Artist
Artist
Ereta's body crumpled to the ground. Thud. The sound of flesh hitting the floor echoed through the chamber, and every member of the party turned to look at her.
She lay unconscious. Whatever she had witnessed had shattered her so completely that she showed no sign of stirring.
The Fire-weaving Spider's wail—almost too broken to be called a cry—hung in the air behind them, but Ereta remained utterly limp, out cold even as the distance between them grew.
Aslan glanced between Ereta and the procession, clicked his tongue, and spoke.
"Rumel, check on Ereta. Tiyamal, Fay—get over here and assess that column."
"Assess how?"
Fay blinked and stared at the procession. Tiyamal clicked his tongue and closed his eyes.
Amid Fay's low murmurs and Tiyamal's steady counting, Rumel's voice cut through as she called out.
"Lady Ereta... Lady Ereta! Open your eyes!"
Rumel shook Ereta by the shoulders, trying desperately to wake her, but Ereta remained limp, completely unresponsive.
Aslan shot her a sidelong glance, then gripped the iron bars with crushing force. An unforeseen arrival.
Moments later, once the procession had finally vanished from sight, the dragon-kin and the elf spoke up in turn.
"They're well-armed. Look like priests or cultists. And that smell... sulfur torches."
"Numbers are sizable. Fifty at least. Heavy steps, too—significant presence. All of them hardened."
Report after report. Aslan listened, lowered his head with a grim expression, and pressed his forehead to the cold bars. The chill seeped through his heated scalp.
"Torches, priests, wagons, fifty... damn it."
The situation was as bad as it could get. From the information his party had relayed, Aslan could already deduce the Artist's objective.
The Artist had come to the deep reaches of Olpasbet in search of something.
Torches made of sulfur and lime burned even in the stagnant, poison-thick air of the lower depths—purpose-built for exploration in hostile spaces.
Fifty battle-hardened priests and cultists were clearly meant to deal with whatever monsters lurked below.
What it all pointed to was simple.
The Artist was hunting for Verdict.
That was why they had come to Olpasbet.
And the Artist knew that Verdict was the only thing that could stop them.
Valerie...!
Only one person besides Aslan himself could be holding all that information.
The one who somehow knew about the time when Aslan was Lee Hyun-woo: Valerie, Daughter of the Mountain Goat.
Aslan clicked his tongue and tightened his grip on the bars until they groaned and quivered.
To have to scrap the plan this abruptly.
He swallowed his irritation and exhaled.
His original plan had been to siphon off white iron and use it to outfit his companions with proper arms and armor. White iron's properties were exceptional—just equipping the party with protective gear made from it would have dramatically boosted their survival odds. Even in the game, crafting white iron equipment was the standard progression at this stage of the main quest.
Now, Aslan felt the urgent need to completely discard that plan.
All because of the Artist.
Why did it have to be the Artist, of all people?
There was no telling exactly how fast the Artist could locate Verdict. But one thing was certain: it wouldn't take long. The single greatest obstacle to exploring the deep regions of Olpasbet was the toxic miasma left by a slain god—venom so concentrated it saturated the air. Considering that the Artist was a high priest of the Poison-spitting Dragon, who was immune to poison, and of the Apocalypse's Grounds, the retrieval process would pose little difficulty. Any delay on Aslan's part meant losing the initiative. And that would mean facing a significantly stronger Artist later, one who would come at him with overwhelming force rather than Ash's underhanded tricks. Against that kind of power, Aslan's chances of victory would be razor-thin.
The absolute worst scenario. As Aslan acknowledged the need to completely revise his plan, he let out a long breath.
The original strategy had been straightforward.
Enter as prisoners. Once Maria had secured sufficient supplies in the city, have Catherine—whose stealth surpassed even Fay's, though her offensive capability and ambush skills fell short—smuggle the goods in. Use those supplies and equipment to navigate the depths of Olpasbet under Aslan's guidance, since he knew the layout better than anyone, and secure Verdict.
There were a couple of snags. Minor enough under normal circumstances.
First, the plan could only be used once. The moment Aslan and his party disappeared, suspicion would inevitably fall on Maria, who had sold them out. Given that the plan couldn't be executed until after Maria and Richard had left Olpasbet, there was no undoing it once set in motion. Which meant no resupply and no new equipment once they committed.
Second, the plan required significant time. Acquiring arms and provisions in secret only prolonged the timeline.
And that was the crux of the problem.
Aslan had to find Verdict before the Artist did. He had no margin. No time for leisurely preparation, no opportunity for thorough readiness.
Aslan shut his eyes, his head still resting against the bars. His thoughts raced.
Go in with minimum supplies and force a breakthrough?
No. The underbelly of Olpasbet wasn't forgiving enough to be cleared on minimal provisions. And factoring in the possibility of fighting the Artist along the way made it too dangerous.
Confront the Artist head-on?
