The Saintess of Slaughter
The Saintess of Slaughter
"H-hah... haaah... Aaaaagh!"
The moment Ereta opened her eyes, she screamed.
Partly because her last memory was of being torn apart—but there was another reason too.
The overwhelming divinity that should have been coursing through her body was gone.
A high priest is a god's closest confidant and avatar, bound more deeply than anyone else. The power dwelling in their flesh is born from that god.
A high priest severed from their god is nothing but a human. If divine power had mutated their body, they would be trapped beyond the reach of law and made to suffer.
Take a Warrior Monk, for example: the instant their link to the god breaks, they collapse from within and die.
Crushed by their own muscles, they suffocate.
Thankfully, Ereta had not mutated her body.
Because her flesh was still purely human, she was spared the catastrophe of dying the moment the link snapped.
Her life was not in danger. Her body felt no rejection. Her perfectly restored flesh sent no pain signals whatsoever.
"Nngh... nnngh-hic... hah... ah... Mother... where..."
The woman was wailing purely from a sense of loss.
The overwhelming power that had filled her entire being was gone, and with it, the crushing, intense presence born of her bond with the god.
Because of that, the woman screamed and floundered.
Only after a long bout of screams and tears did the floundering Saint, Ereta, take in her situation.
"A prison..."
Ereta belatedly realized she was in a cell. Shackles were on her ankles, and though it was too dark to see clearly, iron bars stood before her.
She could feel it.
Her defeat.
As she lowered her gaze, her gentle-seeming face was touched by a sorrow and scorn she had never shown before. Just then, footsteps approached.
The hard stone floor echoed with the alternating tread of iron-shod and leather boots. The sound drew closer.
The predator, who had spent her entire life with sharpened senses and superhuman physique, slowly rose at the sound.
"...shall I, then? If something were to—"
"...No. Even in the slightest chance—"
The distant voices were too faint and too muffled to discern their true intent.
It was too much to ask of the Saint, her senses now weakened.
In the end, the woman had no choice but to wait in silence until the footsteps halted before the bars.
Retreating a step deeper into the shadows, she became aware of a dim silhouette standing before the bars, watching her.
Their eyes met.
"...Nngh..."
A cold gaze that seemed to pierce straight through her. The moment the woman saw those eyes, the memory of her own death surfaced unbidden.
Arms, legs, torso.
An axe blade that had swept across her entire body, hacking her apart. That merciless assault had left no opening—even the high priest's amplified senses had been unable to trace a single thread.
And at the end, her head had been severed.
Ereta's legs gave out. She collapsed to the ground, breathing raggedly.
She was afraid of Aslan.
She was afraid of his teal eyes.
She was afraid of that stare, looking down at her expressionlessly through the bars.
Amidst all this chaos, one thing was clear.
She had been defeated, and Aslan had won.
And if she fought again, she would lose again—that was obvious.
Especially now, stripped of her god's power.
Watching her struggle to steady her ragged breathing while she grasped her situation, Aslan felt certain that things were proceeding as he had expected.
Aslan tightened the bandages wrapped around his body and stepped forward with a limp. A glance was all it took for the guard beside him to open the cell door.
"Ah...?"
Ereta's pupils shook as she watched Aslan step into the cell through the opened bars.
"You..."
That unhesitating approach unnerved and terrified her.
Especially because no one would approach a high priest this way.
The thought that he might have realized she had lost her god's power flashed through her mind. In that moment, Aslan spoke.
"How does it feel to be abandoned by your god?"
"...How...?"
To the question of how he knew, Aslan did not answer. He saw no reason to, and no value in it. He simply gazed down at her in silence.
Under that silent, answerless stare, Ereta's expression slowly crumbled.
Like a dike bursting and flooding, she bowed her head, letting her hair spill forward.
"N-no... I... I haven't been... abandoned. T-this must be Mother's trial..."
"Do you really believe that?"
"...Ngk."
Profound terror stained Ereta's expression.
A fear possible only for someone who had lived her whole life as a high priest, as one of the strong.
It mixed fittingly with her sense of loss, making her keenly aware that Aslan held the power of life and death over her.
Regeneration was no longer hers.
Neither was her immense strength.
She was a Master of Blunt Weapons, but she had lost even with physical superiority on her side. She could not even imagine overpowering the Master of Combat with the body of an ordinary woman.
Reading Ereta's state of mind, Aslan knelt on one knee, lowering his posture.
It was a position from which she could have attacked if she wished, but she remained motionless, only drawing frightened, shallow breaths.
'It's going according to plan.'
The mysterious technique he had used on Ereta. He had no idea where it came from, but at least it faithfully produced the effect described.
Ereta's current reaction was such that it could not even be dismissed as deception.
A woman defeated and severed from her god.
A Master of Blunt Weapons, yes, but her body was only moderately trained, and she held no weapon in her hands.
Aslan was certain.
Ereta was neutralized.
And Aslan wanted something from the powerless Ereta.
"You were abandoned. You lost to an ordinary human Master—not a priest, not a remnant of an ancient god. The Fire-weaving Spider cast you aside and tried to dispose of you with monsters."
