The Spring of El Dorado (1)
Stay calm.
Having peered into the abyss festering beneath the flagstones, Asella lightly thumped her chest to steady her racing heart.
Every instinct screamed at her to draw the Holy Sword and cut down the vile wretches this very second. But she could not. If she acted on raw emotion, exactly as Reina had warned, everything would fall to ruin. Not only would she fail to rescue Hans, the kindly neighborhood fruit vendor, but her reckless intervention would play right into the hands of the Holy See.
After all, I still bear the stigma of a traitor.
Within the Holy Kingdom, the weight of the word "heretic" was crushing. While those closest to Asella paid no heed to such slander, the common populace was a different story. The oracle had decreed that the current Hero would bring about the downfall of El Dorado—and to the masses, that revelation had come directly from the lips of the Goddess herself.
For now, all I can do is capture this on video.
Whether to post it to the Gallery could wait; recording the truth had to come first. Forcing down the choking bile of betrayal and rage, Asella slipped forward. It tore at her heart to stand by while Hans endured his "interrogation," but she had no choice. She needed undeniable, indisputable proof that left the Holy See without a shred of plausible deniability.
"Is it really so hard to confess?" drawled a voice inside. "You are under a curse right now, and the Undying King was whispering commands into your dreams. Just say those few words, and you're free to go."
"I... I cannot do that," Hans rasped, his breath ragged. "Why should I bear false witness?"
"You truly are dense, old man. You shouldn't be asking why. You should be asking how to make it sound convincing."
Fortunately, the inquisitors had never imagined an intruder could breach their sanctum. Their sentries were posted exclusively around the main entryway, leaving the high exterior windows virtually unguarded. Asella crept toward the sill and hoisted herself up, hanging silently against the stonework. Though the window sat at a dizzying height, scaling it was child's play for someone with the transcendent physique of a Hero.
"If you just cooperate, it's good for you and good for us," the interrogator coaxed smoothly.
"Goddess Aris... will never forgive you," Hans gasped.
"Ah, but we can forgive you. Isn't that simple enough?"
"How dare you... how dare you take the name of Goddess Aris upon your foul lips...!"
"Because the will of the Holy See is the will of Aris."
The sight of Hans inside was harrowing beyond words. Fearing he might somehow access the Gallery, his captors had wrapped a thick blindfold over his eyes and bound both of his arms in heavy irons. In the span of a single day, he had been subjected to brutal torture; fresh lacerations and dark contusions marred every inch of exposed flesh. A sloshing bucket of water sat beside the iron chair, and the realization of what it had been used for drove an agonizing spike through Asella's chest.
Uncle Hans...
Asella's knuckles whitened against the stone ledge. Watching such barbarity play out before her eyes was pure torment. Why had Goddess Aris not struck these monsters down with divine lightning? Why did Uncle Hans, an innocent man who had never shown anything but boundless warmth to his neighbors, have to suffer such indignities? How far would the Papal Palace go, debasing themselves into literal demons, merely to cling to their earthly power?
"Tsk. Hopeless," the interrogator clicked his tongue. "Do it again."
"I will never...!"
As another round of "questioning" began, Asella nearly wrenched her head away. Yet she forced her gaze back, commanding herself not to blink. Even if blinding grit were cast into her eyes, she had to record every agonizing second.
"Aaargh..."
"Tch. He fainted again."
After relentless torment, Hans's head lolled forward, his battered frame going limp as exhaustion claimed consciousness. The inquisitor clicked his tongue at the sight of the unconscious merchant, waving a hand in disgust. Two holy knights standing at attention stepped forward, grabbed Hans by the arms, and dragged his heels across the bloodstained floor.
Creak—
The heavy iron door swung open, and the knights hauled Hans down the dark corridor. Asella was about to drop down and shadow them when hushed, careless voices drifted from within the chamber.
"What if the old man actually dies on us?"
It was one of the younger inquisitors, his tone laced with unease. Whether his worry stemmed from pity for Hans or fear of political fallout was immediately obvious; Asella knew instinctively it was the latter.
"What if he does? What's it to us?" the senior inquisitor scoffed. "We'll simply declare that he was an authentic minion of the Undying King all along."
"Will the citizens actually swallow that?"
"We'll announce that several holy knights were grievously wounded while subduing him. Just make sure you're prepared to scratch a few fingernail marks into your own face to sell the story."
The utter shamelessness curdled Asella's stomach into ice. They spoke of human life as though it were trash to be discarded. Were these vile creatures truly supposed to be men of the cloth?
"What about his family?" the junior asked.
"Hey, you idiot. Don't you know how the undead work? An undead minion isn't truly complete until it dies. We just tell them we had to cremate the corpse immediately to prevent the spread of the necrotic curse."
"......"
"The people of El Dorado are blind zealots for Aris," the veteran sneered. "Slap the Goddess's name on anything, and they'll take it as divine gospel. In fact, our workload is about to explode after this."
"Our workload?"
"Yeah. We'll probably have to round up a few dozen more rabble-rousers and claim they've caught the Undying King's plague. Only way to make the mob believe the threat is real. ...By the way, you got a smoke?"