No. The Artist's current strength was an unknown variable, and a hasty engagement risked devastating losses. If even one party member died pointlessly, their combat strength would plummet.
What about shadowing the Artist from behind?
That was marginally better, but it still meant maintaining close proximity—close enough to snatch Verdict the instant it was found, yet far enough to avoid detection. With most of the enemy force consisting of priests who required far less rest, that wasn't realistic. His side would exhaust and deteriorate quickly without regular respite.
Above all, they couldn't settle on a plan without knowing when and where the Artist would enter the depths.
Which approach to choose? Or should they devise something entirely new? While Aslan remained undecided, time slipped away, and the inevitable signal arrived.
Dong, dong, dong!
The tolling of the bell, spaced at deliberate intervals. The work bell for the prisoners. Aslan opened his eyes and released a breath that was almost a sigh of lament.
"Ah..."
Angie sighed too. The iron gate at some distance from the party swung open and guards filed in from outside. Aslan watched the mine carts they dragged and shook his head.
No time to think.
The guards distributed pickaxes, leveled their weapons, and herded the prisoners toward the mine tunnels. Aslan's eyes were thick with frustration as he observed the scene. His companions milled about in confusion, struggling to grasp what was happening. He glanced at them, then knelt and supported the unconscious Ereta.
"That bell signals work. Means we go into the tunnels and mine ore."
"Mine?"
"Some kind of white metallic fragments they want dug up."
Tiyamal asked, and Angie answered. She was looking toward the tunnels with the air of someone who had done this before. Hers was the only prior experience, and amid the rest of the party's hesitation, she seemed to ready herself.
"It's called white iron. There's a quota, so we'll have to go dig some up. Fay, you're with Angie. Tiyamal, you go with Rumel. I'll take Ereta."
"Why do I go with Angie?"
"Fay's senses are sharp. Same goes for you, Tiyamal. Rumel, just focus on digging where Tiyamal tells you."
Rumel blinked, looking slightly awkward. Aslan gave her a nod, then gently shook Ereta as he added, "Until the plan is finalized, we lie low. Don't make unnecessary trouble—just meet the quota."
Ereta didn't wake. Aslan gave her a brief, pitying glance before signaling to the others.
"Not a big deal. Done it a few times already," Angie said, full of confidence.
"Tch... the kid might not get it, but this old-timer is a Clo. Clos don't do manual labor..."
"I've never even held a pickaxe. Is this really going to work...?"
Rumel and Tiyamal wore matching expressions of dread, scratching their heads awkwardly. Their reluctance was plain, but Aslan only shook his head in resignation.
Eventually the two gave in—they grabbed pickaxes from the pile that had been emptied beside the mine cart and trudged toward the tunnel.
Once the dragon-kin and the noblewoman had gone inside, Fay waved toward Aslan as he headed for a different passage.
"See you later!"
Leaving Fay's bright farewell behind, Aslan supported Ereta and stepped into the tunnel.
*
Fortunately, it proved easy enough. Whether due to Aslan's mastery of every weapon art or the fact that his Luck stat had reached the threshold of foresight, he filled both his own quota and Ereta's in no time. He even found himself with enough slack to consider digging extra in case the others had fallen short.
But before he could act on that surplus, someone stirred. Delicately closed eyelids glowed pink in the darkness of the tunnel, and Aslan halted the pickaxe mid-swing.
Ereta opened her eyes and slowly scanned her surroundings. Nothing but packed earth in every direction, yet she showed no sign of alarm. She blinked once, then raised a sorrowful expression.
Aslan spoke to her.
"Ereta."
"...Aslan."
"Are you all right?"
"I'm..."
The question held nothing but pure concern. Ereta seemed about to answer that she was fine—she opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"Mother, she..."
Because she wasn't all right.
She let her words trail off and drew her legs up, hugging them. A glimpse of smooth skin showed between the folds, but nothing about the sight stirred desire. The scene she had just witnessed was far too harrowing for that.
Aslan had braced himself for the possibility that something had happened to the Spider.
But the reality had far outstripped every assumption.
No amount of preparation could have accounted for seeing her caged and dragged along like livestock, or worse, like some beast. Legs severed, reduced to a writhing, grub-like form. The sight was so far removed that Aslan couldn't even recall the ancient Evil God he once knew. Even someone who didn't realize it was an Evil God would have felt a stab of pity. Aslan knew full well what it was—and still felt that stab.
If even Aslan felt that way, what was it like for Ereta?
His thoughts reaching that point, he glanced at her. She sat hugging her knees, tear-filled eyes fixed downward. Her expression was twisted with the effort of holding back sobs, and tears were already spilling freely. Large droplets, as big as her large eyes, rolled down and soaked into the fabric over her knees.
