The Descent of Urshus
At Olsidra's signal, the other priests clad in crimson robes summoned runes into the air. From within the black and red runes that formed amid strange sounds and vibrations, two creatures slowly emerged: a red donkey-like beast bleeding from every inch of its body, and a massive grotesque bird standing on a single leg, its form utterly devoid of feathers.
The donkey's eyes glowed crimson as blood continued to pour from its body, while the bird's wings were covered in thin, bat-like membranes instead of feathers. Both summoned beasts moved unnaturally, as though resisting their summoners' will—an inevitable outcome, for they already knew the fate that awaited them.
Kukatodan. A white donkey born to offer its life to the great earth from the very moment of its birth, its body stained red by the ceaseless flow of its own blood over countless years. And Yakas Meshi, a descendant of the Star Bird said to have first spoken the language of the gods, now fallen into a demonic beast after its arrogance led it to blaspheme against the divine, stripped of both voice and feathers.
Both creatures were vital summons in druidic and prophetic rituals—Kukatodan's blood amplified divine power through prayer, while Yakas Meshi enhanced a prophet's foresight. Yet what the Dark Priests sought now was neither.
Another rune appeared, and from it stepped a horned giant without eyes, gripping a massive crimson sword. Without a moment's hesitation, like an executioner at the gallows, it swung its blade. The red edge severed Kukatodan's head in a single stroke and pierced Yakas Meshi's heart. Neither beast uttered a sound as life drained from their eyes, their massive bodies collapsing to the floor.
The summoners, connected through their spirits, shared the overwhelming terror and revulsion of that final moment, yet not a trace of guilt stirred within them. Any lingering horror was swept away by the power now surging through their veins.
As the two beasts perished, the spell circle etched into the ground blazed once more. The Dark Priests fell to their knees in unison and chanted an incantation long lost to the world. At their command, the corpses dissolved into crimson and black particles that rose into the air, while the flames upon the candlesticks flickered wildly. The particles mingled, forming a perfect circle, and with each passing moment the flames and energy grew stronger.
The priests' voices rose higher as the ritual reached its climax. Suddenly, the space where the particles converged tore open, revealing a dark crimson flame that burned inward upon itself. Though smaller and more modest than the fires of El Nergavil or the surrounding candlesticks, none of the Dark Priests dared meet its gaze directly.
The vastness and overwhelming power emanating from the flame—the dark divinity—was the very presence of the god they had only ever felt in fragments through their own flames.
Olsidra.
At the divine voice that echoed through the flame, Olsidra's entire body trembled. It was not only he who felt it—every Dark Priest shuddered as the voice resonated through their very souls.
“O great Urshus!”
Olsidra prostrated himself before the flame, before Urshus, the god of dark crimson fire.
You have found a path to reach me, my priests.
They felt the flame of Urshus within their souls ignite.
“O mighty Urshus, guide us! Illuminate our path with Your flame!”
“Urshus!”
They cried out the name as though entranced. All doubt and the terror from El Nergavil had vanished from their minds. They were drunk on the power coursing through their bodies and souls, repeating the god's name over and over.
“Urshus! Tell us what we must do! How shall we claim the glory and victory You promised us?”
Do not be hasty. All shall come to pass. Yes, Olsidra—even your wish.
“……!”
The cruel executioner holding the sword and its summoner instinctively stepped back beneath the god's gaze. Neither summoner nor summoned could act otherwise.
“……!”
The horned, eyeless executioner felt the colossal flame engulf its entire being and lost all sense of self. The summoner, overwhelmed by the torrent of power through their link, severed the connection in desperation.
“Aaaah! Aaaagh! Aaaaaah!”
Yet even after breaking the bond, the summoner's mouth would not stop screaming, as though plummeting into an endless abyss. It was as if he no longer knew where he was or that he was screaming at all—he simply continued to wail.
Be silent.
Only when those words fell did the screams cease. Even then, the fathomless terror in his eyes remained, and his mouth stayed agape. He simply could no longer produce sound.
Urshus' flame, having pierced the executioner's heart, began to consume its crimson body in an instant. The flesh turned to black stone beneath the divine fire, and the fragments were drawn into the flame. Yet they did not merely vanish—they fused, melted, and compressed into something entirely new. When the process ended, Urshus' flame was sealed within a massive crystal that gleamed with black light.
At the same moment, the candles upon the candlesticks extinguished, and the spell circle lost its glow. As Urshus' power that had filled the cavern faded, the Dark Priests grew uneasy, yet none dared show their agitation before the dark divinity still radiating from the flame.