They weren't just slipping leashes onto the populace; they were asserting absolute authority over life and death itself. Humans were no longer people to them, merely livestock to be butchered for statecraft. Burning fury surged through Asella's veins.
How could they... how could they do this to people?!
Every fiber of her being urged her to draw the Holy Sword and sever their heads from their shoulders. Yet with superhuman resolve, Asella reined in the roaring fire within. She had captured both the evidence and their confessions. All that remained was the reckoning.
She turned to vanish into the shadows of the alleyways.
Uncle Hans, please hang on just a little longer. Goddess Aris, I beg of you, grant him the strength to endure this trial.
Hans was an ordinary shopkeeper. The time he could survive under systematic torture was terribly short, and even if he survived, the psychological and physical scars would never fade. All she could do was pray.
Yet... will simply posting this to the Gallery be enough?
A sudden, chilling doubt halted her thoughts.
Would broadcasting this footage truly bring an end to the madness? El Dorado was rotting from the inside out. Just as Ludwig had severed his gangrenous foot, the cancerous decay of this kingdom had to be excised. But here, the rot was the head itself. When you sever the head of any creature, the body dies. Replacing the head meant transforming the kingdom into something entirely unrecognizable.
Even so, that would be better.
If it meant saving millions of innocent lives, she would decapitate the tyrant without hesitation.
Just as Asella steeled her resolve—
Flash!
"—?!"
Without warning, the Holy Sword at her hip erupted in brilliant, incandescent light. Asella nearly jumped out of her skin. She had not even cleared the perimeter of the interrogation wing; in this dark corridor, such a radiant aura stood out like a lighthouse on a moonless sea. She frantically smothered the scabbard with her cloak, but the divine radiance pierced through the coarse fabric unimpeded.
I-I have to get out of here, fast...!
Clack!
"Hm?"
Flustered by the unexpected anomaly, her boot clipped a loose drainage bracket. The sharp metallic clatter echoed down the courtyard, and the junior inquisitor who had remained below snapped his head toward the window.
Between the blinding holy light and the noise, the odds of remaining undetected collapsed to zero.
"......"
"......"
Asella's eyes locked squarely with the inquisitor's. A stifling silence smothered the alley. It was the very man who had just voiced doubts to his superior. As Asella stiffened, her hand slowly creeping toward the hilt of the radiant blade—
"Hey! What's taking you so long out there?" the veteran's voice barked from the corridor.
"Ah! Coming right now!" the junior shouted back.
Without another glance, the inquisitor deliberately turned his back, ignoring Asella completely as he jogged toward the doorway.
"What were you dawdling for?"
"Just... spotted a rat by the sill."
"A rat? Well, the dungeons are ancient. Did you kill it?"
"Yes. It scurried off."
Listening to their fading footsteps, Asella realized the young man had chosen silence. A long, shuddering breath escaped her lips, followed by a faint, trembling smile.
There is... still some conscience left in this place.
Even in a festering cesspool, a tiny spark of decency could survive. It was because such people existed that the world remained worth fighting for—and why she could never abandon her duty.
Confirming that the Holy Sword's pulse had subsided, Asella vaulted down and melted into the capital streets. Fortunately, no alarms were raised during her egress.
Now comes the next step...
It was time to publish the recorded proof of Hans's torture to the Gallery. But as she had realized earlier, exposing the crime would not bring a clean resolution. She needed a strategy that left no room for escape.
Pressing her back against a shadowed stone facade, Asella mapped out the playing field. How could she completely dismantle a Papacy that was rotten to its core? The Hero existed for the citizens, not the Pope.
Cutting off their limbs would be ideal, but... there isn't enough time.
The Holy See was a master of vile political intrigue. They would happily cut off their own tails, sacrificing underlings to preserve the crown. Furthermore, they would quickly deduce that she was hiding inside the capital and issue a royal decree demanding the "Hero" present herself.
If that happens, everything falls apart. They'll weaponize my 'traitor' status until the very end.
To save the people, she was more than willing to unveil her registered fixed handle on the Gallery. The common folk wouldn't care about internet identities; they would understand. But the corrupt clergy would ignore "Juddak Asella" and focus entirely on "Hero Asella," painting her as an apostate defector who hated the Church. It would instantly muddy the waters and divide public opinion.
I have to box them into a corner where no excuse can save them. But how?
It was an agonizingly narrow path. They would trot out scapegoats, issue platitudes, and stall for time. In the worst-case scenario, Pope Louis II might simply make a superficial public apology and sweep the rest under the rug. Some might wonder why a pontiff bowing his head was the "worst-case scenario," but Asella knew the truth.
The Holy See must be utterly demolished.
The corruption was fatal. The diseased tissue had to be excised entirely, even if the nation had to be reborn under a different name. Wrestling with how to deliver an unrecoverable blow, Asella's eyes suddenly cleared.
There is only one way.
And that very afternoon...
The most catastrophic leak in the history of El Dorado detonated across the Gallery.
Pope Louis II of El Dorado.
