Chapter 228
The air thrummed with the brutal percussion of combat.
Steel met steel, magic ripped through the air, and the ground beneath them shuddered with the impact of warring powers.
Amidst this cacophony, a chilling realization dawned on Alfrigg.
He stumbled back slightly, eyes wide beneath the rim of his battered helmet, a choked sound escaping his lips.
"It... it can't be," he muttered, the words barely audible over the din.
"Remnants of the Osiris familia."
Before him fought a dozen figures, each moving with a terrifying, almost mechanical synchronicity.
Their faces were hidden, obscured by cruel, mask-like restraints that were less armor and more implements of control.
Yet, despite the anonymity imposed by the visages, their fighting style was sickeningly familiar. A brutal, relentless efficiency, a specific set of techniques honed through countless battles – it was unmistakable to anyone who had studied the fallen powers of the past.
Alfrigg’s memory flashed back to the dust-laden silence of the Guild library.
In preparation for the looming hostilities against the evilus, he and Hedin had spent grueling hours poring over ancient records, forgotten histories, and detailed accounts of bygone conflicts.
They had traced the genealogies and fighting doctrines of prominent familias, searching for weaknesses, for patterns, for anything that could offer an edge in the coming war.
It was during these painstaking sessions that they had stumbled upon the detailed, albeit fragmented, records of the Osiris familia.
These records dated back roughly twelve to thirteen years, chronicling their presence and their clashes with the Zeus and Hera familia during the height of their power.
The Osiris familia, though ultimately vanquished, had been a power to be reckoned with.
The archives spoke of numerous Level 6 adventurers within their ranks, and whispers of a single, terrifying Level 7 at their apex.
However, the true depth of their forces, their secondary tiers, and their hidden assets had been kept meticulously secret, a concealed blade intended for the heart of the Zeus familia during their planned final assault.
Now, those hidden assets, or at least a twisted shadow of them, stood before Alfrigg.
A figure clad in the opulent, yet subtly sinister, robes of the Apate familia stepped forward from behind the attacking group, a smile that didn't reach his dull red eyes playing across his lips.
This was Basram, a high-ranking member of the Apate familia, known for his unsettling demeanor and penchant for psychological warfare.
He observed Alfrigg's recognition with a chillingly detached air.
"Ah, Alfrigg. Perceptive, as always," Basram chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound.
"Yes, my little collection. It's so sad, isn't it, what happened to the Osiris's vanguard? All their first-tier adventurers either perished or scattered to the winds, breaking all contact." He sighed theatrically, a gesture devoid of genuine sorrow.
"But the second tier and below... ah, they still carried that potent ember of hatred. A burning desire for revenge. So many fallen familias, so many grudges left unfulfilled. The Apate familia, in its infinite generosity, opens its arms to such lost souls. Especially those nursing particularly potent grievances."
Alfrigg’s mind raced, a question forming instantly.
The original target of the Osiris familia hatred – the Zeus and Hera familias – were gone, consumed by the calamity of the Black Dragon.
Why, then, would these remnants still be bound by that animosity? What purpose did they serve now, still fighting under the banner of Apate?
'That can't be all,' Alfrigg wondered internally, his brow furrowed in confusion and suspicion.
'The Zeus and Hera familia are gone... so why are they still with the Apate familia, still clinging to that old rage?' He didn't have to voice the thought aloud; Basram, ever eager to reveal his own twisted brilliance, promptly 'spilled the beans,' his smile widening.
"Of course," Basram continued conversationally, as if discussing a trivial matter, "once the Black Dragon conveniently removed the original objects of their wrath, these particular remnants found themselves rather... directionless. No reason, you see, to remain loyal to the grudge, or to us for facilitating it." He shrugged dismissively.
"But such powerful warriors! To let that potential simply... dissipate? Unthinkable! Basram cannot abide waste." His tone shifted, taking on a darker, more manic edge.
"If reason couldn't keep them, then why let them reason at all?"
