The Price of Depravity
I don't know who Parish Priest Baldenhart is. Hell, I don't even know his first name—I've only heard of the parish.
"Gunter Baldenhart. If you asked me to name the most dangerous man in the world, I wouldn't hesitate to pick that bastard."
"...Isn't that your dad?"
"Of course it is, Esen Taiga. But you couldn't call our relationship good, not even as an empty compliment. He's the guy who beat his own daughter black and blue to stop her from interfering, then dumped her on a sinking ship."
Thanks to Florica, I now knew his name. And that he and his daughter hated each other enough to try killing one another.
According to Florica, she'd snuck onto the third ship with Adamanthon's crew to help us out. And unbelievably, she'd tried to take down her own father with her in a mutual destruction play right in the middle of the open ocean. The other two ships got separated by the storm winds and pushed ahead with their plan without knowing what happened to the straggler.
That foiled their attack on our ship.
If that's true, we owe her big time.
Morgan, running alongside the group, shook her head with a wry smile and muttered, "My old man was tough as nails, but looks like yours takes the cake."
"Because I lacked the strength... I couldn't stop him from coming after you all. He mocked me as he dove into the sea. No matter how hard I tried, it was like trying to block the sun with my hands—he said I'd always be a failure, no matter how much I denied it...!"
Florica was wriggling so hard on my back, it felt like she was trying to climb down. She must have some serious grudge. I gripped her legs tight against my sides to hold her in place. She'd changed into loose patient clothes, so her bare thighs pressed right against my arms.
The noble hero of the Mitra Church made a face like she'd been burned. Guess no one's ever dared touch her body before. But I couldn't let her keep squirming either. She'd washed up on the beach half-dead, after all.
"If you had to pick the most dangerously reckless woman right now, I'd say it's you. Settle down. You think we can run side by side with you thrashing like that?"
"Listen to our porter, or we'll drag you back to the hospital," Esen warned, jabbing a finger at her.
But she didn't push it further. If the bastard had snuck onto this island, Florica would know his face best.
Still, was this worry really necessary? Sure, she'd know him better than anyone, but we couldn't be sure he'd gotten here first.
As we raced toward the town with the smithy, I asked Florica, "You said Parish Priest Baldenhart smashed the ship's keel in a fight with you and jumped into the ocean?"
"I know what you're getting at, but there's zero chance he drowned. They say anyone who reaches parish priest rank is a monster. Some are social monsters, some academic ones—but Gunter? He's a monster in the literal sense. The kind who punches dragons to death with his bare hands."
"What kind of aptitude makes that possible?"
"It's not the aptitude. He has the same [Farsight] aptitude as the Bitsurk Party Alliance supervisor. So he wouldn't get lost at sea. But that's it."
"...Then how does he punch dragons to death?"
"Born flesh and brutal training. He rose to parish priest rank with nothing but his iron fists."
I pictured the Party Alliance supervisor grinding deadlifts and bench presses until his muscles doubled, then charging a dragon swinging haymakers. Not a worthy opponent, but he'd make a decent high-protein snack.
Nidroga snorted like it made no sense. Her cousin looked a bit scared, though.
Logically, I sided with Nidroga. But years of experience screamed the opposite. Better safe than sorry for the worst-case scenario.
"...Let's change the subject. You said he's after the succubus queen? What for?"
"Yeah, what would a priest like that want with a monster that turns men into women? Does he wanna be a chick or something?"
Florica broke into a cold sweat from the run but managed a chilly smile at Esen's innocent question. "He doesn't seem dissatisfied with his gender, but if his god commanded it, he'd obey without question. The man who tried to sacrifice his six-year-old daughter as an offering without hesitation—what wouldn't he do?"
"...?"
"Sorry, got carried away with emotions. It's irrelevant right now. I don't know what he plans to do with the succubus queen. But if it serves his god, he'll do anything. And since he wouldn't tell anyone his plans, you can bet it won't be anything peaceful that everyone would agree to."
"What if he's trying to recreate Bitsurk here on Dragon's Nest? Turn all the dragons into females so they can't reproduce, then have the succubus queen absorb their mana?"
Nenya gasped out the realistic yet terrifying possibility. Even Nidroga, who'd dismissed it before, went pale.
"This island's hidden by outer fog that only dragon winds can push away. But if he broke through, he might've already found the smithy?"
"I don't know how guarded your smithy is, but it's not impossible for him. He doesn't know the word."
"Here's the plan. I'll go ahead—you get the other dragons' help! Tell 'em it's the Lord's orders; they'll follow without question!"
The festival grounds drew closer. I eyed the dragons drunk out of their minds, the kind who wouldn't listen to their own moms.
"Wait. You sure that'll work? Will they even believe us?"
"Probably. They'd never imagine an outsider pretending to be the Lord!"
In other words, everyone knew impersonating her meant regret. But Nidroga didn't explain further. She leaped onto a tree, vaulted high, exploded into dragon form, and shot off like an arrow.
The wind from her takeoff tousled our hair, making us shiver to a halt. But her cousin didn't follow.
We turned to him. "Not going?"
"Someone's gotta keep you from getting mobbed by party animals."
"And that's you?"
Reni's sharp jab made Nidroga's cousin scratch his head sheepishly. "Yeah. And I'll take responsibility for saying 'the Lord ordered it.' You're just guests; can't dump this on you."
