Chapter 40: The First Secret Plan (4)
Chapter 40: The First Secret Plan (4)
Translation: Godtl
The first sight that greeted Serena Lenoir when she regained consciousness was an ominous altar.
A platform likely constructed from piled white bones.
The mysterious magic circle drawn upon it.
And the spider-mustached old man kneeling in prayer.
"Ah."
I should have stayed unconscious.
Why did I have to wake up when I was promised wealth and glory?
No.
I can't give up my life like this.
The old man is currently distracted by his prayers.
If luck is on my side, maybe I can slip away unnoticed?
"You're awake?"
But Serena's hands and feet were shackled to the wall with thick chains.
The moment the chains clanked with a heavy sound, the old man opened his eyes.
"My preparations are just complete."
"Ugh... uu... uu..."
The old man smiled broadly as he placed a finger on Serena's cheek.
Her tongue seemed paralyzed with fear, rendering her speechless.
But this was her last chance.
The final opportunity to persuade this madman and return home.
What could she say to stop him?
"U-um, sir...?"
"Hmm?"
"What... what's going to happen to me now?"
"Didn't I tell you earlier? These adorable spiders will crawl through your ear canals into your br—"
"No no, I remember that part! So... am I going to die now?"
"Do you fear death?"
The old man's expression softened as if dealing with a naive granddaughter.
"To sprout like weeds and wither like fallen leaves—such is human destiny. You're being given a special opportunity. A soul offered as tribute—"
"Then... how about you become the tribute in my place, sir? I'll send you off with all due sincerity."
"..."
"I still have so much I want to do. Hehe..."
The old man looked momentarily stunned, as if hearing such a proposal for the first time, but fanaticism couldn't be swayed by mere words.
"Enough nonsense. Come here. It won't hurt."
"Eeek! Eeeeeek!"
The old man's mustache unraveled like threads, crawling toward her along his fingers.
The tiny spiders were just about to skitter across Serena's goosebump-covered cheek and into her ear canal.
Ah, so this is how I die without a fight.
All her ambitions—to continue her family line not as a first-generation noble but as an emerging noble.
Her fervent desire to one day live proudly as a noble who could boast without restraint.
They would all meet their futile end here.
Her entire life had been devoted to success and achievement.
Surprisingly, she didn't feel particularly regretful or disappointed.
The weight of the dreams she'd been willing to stake her life on felt strangely light in the face of death.
The lingering regret that settled in her chest was of a different kind.
She missed her family.
Her kind father and dignified mother, her troublemaker younger brother, even the uncles from the workshop who worked tirelessly under her.
They would grieve deeply.
Why hadn't she cherished them more? Why hadn't she spent more time with them?
Why had she strained so hard to earn recognition in the vain social circles, forcing artificial smiles?
Instead of locking herself in the workshop tinkering with machines, she should have just stayed with them a little longer.
'How foolish...'
Why do these thoughts only surface when it's too late to act on them?
Tears rolled down Serena's cheeks.
—Clang
"Pardon the intrusion."
The door suddenly swung open.
The old man immediately turned hostile.
"Who goes there! How dare you interrupt this sacred moment! I gave strict orders that no one was to enter!"
The space was too dim to see clearly.
Serena blinked through tear-blurred vision, trying to make out the owner of the voice.
"Sorry to interrupt when you're busy."
Jurgen.
It was his voice.
Simultaneously, a tingling sensation sharper than carbonation ran through her body, which had slumped in resignation.
Why was he here?
Could it be... he came to save her?
Serena immediately dismissed the thought.
Impossible.
This was a lawless stronghold buried in some forgotten corner of the Demon Realm.
A powerful criminal organization that even had a priest-level Black Mage in its ranks.
The cost-benefit ratio simply didn't add up for him to charge in here just to save one Serena Lenoir.
Moreover, Jurgen was merely an outstanding engineer—neither a knight nor an alchemist, was he?
After running these rational calculations, Serena arrived at her conclusion.
"Y-you... were you captured too, Senior Jurgen?"
"No, I came to rescue you."
The spider that had been crawling into Serena's ear retreated, returning to the old man's beard.
"Ho ho, live long enough and you'll see everything. How did you even get here?"
Priest Jerak of the Cult let out a hollow laugh.
The incompetence of the Jet Black Group—unable to stop a single intruder from reaching the altar.
The audacity of this young fool to appear alone before a priest of the Cult.
And the sheer absurdity that he'd come here just to "rescue someone"—it was all laughable.
"The Cult must have seemed like an easy target. Well, we have been quiet for some time."
As if brushing away dust, Jerak waved his hand and summoned his 'primary energy.'
Unlike naturally occurring mana, this was the power of a Black Mage obtained through sacrificial offerings.
With its sheer malevolence, even a small amount could manifest miracles—
The miracles of fallen deities.
"Contemplate your insolence as you turn to dust."
Whoooosh—!
From the shadows of the hut, from every unseen crevice—
A 'rift' connecting to the Abyss tore open.
From Serena's perspective, the swarm of tiny spiders pouring out like a tidal wave appeared as darkness itself spreading and flowing.
Against swords or magic, one could simply block.
But defending against an assault of venomous spiders from all directions was like trying to contain a liquid without spilling a single drop.
"My apologies for the disturbance caused by this uninvited guest."
Just as Jerak turned away, assuming the intruder had been dealt with—
"Cleaning is what I hate most. Nothing more tedious."
A scorching heat flared behind him.