Following the insidious teachings of his patron goddess, Apate – deity of deceit, injustice, and the manipulation of minds – Basram had found his solution.
He had stripped them of their free will, their individual thoughts, reducing them to mere puppets.
"Ah, a few potent drugs here, a handful of carefully crafted curses there," he explained, gesturing with an airy flick of his wrist.
"And voila! We had an army. Pliable. Obedient. Mindless beasts, ready for the next, crucial step."
He raised his hand, a theatrical flourish directing Alfrigg's gaze back to the dozen attackers. There, at the point where the heavy, restrictive collars of their masks met the nape of their necks, was something else – a glint of metal.
A dagger, or perhaps a specialized implement, driven deep into the flesh of each warrior.
"Spirit infusion," Basram announced, a light, almost giddy chuckle escaping his lips.
"Spirit infusion?" Alfrigg probed, the question strained.
Blood was still dripping from a crack in his battered helmet, blurring his vision slightly.
He tried to make sense of the horrifying words.
"Surely you have heard the stories?" Basram countered, leaning in slightly, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
"No more riddles, Basram! Just answer me!" Alfrigg demanded, his voice tight with urgency and disgust.
"Tsk, impatient." Basram feigned annoyance before continuing, unable to resist revealing his secrets.
"Very well. A piece of ancient history for you, brute. Long ago, before the gods descended to this world, heroes could obtain the blessings of the spirits. A unique bond, a willing partnership that ensured victory in their trials." He paused, letting his revelation hang in the air.
"We are merely... attempting to reproduce that phenomenon. Modernizing it, you might say."
He gestured again towards the daggers embedded in the warriors' necks.
"These," he revealed, his voice dropping slightly, "are all that remain of the spirits. Lesser ones, mostly, but spirits nonetheless. Captured. Bound." The Apate familia had used these imprisoned spirits on former members of various fallen familias, primarily selecting those from the Osiris familia who still possessed both potent physical capabilities and a convenient, albeit now extinguished, inner fire.
They had forced the spirits into these unwilling vessels, transforming them into powerful spirit warriors, slaves to the will of Apate and Basram.
This act was undoubtedly a form of blasphemy, a defilement of both mortal and spiritual existence.
By restraining the minds of people against their will, stripping them of their sentience and autonomy, and then subjecting lesser spirits – entities of the natural world – to such a cruel and unnatural imprisonment, the Apate familia had cemented their status as irredeemably evil.
The very air around Basram seemed to curdle with the weight of their sins.
"I am still far away from creating the legendary heroes of old, of course," Basram admitted, though his tone held no regret, only a hint of scientific frustration.
"The process is... difficult. And these subjects, while powerful now, are merely prototypes. They have displayed incredible, unexpected abilities, such as the power to heal their own wounds almost instantly, regenerating from injuries that would fell a normal Level 5 adventurer." He sighed again, a sound of petulant disappointment.
"It's just a shame, truly, that I couldn't capture any mid or great spirits for this initial batch. So, I have to make do with these lesser ones." He waved a hand towards the fighting figures. "Still, even without the greater powers... well, see for yourself."
Watching the horrifying display, the forced power twisting and burning the bodies of the warriors, Grer, one of the targeted Gulliver brothers locked in desperate combat, roared out, "You monster!"
Basram only smiled wider, tilting his head slightly.
"Why, thank you," he said, accepting the condemnation as a sincere compliment, as if acknowledging a successful experiment.
"You know," Basram continued, shifting slightly, "it wasn't easy getting them to this point while avoiding the prying eyes of the Guild, or you great familias. I've been sneaking them into the Dungeon for leveling, running them like cattle through the lower floors. Barely got them to Level 5 in time for the war."
Indeed. The process of shepherding a small army of volatile, mindless warriors through the monster-infested levels of the Dungeon had been fraught with peril and setback.
Failed infusions, where the spirit rejected the vessel or the vessel collapsed under the strain, were common.
Losses to monsters during training runs added to the toll.
