Goddess of the Black Swamp (6)

To confirm that the Curse of Worship had properly taken root, I opened my status window.

A curse that forces absolute obedience to its master.

Just this once, I had become ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠capable of issuing commands to the Undead King's thralls. After this, the Undead King would surely catch on to my scheme and take countermeasures. That hardly mattered — I intended to put the Curse of Worship to good use on my own creations going forward.

"I've issued an order for the Undead King's thralls in this region to gather at this village. Since I'm not the Undead King myself, it's difficult to target the command at an exact number of individuals."

"…Are you truly all right with this?"

Captain Veronica asked, her expression clearly unsettled by something.

"With what, exactly?"

"…You said that if your life were in danger, you would flee immediately. …Meaning this mission wasn't worth staking your life on."

"You've understood me correctly."

"…You just transferred a curse into your own body, so your lifespan has been shortened. …And yet you don't seem particularly bothered."

"That's right."

Curses steal their host's lifespan. I had transferred the Curse of Worship onto myself with full awareness of that fact.

"…So your life is precious, but your lifespan is not?"

Only then did I understand what had been bothering her so much. She seemed to regard throwing away one's life and shortening one's lifespan as roughly the same thing. My condition had been that I would prioritize my own life over this mission, and she had agreed to that term. I had simply meant that I didn't want to die right now.

"Yes. You've understood me correctly once again."

"…"

"And you don't need to concern yourself with my conditions that much. I'll look after them myself."

"She's right. Why are you fretting so much, Cap? He's willing to sacrifice himself to stop the Undead King — you should just be grateful, not— hic."

Veronica shot Agnes a frigid look for speaking up on my behalf. Agnes cut herself off and averted her eyes.

"…If this man were truly trying to pay with his lifespan out of a desire to sacrifice himself — whether to stop the Undead King or for our sake… I would have stopped him far more forcefully."

"Whatever the intent, the result is still a good—"

"A… Agnes…"

Before Agnes could scrape Veronica's nerves any further, Alexander, reading the room, stepped in to stop her.

"Ugh… fine… I'll shut up… Anyway, thanks, young master."

"…Haah. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠…I suppose the real problem is me, dredging up something already done. …I apologize."

"I apologize as well. I didn't expect you to be this concerned for me."

Veronica might not like me much. But the fact that she was saying these things out of worry for my well-being was plain enough. I didn't take it poorly.

"…At first I thought you would only offer a few pieces of advice. …But not only do you alter curses and use them in combat the same way we do… you even came up with the idea of turning the Undead King's curse against him. …How did you acquire that kind of knowledge?"

"Didn't the rest of you already know this much?"

"…We know some of it. …But not nearly as much as you, young master."

"I was born with a curse more powerful than most. I researched extensively because I desperately wanted to do something about the Curse of Illusion."

"…I see."

There would come a day when these excuses stopped working. It might be wise to author a plausible treatise on curse research. Showing documentation would be more effective than simply claiming I'd studied, learned, and researched.

"What about all of you in the Special Task Force, then? How is it that you use dark magic? Isn't it taboo for clergy to dabble in such things?"

"…It is. …The priests of the Lumenic Church — even the heresy inquisitors — consider the mere act of encountering knowledge of dark magic to be blasphemous. …They only learn the purification rites for the more widespread curses."

That held true in Luke's Biography as well. The Lumenic Church was a core force standing against the Demon King Maria, and yet their excessive rejection of dark magic left them ignorant of it. Whenever even a slightly rare curse began to spread, they couldn't purify it, and victims piled up.

"…Her Holiness the Saintess believed that couldn't stand. …She said that to face heresy, one must understand the knowledge of heretics."

"And so the Special Task Force was founded."

"…Correct. …But the only ones assigned to it were cursed children."

"Were there no volunteers among the existing clergy?"

"…That's a rather difficult matter to discuss with an outsider. …In any case, everyone agreed on one point: if the children were already filthy from birth, it hardly mattered if they got a little filthier."

Children born under curses. The priests who believed themselves pure considered sullying themselves with dark magic knowledge to be blasphemous — and yet reasoned that children cursed from birth, children already beyond salvation, could be dirtied a little further with dark magic knowledge without any real consequence.

"It doesn't seem like any of you joined the Special Task Force of your own free will, either."