He was a ruthless political operator who had climbed from the lowest ranks of the priesthood to the supreme throne of the Holy See. Ascension to such an apex required exceptional cunning and uncanny luck, and Louis II possessed both in spades. First, the catastrophic Undead King Incident thirty years ago had decimated the church hierarchy, leaving an unprecedented vacuum in high office. Second, his Machiavellian instincts allowed him to ruthlessly seize every opportunity the chaos offered, propelling him straight to the pontificate.
Yet power inevitably transforms those who hold it. Born with boundless ambition, he succumbed easily to the intoxication of absolute rule. Anyone who dared look askance at his authority was purged without mercy, and potential future threats were preemptively extinguished.
Hero Asella and Knight Commander Ludwig had been prime examples. The prophecy of doom itself was genuine, and Louis II had wielded it like a cudgel, framing Asella until she fled in terror and dragging Ludwig's spotless reputation through the mud.
Though an unexpected leak had emerged from that godforsaken death zone, the Forest of the Four Seasons, Louis II hadn't lost sleep over it.
There is nothing they can do from across that barrier anyway.
Ludwig surviving was an irritating variable, but nothing more. As long as the old paladin remained trapped within the Four Seasons Forest, he had zero means to intervene in continental politics. All the Pope needed to do was placate the angry protestors with sweet words before turning the inquisitors loose to crush them beneath an iron heel.
He had assumed it would be so simple.
"Wh-What did you say?!"
"A leak was posted to the Gallery, Your Holiness! The citizens are rioting in the grand plaza!"
All of his calculations turned to dust the moment Hans's plight hit the forum.
"Waaaaahhh!"
"Return Uncle Hans to us!"
"Down with the Pope! Step down! Step down!"
"Overthrow the Demon King in white robes!"
The thunderous roar of an enraged populace battered against the stained glass windows of the papal office. It had been barely a day since Hans was taken into custody, yet the grim atrocities unfolding inside the Holy See's deepest dungeons had been laid bare for the entire world to witness.
Though shaken, Louis II forced his trembling hands to steady.
No... I can still manage this. I prepared contingencies for leaks.
Whether the whistleblower was an intruder or an internal traitor mattered little. He would feign total ignorance, publicly execute the inquisitors responsible, cast doubt on the authenticity of the Gallery's footage, and soothe the masses with a tearful apology. He would pledge sweeping reforms, swearing on Aris's name that such an injustice would never happen again.
The leaker is almost certainly still inside El Dorado. I will pin the entire conspiracy on them.
All he had to do was brand the leaker as an agent of the Undying King trying to sow discord within the holy capital. Confident in his playbook of manipulation, Louis II snapped at the trembling priest who had delivered the report.
"Who posted the footage? An anonymous fluid nick? Or a registered account?"
"Th-That... it is a registered fixed nick, Your Holiness, but..."
The priest swallowed hard, averting his gaze before stammering out the name.
"I-It was Wild Grylls."
"...What?"
"Wild Grylls. The fixed nick surviving in the Forest of the Four Seasons."
"......"
Louis II's mind ground to a screeching halt.
Had it been an anonymous troll or any other continental noble, he could have spun a counter-narrative in seconds. But Grylls? The name struck him like a physical blow.
His gears slowly turned back on, desperately trying to analyze the board.
That lunatic trapped in the Four Seasons Forest couldn't possibly be here in person. Someone must have sent him the video file.
Deducing that much was easy. But what came next?
Could he intimidate Grylls into coughing up the informant's identity? Impossible. The man was posting from an extradimensional terminal inside a lethal wilderness thousands of leagues away.
Could he brand Grylls's post as fabricated heresy? He could try, but the contradiction would ignite the public's fury into an uncontrollable inferno. If he claimed the video was fake, the mob would scream: "Then bring Hans out alive and unharmed right now!" The moment they produced a crippled, tortured Hans—or failed to produce him at all—the lie collapsed.
Could he plead with the citizens to trust the Holy See over Grylls? Absolutely not. Because Ludwig was standing right there beside Grylls in his posts, hale and hearty. The moment Louis II opened his mouth, the citizens would fling the ultimate counter-argument into his face:
Step into the Four Seasons Forest? He would have to be utterly insane. That was nothing short of state-sponsored suicide.
Every escape route the Pope conceived relied on political fabrication and gaslighting—his greatest specialties. Yet every single path led to a dead end that terminated squarely at the words "Forest of the Four Seasons."
He could claim he was willing to go there to prove his divine mandate, but he lacked the suicidal courage to even whisper the bluff aloud.
This... this can't be...
The cold realization settled heavily over the Pope's heart.
Again...! That bastard... ruined everything again...!
A single, unassailable variable had utterly checkmated the Holy See.
"Man. That's downright sickening."
Meanwhile, deep within the Forest of the Four Seasons, Grylls leaned back from his interface after uploading the exposé.
"If that place isn't a death forest, I don't know what is. Total human slaughterhouse."
"What was that?" Ludwig grunted, looking up as he stoked the hearth fire.
"Nothing, nothing. Would you like another roasted sweet potato?"
"Mm."
Beside the crackling flames, the survivor of the wild couldn't have looked more relaxed.