He had even tried to secretly establish a connection with the Fortune-teller Tribe.
He wanted to ask them why on earth they were doing this. He wanted to tell them that if they wanted to become a great tribe, he would make it happen—that he would let them do whatever the hell they wanted if they would just stop this madness.
They did not listen.
He had even wondered if he should borrow the strength of the other continent beyond the frontier. Of course, nothing went as planned. For some reason, help from outside and the search for minority tribes—not a single thing went his way.
The situation worsened day by day. A curse descended, the eldest shaman collapsed, and Geomnarae, the chief warrior, fell bedridden.
What a fucking mess.
The chief knew that running away was an option. But how could he do that? The West was the land where they were born and raised, the land where they would be buried, the land they had to protect for their entire lives. The low clouds, the high clouds, the sun-blocking clouds, the great lake, the sand-blocking canyon, the Mir-oreum.
The chief loved all of it.
If this was the end, he would endure it. Despair had arrived in an instant to gnaw away at his insides, and just when he thought he was nothing but an empty shell waiting for the day of his death... Rem had returned, and the curse had been blocked.
When two giants died, he had seen hope, but never as much as now. The chief felt a sense of peace as he watched Rem kick a giant's ankle.
Rem's build was not even half the size of the giant's. Normally, the giant shouldn't have budged from such a kick. But it did. With a single strike from Rem, the giant lost its balance. With a crack, the ankle bone snapped beneath the hide, and as the giant tilted and collapsed sideways, an axe blade met its neck.
Thud!
Along with a crisp impact, purple blood erupted. Rem, drenched in blood, laughed.
"Hey, there's not even half of you left now!"
Rem was the prodigal son who had returned. He was different from the Rem of the past. He fought like that without possessing any sorcery. He fought exceptionally well even without his descent weapon. He fought phenomenally.
The chief was relieved. This battle was won. It seemed he wouldn't be pissing blood tonight. His heart, which had thumped wildly when the foreigner named Encrid suddenly charged out, was now beating at its normal pace. It was the relief brought by peace and tranquility.
Though blood splattered, bones shattered, and screams erupted just ahead of him, the chief was at peace. Geomnarae had coughed up blood, but looking at his condition, he would be fine after a few days of rest.
The chief muttered.
"We won."
Naturally, it was a premature judgment.
*
Luagarne knew that despite her hatred for cultists, the end of her own battle would not be entirely pleasant.
Can I kill every last cultist? No. Can I eradicate the cult? No.
After her second lover died, Luagarne had wandered aimlessly for a time. Back then, she cared for nothing other than killing cultists. It would have been natural to make killing them her ultimate goal, separate from her desires, but she did not.
Because it was cheap.
Because she knew that if she made that her goal, she would never be able to achieve it. So, she redirected her desires toward chasing and uncovering the unknown, which was far more appropriate. It was enjoyable and meaningful in its own right.
From an outsider's perspective, the source of a Frok's desire might seem to lie in instinct or some incomprehensible realm, but what they actually felt was different.
Where there is a will, desire naturally follows.
Thus, true Froks forge their own desires. They state what they want clearly, and their reasons are distinct. They do not let themselves be dragged around by baseless urges.
Ah.
Enlightenment came in an instant. A nightmare recalling the worst moments. The faint, lingering traces of the cult. In the end, she had to face those who would become her lifelong enemies.
It wasn't that she didn't enjoy being by Encrid's side. Walking toward the unknown was also a pleasure. Someday, she wanted to set foot on the Eastern Continent as well. She would draw the map that had been her former lover's dream.
Luagarne watched Encrid swing his sword. She had observed his daily routine for quite some time. Watching his daily life had brought her a realization.
I will explore the unknown... and beat down the cultists.
How? Whether there was an end to it or not, she just had to work hard at it whenever they appeared. Even if the end was unhappy, it was enough to simply enjoy the process.
There was a man who swung his sword with a smile. There was a man who swung his sword without ever growing tired of it. There was a man who woke up at the exact same time every day to train his body.
Croak.
Regardless of her anger, Luagarne laughed. Of course, to the eyes of the cultists, there was no distinguishing a Frok's laughter from its anger.
"Crazy frog!"
"Crush its heart!"
"Bite out its heart!"
The crowd of barbarians and cannibals shouted repeatedly. They wanted her to react to the word "heart." Luagarne's mind was resolute. She easily let the grating words go in one ear and out the other.
One of them tapped his foot sharply against the ground. Mana flowed from his boots, and his body instantly shifted to Luagarne's side. It was an item enchanted with a high-speed movement spell. It was something she had experienced once before.
Now, when was that again? It was when they faced the Gnoll Colony. She had been with Encrid back then as well. The memory of that moment naturally brought forth a battle cry.
Croak, croooak!
It was the battle cry of a Frok.
Simultaneously, her Loop Sword swept upward to the right, slicing through the air. It was the exact spot where the cannibal mage was about to appear.
Whoosh!
The powerful blow forced the startled cannibal to recoil in fright.
"Tch!"
At that, a woman who appeared to be the leader of the cannibals gestured. The enemy forces began to gather around her one by one. Meanwhile, a one-eyed elf lunged forward to buy time. It was not a difficult opponent, but not one that could be subdued in an instant. If their intention was to buy time, they had played their cards right.
"Come forth, Arm of the Warrior."
One of the cannibals muttered, stretching his hand forward. A black droplet formed at his fingertips and fell. The single black droplet expanded into a dark pool, and from beneath it, a pitch-black hand burst forth.
It was a cultist spell.