What the Hell Is This? Take It Away (2)
The Priest-King clutched his forehead as he stared at the three saints who had barged into his office at the crack of dawn.
"You do know I'm your king, right?"
"Ahem, Your Holiness. 'Even so'? We saints are deeply moved by Your Holiness the Priest-King's sacrificial spirit in volunteering for that heavy burden, and we offer our true loyalty in return."
The elderly Martial Monk slyly deflected the Priest-King's irritation with a grin. The Priest-King reminded himself once more that this old fox had avoided ascending the throne despite his immense popularity and overwhelming battle record on the Abyss frontlines.
"There must be a reason you called me here at this hour."
"We wouldn't dare disturb Your Holiness's slumber. We merely came to the office to stand by in preparation, only to find Your Holiness already hard at work, driven by your benevolent spirit for the people. It wouldn't be proper to say we 'called' you."
"Ah, for real!"
The young Priest-King couldn't contain his rage at this old man—of all people—spewing such nonsense. It wasn't benevolence; it was the essence of being Priest-King that forced him to work until dawn.
"So, did you safely recover the main body of the seed?"
"Of course."
The saints pointed to the pristine white coffin. The Priest-King recalled how these sly foxes had used it like a battering ram instead of knocking, pounding on the door.
Grumbling, the Priest-King rose from his seat. It was a perfectly reasonable scolding about mishandling the sealed casket, but the saints just shrugged.
"Let's check it one last time before burying it. Open the coffin lid."
"Ah, Your Holiness. We can't open it without breaking it. That's why we brought it to you."
"What?"
This seal, woven from the divine powers of numerous gods layered in intricate combinations, required the authority of someone fit to orchestrate the Hall of Myriad Gods. If ordinary priests had created a similar phenomenon, the saints could have unraveled the tangled divine threads with their permitted powers and accumulated wisdom, patiently teasing it apart like a knotted ball of yarn.
But those who had crafted this seal were peers elevated to sainthood...
"Your Holiness will have to neatly undo it for us. While you're at it, tidy up the sealing ritual too."
"Damn it all! And you call yourselves my subjects?!"
"We saints hold the Hall of Myriad Gods's supreme proxy in the deepest respect."
The Priest-King sighed and raised his hand. He decided to ignore the sleep he was losing by setting aside his paperwork. Even without anyone touching it, the coffin's lid rattled. With a click and the meshing of gears, the chaotic divine power redistributed precisely according to intent and role. The seal's structure refined itself further—making it even harder for the Abyss to escape, while facilitating smooth maintenance through divine infusions.
The Priest-King sighed again.
Right after my term ends, I'm quitting everything, getting assigned to my hometown parish, and retiring.
Having reset the surface seal, the Priest-King moved to inspect the inner one. His gestures were precise, like a symphony conductor's. With a soft slide, the white coffin opened on its own.
Inside lay a gray sword, bound by chains—like a shackled criminal. The Priest-King approached slowly and placed a finger on the blade.
"Whoa, this thing's vicious. The poison's no joke."
He yanked his hand away as if scalded by boiling water, then invoked the Hall of Myriad Gods's authority once more to reinforce the seal. The cool metallic chill unique to a finely forged blade, mingled with the Abyss aura eager to devour flesh and soul—it would never escape this pristine coffin now.
"Now let's bury it somewhere suitable and forget about it. For world peace, the sooner we inter those damned Seven Great Demonic Weapons, the better."
Kriel opened his eyes. It wasn't some killing intent or ominous Abyss aura that woke him. His body just felt strangely heavy.
Last night's watch had been Orishin, who begged not to be sheathed and swore he'd stand guard. The guy was flippant, but reliable in his duties, so Kriel doubted he'd let an intruder slip by.
Morgina? He'd told her not to several times—
Lifting his eyelids, Kriel beheld a sight far from his expectations.
There was someone. A person collapsed atop him, overlapping his body. But the hair was wrong. Not Morgina's silky raven-black locks, but grayish, ashen strands evoking gunpowder dust. The pallid skin felt more like a doll or statue than flesh.
What the hell?
Kriel was baffled. No memory of this person existed in his mind.
[Damn it, morning already! Everyone up! I said I'd take watch, not hand it off so you all could max out sleep. Especially you, thug saintess—you said you didn't trust me but it'd be fine...]
Bad timing. Orishin, shaking his head jauntily mid-flight, spotted Kriel and the mystery girl atop him—and froze solid.
"Starting fights first thing in the morning? I trusted you generously, so be grateful and do your best—"
It was a mountain of troubles. Morgina stirred sleepily, snapped at Orishin, then turned to Kriel.
"...?"
She rubbed her eyes.
"What the f—"
"Wait. Whatever you're thinking, it's a misunderstanding."
Kriel spoke hastily. Morgina 'tch'ed with a scoff.
"You horse-face. Did you even stand watch properly?"
[This is unfair. I sat alone under the moonlight for hours, moping with no one to chat with!]
"No legs, and you sat?"
Morgina bickered with Orishin but didn't drop her guard. She brought her right hand to her mouth and grazed her palm with a canine. Blood welled from the long gash, coalescing into a rod-like shape. Divine power flowed in. Her palm healed as the rod twisted into a familiar form.
By the time she gripped it satisfied, it was no longer a rod—but a flanged mace.
Piercing the spirits' gaze, slipping past my barrier into the camp undetected?
The most likely culprit: something like Orishin, a spirit kin. As embodiments of nature's authority, they could bypass spatial limits in their domains. A river spirit, say, could manifest anywhere from downstream to upstream.
If this woman rubbing against Kriel was this mountain's spirit, she might've skirted the barrier and infiltrated directly.
But that was odd too. Abyss and nature were polar opposites. Approaching him?
Either she's Abyss-tainted like that horse-face, or not a spirit at all.
Kriel read Morgina's expression—and her white-knuckled grip—that she brimmed with intent to swing. Sensing her menace, his thoughts raced. Drawing from his Western Front days bunking with her, he guessed her logic.
She breached Orishin's watch and my barrier, so definitely not a normal human.
In this world, most things labeled 'not normal' were Abyss-related. Even if not, suspicious was suspicious. And the most logical, efficient response to suspicion—at least per Morgina—was preemptive strike.
She'd clearly concluded to deliver a proper concussion with her mace first. Binding a sleeping foe was less safe than one knocked out.
As a pre-Tirnanog RPG player, Kriel would've agreed. But as a Dark Knight pretending to be honorable, he couldn't abide it. Laying hands on someone without clear guilt wasn't knightly.
Didn't I once shield Morgina's mindset and end up in a duel trial?
A flicker of doubt, but Kriel resolved to act honorably. He steadied his posture and rose, positioning himself before the gray-haired woman—shielding her from Morgina. Donning his helm out of habit (his breastplate long shattered, leaving a ridiculous tunic-and-helm look), he grasped her shoulders and shook.
"...Excuse me. I don't know who you are, but wake up. You're in a very precarious spot right now."
Slowly, the gray-haired woman's eyes opened. Blue. A deep sapphire evoking frozen glaciers. But to Kriel, they were too sharp for mere gems.
The chill gleam of glacial ice. He'd witnessed that exact shade of blue recently.
Not just witnessed—his chest had been shredded by its blade.