"Such lies won't work... on me."
"Does it sound like a lie? I think it's entirely plausible, if it was to reclaim the divinity lingering in your body. Look at yourself. Not a single wound, is there?"
At that, Ereta touched her forearms, her stomach, her nape, and realized there were no wounds at all.
Aslan waited patiently until those slow movements stopped before he spoke.
"You died. And then you came back to life. The Fire-weaving Spider tried to reclaim the divinity used in that process. It's a common thing for defeated priests."
Those calm words were the truth. Aslan had experienced it many times, both in the game and in Geladrion—though for Ereta it was only a rumor she had heard.
Yet they carried powerful persuasion. A deep gloom and despair surfaced beneath the woman's gentle-looking face. It was the face of a child abandoned by its parents.
"Mother..."
That was what the followers and priests called the Fire-weaving Spider. Mother.
Unlike other worshippers, she must have truly regarded the Fire-weaving Spider as a mother.
And so now she doubted Aslan's words, her eyes darting about in search of grounds to refute them.
But there could be none.
No matter what argument she tried to summon, she could no longer feel the divinity of the Fire-weaving Spider.
Her power as a high priest had been taken. In this state, she could only be persuaded by Aslan's words.
She had indeed lost.
Her power had indeed been stripped.
And the man before her was, in fact, human.
Tears spilled from Ereta's eyes. They resembled despair, thick and viscous beyond measure.
Aslan watched the tears and thought.
As he advanced through the main quest from now on, the enemies would grow gradually stronger. That was an undeniable fact.
And as the enemies grew stronger, so too would Angie and Aslan, gaining levels to match them. That too was nearly certain, as long as they kept pressing forward.
Perhaps the day would come when he could face a high priest head-on and subdue them without significant loss.
But not today.
Right now, even while fighting one of the weakest high priests—a high priest of the Cosmic Inevitable—he had felt death looming time and time again.
He had no desire to rely on such narrow gambles any longer. He had only one life.
What Aslan needed were companions.
Companions who would never become priests themselves, yet were strong enough in combat to oppose priests.
If he were to seek such companions, the first list to sift through was that of the Masters.
Those who possessed techniques coveted by the War God.
From superhumans to ordinary mortals, countless Masters had generally reached the pinnacle of their arts.
Though the possibility of them turning into priests was not entirely zero, it was still safer and more effective than picking from among somewhat famous mercenaries or mages.
In that sense, the Ereta before him was the most suitable candidate.
She would require some handling, some persuasion, and a taste of harsh reality—
'There's no better candidate for a companion than her.'
If those whose connections were severed could become priests again, Ereta should have already regained her status by now.
Given that she had not, it seemed even the Fire-weaving Spider, her former master, could no longer reach her.
He had been half-doubtful about the effect of the unknown technique, but it had worked better than expected.
And so the possibility of her becoming a priest again could be ruled out.
She was a Master, which meant her combat ability was guaranteed, though she would need an adjustment period.
Most importantly, if she died in battle, he would feel no regret.
She had once been a priest and was an unmistakably evil person, so he could use her without any qualms.
That was the reason for Aslan's lies and scheming.
Slowly, the tears ceased. Pink eyes, clouded with doubt and a faint terror, stared at Aslan.
The doubts in those eyes were many.
Why he did not torture her. Why he had not killed her. Why he had locked her in a prison. How he knew all of those things.
The last of them was the clearest.
That doubt became a voice. In the slanted torchlight, the woman's eyes glinted darkly.
"What is it you want?"
Though the voice still held the remnants of tears and fear, Aslan accepted it with satisfaction.
Seeing the once-arrogant Ereta break—that was a satisfying thing for Aslan, who loathed all priests and gods.
Fighting to conceal his disgust, Aslan spoke.
"I'll take you as a prisoner."
"...Prisoner?"
Ereta echoed. At that, Aslan grinned—
—Whud!
—and drove his fist into Ereta's stomach.
The blow, thrown with a short range of motion, landed squarely on Ereta's stomach and pulled back.
It was a well-measured punch that delivered an adequate amount of pain, neither aimed at extreme agony nor at destroying the body.
Ereta, unable to endure the pain, slumped forward and retched, thick saliva dripping.
Aslan grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head up.
"Don't ask twice."
Ereta looked up at Aslan with tear-filled pink eyes and nodded. But Aslan, still unsatisfied, let go of her hair and slapped her across the cheek.
—Smack! Ereta's head snapped to the side. She collapsed to the floor, trembling, clutching her cheek.
"And answer."
"...Yes."
Ereta answered with her head hung low, as if her spirit had been crushed.
It was a submissive sight—hard to believe from someone who had been a high priest not long ago.
It was a treatment that might drive her to plot betrayal, but Aslan did not regret it.
Because for now, this was the best way to handle Ereta.
The Saintess of Slaughter, Ereta.
She appeared sadistic, but in truth, unbeknownst even to herself, she was a severe masochist.
Watching Ereta's dazed, unfocused expression, Aslan inwardly sighed.
Whether it was a sigh of relief or of self-loathing, even he could not tell.