Chapter 60: The Witch and the Noble Lady (5)
Chapter 60: The Witch and the Noble Lady (5)
Translation: Godtl
Black mage.
The End Cult.
The sworn enemies of the continent who worship the Eight Evil Gods.
These vile fanatics find ecstasy in flames and ashes, discover life's meaning in screams and bloodshed, and revel solely in the apocalypse.
They sacrifice humans to create Vermilion Cloths or cast powerful curses.
And as if that weren't enough, they're insane enough to unleash evil gods' familiars upon the world through their "rituals"... or so they say.
Yet all these societal judgments stem from nothing but pitiful misunderstandings.
True, the End Cult does praise the end of days.
But the apocalypse isn't necessarily a bad thing.
It's merely the process of escaping this false world and stepping toward the gates of truth.
To define the end as evil is simply because the corrupt rulers cannot relinquish the tyranny they clutch in their hands.
The same goes for human sacrifice.
By nature, humans are born from dust and shall return to dust without meaning.
Yet souls offered to the "true god" shall enjoy eternal glory in the world of truth.
What greater grace could there be for nonbelievers?
In this sense, the summoning through "rituals" was the greatest blessing the Cult could bestow—a sacrificial service delivered right to your doorstep.
Nonbelievers who lose their lives to familiars summoned through rituals are officially recorded as "offerings."
For instance, if one "servant" kills a thousand nonbelievers, then a thousand nonbelievers are saved.
In this harsh world, only the End Cult is filled with such philanthropy.
As the Cult's Archbishop, Hamel too possessed the mercy to pity sinners.
However, the witch currently slaughtering monsters amidst the flames before his eyes was a different story altogether.
The Witch of the Western Border, Isolde Blackwood.
She was pure, unadulterated evil with no possibility of salvation.
Priest Jerak's five-year preparation of the "Great Plan" in the Labyrinth Demon Realm was precisely meant to judge this wicked witch.
"After persecuting devout followers for centuries, the 'witch' shall finally pay for her sins today."
The method was simple.
During the Red Moon, monsters spawn en masse.
And the witch always ventures alone into the Abyss without forming a party.
Aside from her formidable strength, she was riddled with exploitable gaps.
But...
"Is something troubling you, Archbishop Hamel?"
"Yes, indeed."
Something felt off.
According to the Cult's intelligence, the witch was a 9th-Rank Alchemist.
A mere swarm of Crisis-grade monsters should be nothing she couldn't handle with ease.
Even Hamel, as an Archbishop, couldn't oppose her directly, which was why he resorted to such underhanded tactics.
Yet after observing the witch battling the hordes of monsters for hours...
"At best, she's at 8th Rank. No, perhaps 7th? This makes no sense."
The witch was clearly weakened.
Her current level was something Hamel could suppress without much difficulty—far from the terrifying prowess expected of the infamous witch.
"Is she hiding her strength?"
Had she caught wind of the Cult's plan?
If she were conserving her energy in preparation, that would make sense.
But Hamel had another reason for suspicion.
The young woman roasting corn over the campfire while the witch slaughtered monsters.
"Who is that woman beside the witch? Is she someone the Cult planted?"
"No."
"Then?"
"She's not under special surveillance. Nor was she on the watchlist. Perhaps she's merely a chance companion..."
An extra—neither a Cult operative, a surveillance target, nor a person of interest.
The fact that such a person just happened to be accompanying the witch was the most unsettling detail.
How had the witch thwarted the Sub-god's descent in the past?
By using "Life" to reconstruct a comrade's circuitry and sealing the Sub-god within that very flesh.
It was a horrifying moment—the culmination of decades of preparation coming to a disgraceful end.
Perhaps Jerak's sudden and violent death, or the Witch's abrupt appearance accompanied by an unknown figure—
Were these not all signs that the plan had gone awry?
Yet.
This was a trial.
A trial bestowed by the Great One.
"There is no issue. Prepare yourselves."
For those who serve, trials are nothing to fear.
The Red Moon did not mean monsters poured forth endlessly.
It was more accurate to say they emerged in waves, roughly every thirty minutes.
And the only reason one could afford to muse over such things so casually was purely thanks to Isolde.
BOOM! BOOM! CRASH!
For the past six hours, she had been effortlessly annihilating every Transformer that charged at her with overwhelming magic.
It looked so easy that it seemed like mere routine work.
Had Penelope been standing in that same spot, she would have been reduced to minced meat in less than ten seconds.
Isolde, who had once seemed like nothing more than an eccentric, was indescribably powerful—
And beautiful.
Not just in appearance, but in the magic that blossomed from her fingertips.