He nodded firmly, then eyed the cookies from his pouch with pity.
"Eat these first. Kinda nerve-wracking sober."
"...Why feed dragon-intoxicating cookies to non-dragons? You nuts?"
His heart was in the right place despite the taste. His excuse revealed one useful—but kinda useless—fact: Dragons classify "drunk" as a flavor. Their livers shrug off booze, so they crave weird herb snacks for a buzz.
"Bilena."
"Huff, huff—why drag me along—huh? What?"
"Ever thought about being the party's hero?"
"Which one? That festival, or our extermination squad?"
"Both."
My proposal flustered the party. And it worked, which flustered them more.
We got local cooperation easy. The first dragon to sample it hiccuped, face flushing, and toppled. Dragons in human form at the party suspected poison or tricks at first.
But a healer-aptitude dragon checked his pulse and declared him "drunk." The roar of joy beat any bomb-eating contest winner.
A miracle: a liver-tough-as-a-dwarf-clan dragon downed by one sip. Bilena, hailed as hero with arms raised by dragons, mumbled blankly, "These were for Nidroga. Guess she's tougher with booze than I thought."
"Whoever finds that 'Gunter Baldenhart' first gets ten bottles of Umbrella Distillateand a full brewing kit!"
I bellowed into the megaphone. Amid grinning, cheering dragons, one wearing a Mitra pendant raised a sheepish hand.
"Not sure, but... isn't that the Mitra parish priest? He's here? Why?"
"Can't say details, but he's after this special brew to wipe it out!"
Dunno if the BS would fly, but booze is life-or-death for some races. I figured these guys were dwarves cursed never to get drunk.
The presumed Mitra dragon looked shocked, then bellowed murderously where Gunter was. Not just the apostate layman ready to pulp a priest—all dragons joined the rage.
I sighed in relief. It worked.
"I know some of you are skeptical! No loss if you don't find him—it's like treasure hunt!"
"Treasure hunt" lit them up more. Always craving new thrills, they warmed to the game.
Festivities halted, murmurs spread. Slap-fight dragons hunted Gunter's cheeks. Cookie weirdos gripped rolling pins like clubs, prowling.
Nidroga's cousin marveled. "That booze helps, but you're smart too. Tell 'em he's a threat to hunt? Ninety-nine out of a hundred would've dismissed it like Nidroga."
"And with this crowd searching, he won't dare move."
Impossible to dash through to the smithy. Even straight-shot would take hours, and no guarantee he's lurking there.
This was my best shot. Nidroga was probably there by now, warning the Lord of a possible intruder. I just sped up the response.
Even if we don't find him, dragons tasting Bilena's brew won't riot. Please.
And unlike Bitsurk, hopefully this suffices.
Eitryon set down his hammer. The heavy clack-clack was definitely not his forging.
The great white dragon forging the hero's sword peered down at the intruder who'd stamped footprints in his forge unnoticed.
Mind-boggling, manners and sanity aside. Dragons hear buffalo bellows kilometers away. Eitryon's ancient beast senses were sharper than most—rivaled only by Tigris of the distant mountains or high elves of the great forest.
Yet this man, right in front of him, evaded all but sight. Without those deliberate footsteps, he'd have snuck right up behind.
That bald, pretty head with bulging mad eyes. Black priest robes, no insignia or temple marks.
Eitryon tilted his head. "Not the extermination party. Sis send you? No visitors scheduled."
"I seek no permission from the lowly."
Eitryon sighed, understanding. A challenge. An ancient dragon like him and his sister awake, come to vie for Dragon Lord without knowing the world. Like a volcano erupting after five centuries.
"Building 6, room 13."
"What's that?"
"Head out the forge, ignore the festival mob grabbing at you, go three blocks straight. New dragon visitor center. Ask for Building 6, Farm 13."
"Then?"
"Then what? No one's stopping you—go get pummeled by Sis. Spare the farm if you can. Might kill you."
Instead of leaving, the man climbed the altar steps silently. Sensing wrongness, Eitryon eyed his eyes. Wrinkles of age, but human span.
Eitryon panicked deep. If not dragon, how'd he silently drop the young guards outside?
"What I seek is here, smith."
Blood dripping from his knuckles onto his sleeves as he straightened them. "The horned dragon's hide harbors devils and demons, squandering eons in lust and corruption like the apostate's vice. They flaunt wings defying the heavens, yet none stand tall under the light."
"Who the hell are you?"
"Touring this island, the stench of revelry and greed assaults me. Thus, our sole sun-lord lends his hammer of judgment through my fist."
The man reached for the demon-sealing orb on the anvil like picking up his own. Eitryon swung his meteorite hammer at the arm—out of shameful fear.
Not even hero-aptitude sprouts in dozens scared him this much. But the god-forging hammer barely crumpled priest robes, sparing life and bone.
Eitryon shuddered at the inhuman feel. Like striking the toughest meteorite iron.
No give under dragon strength. The man paused his arm midair, turning to Eitryon.
Eitryon felt like pissing himself for the first time since hatching.
"I'll teach you the price of indulgence."
"The only one who can teach dragons order on Dragon's Nest..."
Eitryon glanced at the entrance, sighing in relief or dread.
Nidroga cracked her knuckles, advancing on the priest.
"...is the Lord alone, zealot. Today, I'll be your Mitra."