Basram's initial supply of 47 captured lesser spirits and 42 experimental subjects had, through this brutal process of elimination and horrific 'refinement,' yielded only these 12 successful spirit warriors.
Spirits, in their natural state, were not beings that could be forcefully crammed into a mortal vessel without severe consequences.
The heroes of old were granted special powers by spirits willingly, a sacred pact built on mutual respect and suitability.
Even then, the legends were clear – there weren't many mortal vessels capable of containing the raw, potent energy of a spirit's blessing without being overwhelmed or destroyed.
In the current age, the difficulty was compounded exponentially.
The gods had descended, bestowing upon mortals the divine blessing known as Falna.
Falna inhabited the same metaphysical space within a mortal's vessel where the blessings that could be granted by spirits would reside.
The two powers, divine and spiritual, were fundamentally different in nature, and their forced coexistence would lead to a violent clash within the vessel, often resulting in the subject being left permanently crippled, if not outright killed.
Exceptions existed, of course.
Special existences like Ais Wallenstein, with her known connection to the spirits, or Draco, with his unique heritage and burgeoning powers, were anomalies to this rule.
This difficult compatibility was precisely why Undine and the other greater spirits who had taken an interest in Draco hadn't contacted him directly again.
His vessel simply wasn't ready to accept whatever a greater spirit could offer while also containing his own complex tangle of special abilities and the blessing of Falna simultaneously. Furthermore, Dragonkins like Draco were, in a sense, already part spirit themselves, possessing an inherent connection to the natural world that could cause a form of rejection to external, forced spirit powers.
The spirits needed to wait for Draco's vessel to mature properly, for the disparate powers within him to settle into their most comfortable, stable configurations.
Then, perhaps, the greater spirits could work with whatever space was left, finding a way to coexist where others would simply shatter.
Basram's crude, forceful methods ignored all these complexities, resulting in volatile, damaged subjects.
…………………………………………………….
The divine domain of the goddess Apate was not simply deceit, but the injustice that deceit creates, the manipulation of truth, the tempting of mortals to embrace twisted logic and self-deception.
It was a realm of chaos born from falsity, almost like the domain of an evil spirit itself.
Naturally, those who pledged themselves to such a deity were souls steeped in malice, individuals who mirrored her twisted ideals and reveled in sowing discord and suffering.
Among Apate's most fervent and disturbing disciples stood Basram.
Having delivered his fervent, almost theatrical declaration that painted a grim picture of their chaotic vision, Basram decided it was time to transition from words to brutal action.
His eyes, typically a dull red, were now wide and burning with feverish, fanatic intensity fixed upon the brave figures of the Gulliver brothers.
A grin stretched across his face, less a smile and more a rictus of mad ecstasy.
With a sudden, violent thump that resonated with dark power, he slammed the base of his gnarled staff against the shattered ground.
The impact sent a jolt of foul energy through the air, and the crafted tip of his staff flared with a sickly, ominous light that seemed to drink the surrounding warmth.
All around him, the spirit warriors under his command responded instantly.
They didn't cheer or shout; instead, a collective, guttural groan of pain and unwilling compliance escaped their form.
Then, without the need for chants, fireballs crackling with unnatural heat and bursts of jagged lightning manifested in their hands.
This was spirit magic, raw and potent, appearing with unsettling speed that resembled of Draco's own elemental magic.
However, unlike Draco, who was part spirit, this power came at a terrible, visible price.
The magic damaged the spirit warriors who wielded it, manifesting as visible scorching and rents on their skin and tattered armour as they unleashed their agonizing attacks upon the Gulliver brothers.
Watching this brutal spectacle unfold from his position, Hedin's expression turned sour, his jaw hardening with disapproval.
A heavy knot of dread tightened in his gut.
Twelve of these self-immolating warriors were now focusing their painful magic solely on the Gulliver brothers.
When added to the Dis sisters relentlessly hunting Hogni nearby, that brought the total number of evilus thralls engaged against his immediate familia members to fifteen.