Flickering embers, heat warping in metaphysical shapes, flames bursting in vivid colors.
Who knew alchemy could be so breathtaking? The admiration came unbidden.
Penelope lowered her head and stared at her small, pale palms.
"Only 5th-Rank..."
The power she had yearned for so desperately.
Her Unique Code, Falling Flower.
She realized now just how insignificant it truly was.
The level she had once revered as an insurmountable wall was, in truth, such a frail and feeble strength.
"..."
The Penelope of the past might have been crushed by despair.
To learn that the power she had clawed her way to obtain was so pitiful.
She might have drowned in helpless frustration.
But not anymore.
Now, all she felt was pure awe.
No self-loathing, no powerlessness—just wonder.
She learned with her eyes.
Of course, simply watching wasn't enough to replicate anything.
Penelope was no once-in-a-generation genius—just slightly above average, as Isolde had bluntly put it.
Still, she refused to miss a single detail.
The boundless potential of magic, its infinite applications, its sheer beauty.
She could feel the self-imposed limits she had unknowingly placed on "magic" peeling away, layer by layer.
Though there were no kind explanations, perhaps this was the greatest lecture she could ever receive—one she wouldn't find anywhere else.
Before she knew it, the surroundings had fallen silent.
Once again, Isolde had cleanly suppressed another rampage of monsters—who even knew how many waves it had been by now.
The faint scent of sulfur lingered in the air.
Without so much as a hint of exhaustion, Isolde strode back toward the campsite where the bonfire was set.
"You've worked hard. I've roasted some corn for you."
Just as Penelope was about to offer the perfectly grilled corn—
—THUD!
Isolde's body moved like a flash of light as she reached for it.
With near-violent force, she shoved Penelope hard in the shoulder.
"Ow—!"
The pain was secondary—the sheer weight behind the push sent Penelope tumbling onto her backside.
"Lady Isolde...? What are you—"
Before the bewildered Penelope could finish, the space in front of her twisted.
And then—
—CRUNCH!
Isolde's arm, caught in the distorted space, was crushed.
Blood splattered across Penelope's widened pupils.
Isolde's severed forearm, torn off below the elbow, bounced grotesquely.
No—could that even be called an arm?
It was so mangled, twisted beyond recognition, riddled with what looked like savage bite marks that it was hard to tell.
The severed arm, spinning wildly in midair, vanished into thin air as if someone had swiftly swallowed it whole—gone in the blink of an eye.
The twisted space contorted back to its original state.
But Isolde's arm did not return.
Blood dripped steadily from the grotesque wound, as though her muscles and bones had been forcibly wrenched and torn apart.
"That hurts."
Despite the excruciating injury—painful just to look at—Isolde neither screamed nor panicked.
She merely furrowed her brow.
Penelope, who had shot up from her seat, pulled out a handkerchief.
"Let me stop the bleeding. I don't know how, so tell me what to do."
"I've already treated it."
True to her words, a faint emerald glow of magical energy enveloped the wound.
In the midst of her shock, Penelope pieced together what had happened.
Someone had launched an ambush.
Isolde had pushed her out of the way, leaving Penelope with nothing more than a bruised backside—but at the cost of Isolde's arm.
A monster?
Could a monster of 'Crisis'-rank or higher wield such bizarre abilities?
Even if it was a sneak attack, to tear off Isolde's arm like that—?
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Her questions were swiftly answered.
From the darkness, a boy stepped forward, applauding dryly.
"Your instincts haven't dulled a bit, Witch. Though I was hoping to eliminate the biggest variable first."
A boy draped in white robes, unnervingly beautiful, surrounded by a dozen figures with white hoods draped over their heads.
Among the nobility, there was hardly anyone who wouldn't recognize those pristine robes and peculiar hoods.
Every noble heir and lady was taught from childhood: Never get involved with them.
"Black Mage...?"
"'Cultist of the End' is a much nicer alternative to such a derogatory term, my lady."
"'My lady' my ass—"
A curse flew from Penelope's lips—uncharacteristic for her, who rarely resorted to foul language.
Because she knew that the boy with an unrealistically delicate face had just tried to turn her into an unidentified lump of meat.
Separate from her anger, fear seeped in.
The danger posed by a Black Mage was on a level that rendered even the Undertaker insignificant.
These were beings who brought about realistic tragedies—unlike the evil dragons or wicked witches from fairy tales.
Isolde understood the danger more intuitively than Penelope.
"Archbishop Hamel. So you're not dead. I was sure I killed you back then."