"No matter how much you clean, they just keep coming back. Utterly tiresome."
Where the man should have been rolling on the ground, devoured by spiders, a translucent barrier now shimmered around him.
The spiders charging toward their prey burst into blue sparks upon contact with the barrier, scattering like fireworks.
"Especially Black Mages—trash like you."
A strange light flickered in Jerak's black eyes.
The man licking his lips amidst the blue flames that scorched the very air—he was no ordinary man.
Years of experience told Jerak this much:
At the very least, this man wasn't facing a Black Mage for the first time.
Which meant he had the skill to have killed at least one Black Mage before.
"How dare you prattle on, mere mortal."
Jerak drew forth the Vermilion Cloth 'Spider Web' and chanted an incantation laden with eerie cadence.
"Ooooh, Devourer of All Things, we offer unto you your feast."
The pulsating 'Spider Web' writhed, spewing forth a dark crimson light.
A nauseating wave of energy rolled over the man's body like a corrupting tide, etching the 'Mark of Tribute' upon him.
Now marked, the man would be recognized as an offering to the 'Devourer' whom Jerak served.
This was an irreversible curse.
Wherever he went, whatever he did, the space around him would warp, connecting to the Abyss.
Every hole in clothing, every tiny crack in the floorboards, even the shadows beneath beds—
Any existing 'rift' would become a conduit spewing forth endless swarms of familiars.
Until the marked tribute was delivered to Him. For eternity.
Seeing this, Jerak saw no need to take further risks.
"A pity to abandon such a pure and exquisite supreme offering."
This fight wasn't worth his time.
Since the Mark of Transference has been branded onto the threat, all I need to do is activate the curse I placed on the Jet Black Group to transfer my body and mind away from here.
For an alchemist of that caliber, he'd make a decent tribute as well.
"Though I suppose I could offer you as tribute instead..."
Jerak clicked his tongue in disappointment as he eyed the man—then froze.
More precisely, his gaze locked onto the leather bag the man was holding, and his body trembled.
An indescribable presence forcibly seized Jerak's awareness.
Through the slightly unzipped opening of the bag, a single eye peeked out, staring straight at him.
That alone was enough for Jerak to recognize what was inside.
He had no choice but to recognize it.
"Y-You... W-What the hell is that...? Where did you—?"
The being inside that bag—
It was a fragment, a partial manifestation of the glory of Him, the one who devours all creation with insatiable greed.
An entity on a completely different level from the mere familiars Jerak commanded.
Then that meant this man was at least a bishop of the Cult—no, a cardinal-level figure.
A chill ran down Jerak's spine, as if his body temperature had dropped five degrees.
His heart constricted with terror.
Jerak immediately bowed his head, trembling violently.
"B-Brother of the... the Cult...?"
—Thwip
The answer did not come in words.
Instead, a sharp, straight line pierced through Jerak's defenseless skull.
An ordinary human would have died instantly, but the life force of a black mage who had forsaken their humanity was tougher than a leech's hide.
As his brain split apart, Jerak's entire body crumbled into a swarm of spiders from the head down.
'No... He's not from the Cult. There's no way I wouldn't know someone like that. Whatever he is, I need to run!'
He had prepared for this.
A fox digs two holes, but a black mage digs dozens.
He had already engraved the Mark of Transference onto one of the Jet Black Group's members.
Jerak's spirit and flesh would devour the host and be reborn anew.
As he searched for the Jet Black Group member spiritually linked to him—the most suitable vessel for his transfer—
He realized something.
Not a single spiritual signal responded to the curse.
'Gone...? Not even one...?'
Just thirty minutes ago, at least forty of those roach-like bastards had gathered in this hideout.
He hadn't sensed anything amiss until now.
Did that mean every single one of them had been wiped out?
In just thirty minutes?
'Ah...'
Standing before the mortality he had denied for two hundred years, Jerak shuddered.
'...I had forgotten.'
The way this had all unfolded was eerily, horrifyingly familiar.
A combat style that defied all expectations—heretical in its deviation.
Ruthless pragmatism that disregarded honor entirely.
Mechanical precision that allowed not even a moment for counterattack.
Lost in the scattering remnants of his thoughts, Jerak howled inwardly like a scream.
'I—I must report this to the Cult!'
He had returned.
Retired from active duty.
The enemy of the Cult.
The butcher of black mages.
And at the same time—
The most black mage-like hunting dog the kingdom had ever known.
Han-bin Ainsworth.
Penelope Rosemore, who had been making a fuss since the crack of dawn, finally turned to leave.
"Well, I suppose luck just favors the bold, doesn't it?"
Rex chuckled to himself as he recalled the morning's events.
In the end, there had been not a shred of evidence or justification, and all that noblewoman had done was furrow her brow and spout empty bluster.
She was probably running around right now trying to dig up proof, but alas—
The connection between the Jet Black Group and Rex was faint.
The Jet Black Group themselves likely didn't even know they were working under Rex.
All they knew was that some mysterious noble was bankrolling them like mercenaries.
Did anyone really think he'd bring in a dangerous Cult operative without such safeguards?
"Keh keh keh, by now, the information extraction should be done."
All that was left was to secure Y&P's valuable trade secrets—then it was game over.
The market share war would end in Keystone Company's absolute victory.
"Those damn bastards, when are they gonna call?"
By now, the informant planted within the Jet Black Group should have sent over the confidential data.
But there was no contact.
It was probably nothing.
So Rex waited.
But no matter how long he waited—
No call ever came.