Looking at Ereta like that, Aslan couldn't bring himself to think that the Spider's wretched state was deserved. Deep down, he simply wasn't cruel enough for that. Even when it was the end of a villain, he was the type who couldn't help feeling sympathy in the face of such misery. He exhaled, aware that this compassion might one day cost him dearly, and Ereta lifted only her eyes to look at him.
Tangles of emotion swam in her gaze. Even meeting Aslan's eyes, she couldn't bring herself to speak a single word. Not even to beg him to save her mother, not when he was watching her with such undisguised sympathy. Her mother was an Evil God, and she was its priest. Remembering how often Aslan said that every Evil God had to die, she couldn't form the plea.
And even if he did save her—what then?
Ereta knew her mother. She knew her mother's intentions. And from those intentions, she also knew her mother could never escape the death Aslan would bring. She would have to save her with her own strength.
But how?
As she hugged her knees and wept, Aslan could guess at the shape of her thoughts. This was the woman who had once gone behind his back and begged Frida for mana tattoos, all so she could be more useful to him. Ereta hated being a burden. Even when her reasoning didn't hold up, she still hated it.
Normally, Aslan would have told her she didn't need to be like that. He'd have pulled her into a gentle embrace and offered comfort. But not this time. Because as far as he knew, the Fire-weaving Spider was an Evil God. An unmistakable Evil God. A monster-symbol of cosmic annihilation.
Every Evil God had to die—that was Aslan's conviction. The Spider could be no exception. That was his rule. The rule that let him remain Lee Hyun-woo. If he crossed that self-drawn line, he would stop being Lee Hyun-woo.
He had always killed enemies who attacked him without mercy. He had never turned a blind eye to evil done in front of him. He had never let an Evil God or its priest live if they were within reach. There was no reason to exclude the Spider from that rule. And even if he let her live—what then? Reform her into a benevolent deity? Aslan knew that was impossible. He followed and even believed in humanity, but he had never been naive enough to have blind faith in it. Even if the Three Evils were relatively human by comparison, an Evil God was still an Evil God. Their existences had been designed for the universe's ruin from the moment of their creation. One couldn't entirely rule out the possibility of redemption, but it wouldn't come through the actions of mere mortals.
So the Spider had to die. Aslan was the kind of man who would resolutely choose the lesser evil to avoid the worst.
And then he thought further.
When he moved to kill the Spider—how would Ereta respond? Back in the City of Mages, she had said it was all right to kill her, that having stolen so much herself, she had no right to complain when something was taken from her. But whether she would still say that when the moment arrived, he couldn't know.
And if Ereta stood in his way. If she tried to protect the Spider. If she raised her axe against him and tried to kill him. If she became a priest again.
What was he supposed to do?
Lee Hyun-woo considered it. A fleeting thought, and then certainty: if Ereta chose her mother, then Aslan would have to kill Ereta. He didn't want to. To put it more deeply, he didn't want to fight at all. He was tired of conflict. Death sickened him. Battle terrified him. And still, the things that had to be done had to be done. Aslan was not shameless enough to look away from what only he could do.
Circling back to the same conclusion as always, he thought: if it came to that, then even if it was agony, he would choose. Having made that resolve, he opened his mouth.
"Your mother... I can't save the Spider."
At those words, Ereta quietly lifted her eyes to meet his. There was no killing intent in her teal gaze. Only exhaustion. Her expression was thick with pain and anguish, and the downward set of her eyes seemed steeped in something close to remorse.
But beneath that, there was a clear and steady resolve.
She had caught what Aslan left unspoken. She pressed her lips together tightly. A series of emotions flickered across her eyes—guilt, sorrow, affection, betrayal, despair, disappointment. The mingled feelings were murky and raw, spilling over from the corners of her eyes and wetting her knees.
She wept as she looked at him, and Aslan met her gaze. The emotional chasm between them was so sheer that he had to pause before speaking.
"I'm going to kill the Spider."
His voice was gentler now. But to Ereta, the words were still agony. As tears streamed down and she clutched her knees tighter, Aslan averted his eyes and stared at the earthen ceiling above them. He fixed his gaze on a spot and sighed.
"But... before that, I'll let you talk to her. I'll give you enough time to say goodbye."
"...Why?"
Her voice was drowned in tears. A voice raw enough to ache in the listener's chest. Aslan bit his lip. Seeing him do that only made Ereta hurt more. She felt like she was the one tormenting him, and it made her unbearably sad. In a chain of mutual pain, Aslan finally spoke.
"Because that's all I can give you."
Ereta raised her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She wore a complicated expression. She stared at Aslan with something unreadable, and then their eyes met.
"I promise."
The words came out strained, as though fighting against a current. They carried a soft, steady tenderness.
Hearing them, Ereta understood that she couldn't say what she wanted to say. She closed her mouth. Even Aslan, who already knew what was in her heart, pretended not to notice.
He just said, "So you stay by my side, too."
It wasn't as romantic as it might have sounded. As Ereta fell silent, only Aslan's sigh echoed through the tunnel.