"The power of unwavering faith, perhaps? Ah, for your information, I'm an Archbishop now. I was promoted a few years ago. Compared to you, Witch..."
A dreadful smile spread across his angelic lips.
"You've become rather... unimpressive in the time I haven't seen you."
"..."
"Don't tell me your rank has regressed. Have you lived so long that your circuits have malfunctioned?"
Isolde didn't respond.
Not a single hint that his words had struck a nerve.
But Hamel had seen enough to be certain.
For whatever reason, the wavelength Isolde emitted, the level of magic she wielded—it was that of a 7th Rank.
With preparations like these, he could toy with her alone.
"Not that it matters. Frankly, I'd rather not sully my soul by exchanging too many words with a witch like you."
Isolde's lips moved slightly as she glanced behind her.
Magic surged, and a carpet of tiny clovers bloomed at Penelope's feet like a woven rug.
"Ferantier. Don't move."
"It's Penelope."
"Whatever. Just stay on that spot. Don't run, either."
Penelope pressed her lips tightly together and nodded.
This carpet of clovers seems to be some kind of protective measure...
But telling me not to even attempt to escape means the danger is beyond Isolde's ability to protect me.
This is already the second time I've been caught up in an attack recently.
That very Isolde lost an arm in an instant.
Moreover, the opponents are those notoriously vicious Black Mages—and one even holds the title of Archbishop.
I may not know the exact classification, but even Isolde doesn't seem confident about her chances.
Just when I thought things were finally going smoothly, I guess it's true that luck has a fixed quota.
No sooner had the cola started selling well than this mess happened.
It feels like staring at a pile of gunpowder stacked haphazardly with a bunch of carelessly tossed cigarette butts strewn around.
Death, which always felt so distant, now approaches like some cruel joke.
"Well then, shall we begin?"
As Hamel spread his arms as if giving a command, Isolde simultaneously drew a catalyst from her Palette.
Not all personnel stationed in the Demon Realm in preparation for the Red Moon are heroes.
In terms of sheer numbers, "heroes" are the extreme minority—the vast majority are ordinary adventurers living mundane lives.
"Ugh, this is exhausting."
"Come on, it's just a little sweat. Back in the day, it was a matter of life or death, you know? At least we don't have any casualties."
"I know, but it's still tough."
"Good work, everyone. We've got time until the next wave, so let's regroup."
The adventurers stationed in the 1st-floor "Barley Reward Room," having just finished a fierce battle, were scattered about in small groups, taking a breather.
Since it was the first floor, the threat level of the monsters was only Minor Disturbance-grade.
But their sheer numbers meant they had to swing their weapons nonstop.
Stamina drained rapidly, sweat poured like a flood—it was hell for ordinary low-rank adventurers.
"And who knows how many more days we'll have to keep this up. Even if we bust our asses, the higher-ups will take all the credit anyway, won't they?"
"Yeah, but what can we do? If we don't participate in the Red Moon, they won't issue our permits."
"Damn, that's dirty. By the way, where's the rookie?"
"Right here!"
The quick-witted rookie set down a large box, and the other adventurers' faces brightened.
"Hehe, everyone, take a sip and relax. It's ice-cold."
"Our rookie's got some sharp instincts."
"Kids these days know how to be slick. We really lucked out with this one, huh?"
The "icebox" the rookie had brought was filled with ice, water, and bottles bobbing on top.
The drink inside was a supply item—cola.
"Rookie, you take the coldest one."
"Ah, no way. You should have the best one, bro."
"Ahhh! I've missed this taste. Feels like my bones are freezing."
"How in the world did they make such a miraculous drink?"
Cola was revolutionary even for adventurers.
Not only did its rich sweetness replenish stamina, but since it wasn't alcohol, it didn't intoxicate.
And the taste? No need to even mention it.
It was the perfect drink to rehydrate bodies parched from grueling physical labor.
Even its sole drawback—turning lukewarm and losing its flavor—was overcome by the icebox, a modern marvel.
So it wasn't strange at all to see recruitment notices boasting perks like "cola provided, icebox available."
"Let's recharge and get back to it!"
"Rookie! You rest a bit longer!"
Just as the adventurers were about to raise their glasses in high spirits—
Whoosh.
Something dark and indistinct flashed past.
—Whoooooosh
A powerful gust followed, strong enough to flatten a field of ripe barley in an instant.
The sudden wind, leaving an eerie howl in the Reward Room, died down just as quickly.
"Wh-what was that? Did something just pass by?"
"Y-yeah, I saw it too, but... was that a person?"
"Right? It had to be a person, right?"
"Can a person even move that fast?"
The adventurers stared at each other, utterly bewildered.