"…Of course not. But that doesn't mean we resent it. …Agnes, Alexander, and I — all three of us were born cursed and abandoned. …The Church took us in. …We have a duty to repay that grace."

In the end, the Lumenic Church was simply a gathering of people. Neither pursuing absolute good nor absolute evil — just that kind of organization.

"…I seem to have asked something I shouldn't have."

"…It's fine. …We're hardly a secret organization."

The Special Task Force was probably still in a pilot phase. Aside from the Saintess, no one seemed to be backing them. They had said this mission itself was by the Saintess's will, not the Church's. The internal matters Veronica wouldn't discuss were likely political. Ultimately, the Heresy Inquisition's Special Task Force never appeared in Luke's Biography. Veronica had been slated to appear as a member of the Demon King's army. Their futures did not look bright.

"Cap."

The sun had begun to set. Agnes called to Veronica and pointed into the distance. Her finger indicated the direction of the Black Swamp. A throng of black shapes could be seen approaching from there.

"…A Death Warrior."

At the head of the thralls stood a giant clad in black armor. In Luke's Biography, Death Warriors were designated the Undead King's elite forces. They appeared as an early-game boss — far too powerful for beginners to handle. By the late game, they poured out like fodder.

"The Undead King's thralls aren't fools. The moment they confirm that I'm the one who summoned them here, they'll attack immediately."

"…Facing a Death Warrior requires considerable firepower."

"Should we ask the young master's little sister? She's a mage, right?"

"Clara is a 2-Star World Mage. I don't think her firepower will be sufficient."

"…One 2-Star won't be enough. …And there's no guarantee there won't be thralls like Death Apostles among them."

If Clara joined the fight, Veronica wouldn't be able to draw the enemies' magical attacks. Clara's magic would be pulled toward Veronica as well. Worse, if more Death Apostles appeared, we would be left completely exposed to their black beams. If Priest Patrick had been here, at least we would have had a means of defense.

"Then it might be best if I handle the Warrior."

"…No. …We'll take the Warrior. …Simply crushing it under something massive will take too long. …Your power seems better suited to dealing with large numbers."

"From my perspective that's more efficient, but won't it be dangerous for you?"

"…Please trust us."

"I'll help as well. I have a blood debt to settle with my own kind."

The fairy, who had been resting after receiving Alexander's treatment, rose to her feet. Before long, we and the army of death had drawn close enough to identify one another.

They had answered the summons of a higher being. And yet all that awaited them were the living. The Death Warrior realized that these creatures had imitated the call of the higher one, and rage filled him.

The Death Apostle attending him asked. The Death Warrior shook his head in refusal.

The Death Warrior drew a greatsword larger than most men. To the living, he was nothing less than a charging executioner's block.

- Kyaaaaaaaaaah!

- Grraaaaaaaagh!

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠moment the horse bearing the Death Warrior surged forward, the Death Mires and Death Slaves forming the left and right flanks let out a unified howl and charged after him. They looked ready to trample straight through the ruins of the burned village and crush the living beneath them.

- Krrrrrk!

- Krrrrrrrk!

But the charge of the dead did not last long. Two enormous black centipedes had appeared from nowhere, each tearing through the left and right flanks of the formation and thrashing wildly.

Centipedes covered in countless eyes and hands. Even among the Undead King's forces — a collection of every horrific form the world had to offer — there was nothing so grotesque. The Death Apostles fired black beams at the creatures. But the beams veered away from the monsters and vanished toward the burned village instead.

The Death Warrior deliberated for the briefest moment. He could handle them one at a time. Should he personally clear the left and right flanks one side at a time, then resume the advance on the village? Or simply charge through with the central force as they were? He chose the latter. The centipedes ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would take considerable time to fully crush the flanks anyway.

Just as the Warrior was about to issue the command—

"Th-th-th-there…"

A living person in a black cloak had appeared directly in front of him. He hadn't seen anyone approach. He hadn't sensed a presence. How — and at what moment —

But the figure had come close only to stand there trembling, unable to do a thing. Truly the type of human whose continued existence defied explanation. The Warrior was about to grant him a swift rest and move on when—

"T-t-t-t-t-take this, you son of a bitch!!!!"

The living one pulled something from his robes and hurled it. The Death Warrior felt the world turn white in an instant.

The next moment never came for him.