Chapter 97
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 97
Chapter Title: Spirit Realm. (1)
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The night in that godforsaken mercenary city, which had seemed eternal, slowly receded.
It was early dawn, when a hazy gray tint first began to blend into the pitch-black darkness.
The Allen Mercenary Corps stepped out of the building, breathing in the chilly dawn air thick with the night's myriad sins. Their luggage was lighter than usual; the bags that always bulged like a grouch's jowls were now noticeably slimmer. ... This time, it wasn't for a mission—just a simple visit to the city.
The group of nine was no longer some ragtag mercenary band. By now, the Allen Mercenary Corps had risen to a status where even in Vermandua, people would nod with an "Ah" upon hearing the name. Of course, the Top 10 Viola Mercenary Corps had played a big part in that, but the point was, their name was out there now, one way or another.
The Allen crew strolled leisurely down the main street, bustling with people rushing about in pre-dawn preparations. They reached the carriage station just as the distant horizon began to glow faintly red.
Merchant caravans and mercenary groups were swarming there, readying for departure. Allen scanned the area until he spotted a boy holding a sign reading "Orphenil Merchant Group," and headed that way. A portly middle-aged merchant with dull, unkempt sideburns stretching to his jaw greeted Allen with a warm handshake.
"There you are. Hop on—we're heading out right away."
The entire Allen Mercenary Corps climbed aboard a large carriage pulled by four horses. The merchant group's wagons, having sold off all their Vermandua goods and now prepped for the southward journey, were nearly empty. There weren't any real specialties in the mercenary city anyway, and prices here were so exorbitant that buying anything to take back would just mean losses.
Of course, empty wagons didn't mean they were safe from bandits. If anything, thieves preferred cash over goods. Merchant groups returning after sales like this were prime targets for bandit gangs. ... So they'd need to stay even more vigilant than usual.
With nothing else to prepare, the merchant group set off as soon as the Allen crew boarded.
The carriage rattled along to the clip-clop of hooves, gradually putting distance between them and the wall-less mercenary city. Newest recruit Cori, the rookie, stared endlessly at the receding Vermandua, his chest swelling with anticipation.
Allen had already explained beforehand, but he recited the plan one last time for the members.
"As you all know, we're heading to Maljir to build some trade connections. ... They say there's a nice lake nearby, so we can check it out later."
"No separate bonus pay, then?"
"We didn't take a job, so where's the pay coming from, you greedy bastard."
When hairy Kis asked with a greedy grin, money-grubber Allen shot back without missing a beat. The group chuckled softly.
"Still, bandits are way thicker on this route than anywhere else, so no slacking on the way there or back."
The southern cities near the central grain belt naturally drew far more bandit packs than other areas—like flies swarming around plenty of shit.
Especially infamous was the continent's worst bandit gang, the Martollo Bandits, known for frequent appearances. Complacency was off the table.
That's when the hairy bastard let out a loud guffaw and slapped the back of rookie Cori, sitting beside him, with resounding thwacks.
"With beginner's luck on our side, what could go wrong? This kid here's got some serious fortune, I tell ya—!"
"Heh heh, I do have a bit of luck, yeah."
Allen's chest tightened at that.
...Somehow, it felt like he'd overheard something he shouldn't have.
A gloomy basement.
Atop bizarre runes drawn across the floor lay someone, as if peacefully asleep.
It was the corpse of the beloved youngest son of Amper's castellan, Baron Turs. Long dead, decay had set in heavily in places.
The white-haired old wizard meticulously checked one last time that nothing was missing. ...All the offerings were perfectly prepared without omission. Stroking his long beard out of habit, the elder mage informed the baron that preparations were complete.
"We're ready, my lord."
The middle-aged baron nodded with a face full of grim resolve.
"...Begin."
What they were attempting was opening a gate to the spirit realm—to resurrect the baron's dead son. Normally dismissed as impossible nonsense, but this brilliant old mage from the western magic tower told a different tale.
-If we can open the spirit realm's gate and retrieve your son's soul, resurrection isn't entirely out of the question.
When he heard that such experiments had been tried multiple times in the magic tower, even succeeding a few, the baron could hold back no longer. A father who cherished his son more than his own life was prepared to pay any price to bring him back.
In exchange for lavish future support and immense rewards, the old mage had agreed to open the spirit realm's gate and revive the baron's son.
They had committed all manner of atrocities to gather the offerings. The magic for opening the spirit realm's gate derived from demonic black magic, so the sacrifices were inherently vile and cruel from the start. Not just animal hearts and blood, but human skulls, hearts, and vast amounts of blood.
The old mage first sprinkled the prepared blood over the corpse and floor. It served as a medium to easily connect with the spirit realm.
Then the mage began chanting in earnest.
─────.
Chanting sticky, malevolent incantations, the mage circled the magic circle's edge, jabbing the hearts on the floor with his long staff. Blood spurted with each thrust.
The chant was exceedingly long. ...And at some point, the space grew strange.
...Ah...!
Baron Turs, staring at the magic circle as if his eyes might pop out, sensed ripples forming around his son's corpse. A phenomenon unbelievable even seeing it with his own eyes. ...Yet uncontainable hope surged in the baron's chest.
Just as the mage said—the spirit realm's gate was truly opening.
My son, my beloved son. Please, come back to me, to your father's arms...!
Watching the wicked magic, the baron prayed fervently to the holy spirits.
...Then, slowly, strange black hands like fingers rose from the ground. Shimmering like heat haze, they multiplied rapidly, soon filling the magic circle densely.
Gathering at the center as if parting a door, they slowly split left and right.
The chanting mage's voice grew louder. He circled faster, slamming the staff harder into the ground.
...The spirit realm's gate was truly, slowly opening. Countless black hands pushed it wide, and pale smoke began seeping through the gap. It soon filled the entire basement.
────!
...And after long anticipation, the spirit realm's gate finally yawned fully open.
Ooh—.
The mage cried out in ecstasy.
"Spirit of the realm, return this soul to us—!"
As the old mage shouted, the corpse sank into the pitch-black spirit realm's gate like quicksand.
"Spirit of the realm—!"
The baron, eyes bloodshot, stared as his son was dragged in and bellowed after the mage.
...But no matter how long they waited, the son's corpse didn't resurface. The baron screamed at the mage.
"Why isn't he coming back?!"
"No, this, what's happening...!"
The mage looked panicked—not because the baron's son's body wasn't returning.
...Keeping the spirit realm's gate open too long risked catastrophe, so he tried closing it, but it wouldn't budge. At all.
The elder jabbed the staff repeatedly, chanting desperately for it to close, but the gaping maw showed no sign of shutting.
"Mage! What the hell is this?! Where's my son?! Where's my son—?!"
"Shut up! That's not the problem right now!"
"What?! Give me my son! You promised to save him—!"
The baron clambered atop the yawning gate, knelt, and pounded it with his fists.
"Son, my son! Spirit of the realm, return my son to me! My son—!!"
Then a black hand slithered up from the gate, wrapped around the baron, and dragged him in.
Now realizing the gravity, the terrified mage flung his staff aside and bolted for the basement door...but the door that should have been there was gone.
...Ah...!
The fog-shrouded basement was no longer reality. It too had become part of the spirit realm.
"No, spare me, spare me, I don't want to dieeee—!!"
But the mage's screams merely echoed into the fog.
...And over the small city of Amper,
a thick fog descended heavily.