Do not doubt your god. This is merely a measure to sustain this fleeting and pitiful connection.
Olsidra rushed forward at the god's will and received the crystal containing the flame with both hands. Even through the crystal, the overwhelming presence at his fingertips made him feel as though he might lose consciousness at any moment.
“…O god, forgive my impertinence, but we have little time.”
Olsidra glanced toward the passage leading out of the cavern. Though the others had not noticed, he had deliberately led people here for this ritual and had been anxiously checking the passage repeatedly.
Are you afraid? Of those wretched old hags?
“No, my lord. With the great god before us, how could we fear such filthy creatures? It is only that……”
It is fine, Olsidra.
No matter how he phrased it, the lack of time and manpower remained unchanged. Olsidra, who knew well why the witches had lent him their power, could not help but feel anxious.
Foolish and arrogant beings who mocked the gods. Those who repeat their folly without learning from the passage of time shall surely receive the divine punishment they deserve.
At that solemn, prophetic declaration, joy bloomed across Olsidra's face—only for the words that followed to bring him no comfort.
However, our power is still insufficient. Even if all of you combine your strength, you are far from capable of facing those old hags. For now, you must flee.
“But—!”
Olsidra immediately regretted his reflexive protest and clamped his mouth shut. He had expected Urshus to rebuke his rudeness, yet what he felt instead was a gentleness he had never before associated with the god of dark crimson flames.
I understand your anger, Olsidra. I know well of that unquenchable thirst. That is why I chose you as my priest.
At Urshus' words, Olsidra's heart filled with genuine joy—not the hollow satisfaction born of divine influence, but true, heartfelt elation. It was the recognition of a father he had never known. That was why he had accepted Alsh Unak's offer and willingly taken on the task of recruiting the Dark Priests. Recognition of himself, and of the place he belonged.
From childhood, that was all he had ever wanted. Tears welled in his eyes, and a single drop traced down his skeletal cheek.
“…I know not how to respond to such gracious words.”
You need only believe in me. As you have until now. Come—I shall lend you my power.
Olsidra surrendered himself to the immense power and will flowing through his fingertips. At his gesture, a crimson portal manifested.
Follow me. I shall guide you myself.
The Dark Priests stepped one by one into the crimson portal. Olsidra, holding Urshus' flame, followed after them, and the portal closed behind him. Moments later, strange scarecrow-like figures made of straw and mud poured into the cavern from the entrance. Their jerky movements and the small toad-shaped seals drawn upon their bodies looked almost comical, yet no one could deny the ominous aura that clung to every footprint they left.
“They fled?”
The Swamp Witch emerged from among the scarecrows, gazing down at the runes on the floor with a displeased expression.
“These spell circles… I cannot be certain, but it appears the ritual succeeded.”
One of the elderly witches who had followed her spoke in a fearful, cautious voice. In response, the Swamp Witch struck her across the face with all her strength. Compared to the outwardly youthful Swamp Witch, the other was a bent old crone who required a staff to stand. The sharp crack echoed through the cavern as the old woman collapsed to the floor.
“Did you think I wouldn't know that myself?”
“I overstepped. Forgive me, Master.”
The wrinkled crone's face flushed red, and even with her staff she could not rise properly. Yet none of the surrounding witches paid her any mind. Instead, they openly sneered at her.
“That useless wretch dared to deceive me?”
The Swamp Witch moved her hand irritably, and from her lips came a sound like the whisper of a serpent. At her gesture, several scarecrows dropped to their knees in agony before transforming into toads, snakes, and black ooze that splattered across the floor.
Only after watching the snakes and toads writhe and bleed to death did she finally rein in her fury.
“…They wouldn't side with those library wenches. Yes. It isn't too late yet.”
When she turned, the elderly witches scurried out of the cavern before her gaze could reach them. Muttering in garbled tones, they hurled round clay spheres from their robes. Before hitting the ground, the spheres transformed into crows that scattered in all directions.
The Swamp Witch watched them with a smile that mingled superiority and contempt, her voice growing even more shrill.
“Send ‘eyes' to every corner! Cast lots with goat entrails and serpent eyeballs! Fly on your brooms until night falls and dawn breaks! Find them by any means necessary! You never know—perhaps the first to succeed will receive twenty or thirty years of life at the next Sabat!”
At her words, the witches' eyes gleamed with naked greed as they drove their aged bodies onward with desperate urgency. Gone were the wry wisdom or resigned calm typical of the elderly; only frantic avarice remained.