Chapter 261
The air throbbed, thick with the scent of ozone and freshly spilled blood.
Northwest, the earth itself seemed to groan under the titanic clash between Draco and Mors, their battle a distant, thunderous symphony that resonated even here, in the western flank.
Here, however, chaos wore a different mask.
Asfi, clad in light armour and a white cloak, moved like a phantom through the churning melee, her sky-blue hair a fleeting streak against the grime and desperate faces.
Beside her, Falgar, a hulking figure whose shadow alone could intimidate, swung his great-sword with the force of a battering ram.
‘Aaaaagh!’ the screams of the evilus cultists and soldiers were a constant, grating soundtrack. Asfi had led the Hermes familia in a perfectly executed flanking maneuver, disrupting the enemy’s focused march towards the northwest.
Their formation, once a disciplined spearhead, was now a fractured, squirming mess, caught between the front lines and Asfi’s relentless assault from the side.
Asfi’s genius lay not just in strategy, but in her cunning use of magic devices.
Her hands moved with practiced grace, tossing small, spherical bombs that hissed and spat, releasing plumes of acrid, disorienting smoke or erupting in blinding flashes.
These weren’t necessarily lethal, but they sowed fear and confusion like wildfire.
A sudden pop, a cloud of stinging vapour, and a cluster of cultists would stumble, coughing, their vision blurred, their minds reeling.
This was Falgar’s cue.
With the enemy disoriented, his movements, though powerful, were precise.
The great-sword, a colossal slab of steel, sang in the air.
Each swing was a blur, a devastating arc that easily dissected several disoriented cultists at once. The blade carved through their ranks, not merely killing, but gouging wide, ragged lines in their formation.
These were not random acts of violence; they were deliberate, calculated strikes that created immediate, gaping openings.
“Now, Asfi!” Falgar roar, deeper than the din of battle, was a signal.
Asfi moved without hesitation, her eyes already tracking beyond the immediate skirmish. Through the gaps Falgar created, she darted, weaving around the bewildered front-liners.
Her target: the troublesome mages in the rear, their incantations beginning to coalesce into dangerous spells.
A well-aimed flash bomb exploded near a trio of robed figures, their glowing staffs clattering as they cried out, clutching their eyes.
Before they could recover, Asfi was upon them, her short sword a silver blur, striking with swift, lethal precision.
It was a feat only possible by bonds of teamwork forged in countless battles, a symbiotic dance between power and precision, brute force and cunning intellect.
The other Hermes familia members, scattered across the flank, acted with similar initiative.
Each member operated as a cog in a perfectly oiled machine, disrupting the enemy forces and drawing their attention upon themselves, buying precious time and creating pockets of vulnerability.
Before long, small groups of reinforcements, drawn by the cacophony of battle, began trickling in.
These weren't more cultists; they were nearby adventurers, perhaps on patrol, who had noticed the ominous sounds of conflict echoing across the city’s outskirts.
Their faces, grim and determined, added a brief burst of morale to Asfi’s struggling forces.
“There is no end to them!” Falgar cursed, his voice a strained growl as he parried a desperate lunge from a cultist, then swung his sword in a wide arc, cleaving through two more.
The ground around him was littered with fallen foes, yet for every one he cut down, two more seemed to spring up in their place.
The sheer, overwhelming numbers of the evilus army were beginning to tell.
Their fanatical devotion, their willingness to throw themselves into the fray without regard for their own lives, was a terrifying asset.
A bloodcurdling scream tore through the din, drawing Asfi’s gaze.
A cultist, eyes wide with a manic fervour, had broken through a makeshift skirmish line and lunged at a cluster of civilians huddling behind overturned market stalls.
Before the cultist could reach them, a plucky young boy, no older than twelve, with a dirty face and a fierce glint in his eyes, repeatedly stabbed the cultist with a small, rusty knife.
It was Loy, a street urchin who often ran errands for the Hermes familia, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He was a survivor, but his small blade was doing little more than annoying the madman.
“Damn you, cur! Try this on for size!” a booming voice erupted.
A dwarven adventurer, his beard bristling with anger, his war-axe gleaming, charged forward. With a mighty yell, he brought his axe down, cleaving the cultist in two, saving Loy and the terrified civilians.
A small cheer went up, quickly stifled.
Unluckily, in his righteous fury, the dwarf didn’t notice the second evilus cultist.
This one was a female, smaller, her movements almost unnervingly fluid.
She had been lurking just beyond the dwarf’s peripheral vision, camouflaged by the swirling smoke and debris.
In a horrifyingly swift motion, she jumped, latching onto the dwarven adventurer like a koala, her arms wrapping tightly around his burly form.
There was a sickening click as she detonated the fire stone she had hidden against her chest.
The resulting explosion was devastating.
A blinding flash of orange light consumed the area, followed by a concussive wave that knocked everyone nearby off their feet.
The raw, unbridled force ripped through the air, sending shards of stone and splinters of wood flying.
The dwarf, the female cultist, Loy, and several other civilians and adventurers in its immediate vicinity were not just killed; they were vaporized, leaving nothing but a lingering scorch mark on the cobblestones and a horrifying, acrid smell that clung to the air.
The blast winds ruffled Asfi’s sky-blue hair, whipping strands across her face, stinging her eyes with dust and debris.
Asfi stared, astonished, a cold dread seeping into her bones.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She saw not just the physical devastation, but the calculated malice behind it.
A hero, gone in an instant, taken out by a cowardly, suicidal attack.
“Despicable monsters!” Asfi cursed, clenching her fist, her rage a hot flash that momentarily eclipsed the fear.
Her eyes narrowed, scanning the battlefield, connecting the dots.
“They are targeting civilians to tie us up and lure us in! Be careful!” Asfi yelled, her voice cutting through the remaining echo of the explosion, her face scrunched in disgust.
It clicked into place.
Many in the evilus army lacked the blessing of Falna, the divine grace that bestowed incredible power upon adventurers.
They knew they couldn’t take adventurers head-on in a fair fight.
But they had numbers, and a terrifying lack of fear of death.
By attacking civilians and inexperienced, newbie adventurers, they could induce the natural heroic impulse to save the helpless from the seasoned adventurers.
While one of their comrades openly attacked, another, a 'sacrificial lamb', would wait in ambush, hidden by the chaos.
When the time was right, the ambusher would leap and latch onto the strong adventurers, taking them out in a blaze of suicidal glory.
It was a cowardly and sinister tactic, yet horrifyingly effective.
It was one of the few ways for the weak to take out the strong.
They had numbers on their side, and they had little fear of death, viewing it as a path to a twisted paradise.
So, for them, each self-detonation was not just a kill, but a win.
Asfi watched the same series of events play out again and again.
A cultist rushed a wounded adventurer, drawing in a stronger comrade.
Moments later, a second cultist, often cloaked or blending into the background, would emerge from the smoke, transforming into a human bomb.
Even when the adventurers realized what the evilus were doing, they couldn’t ignore the civilians, couldn’t stand by watching them being murdered in cold blood.
The moral imperative to protect the innocent was a leash the evilus exploited with chilling efficiency.
The sheer attrition was unsustainable.
The Hermes familia was powerful, but they were not infinite.
Each loss, each explosion, chipped away at their numbers, at their morale.
“At this rate, they will overwhelm us. Just where are the reinforcements?” Asfi muttered, her voice laced with growing desperation.
She knew the layout of the city and its defences.
There was no way that the northwestern camp, or the central headquarters wouldn’t know of the situation.
With so many explosions going off, with the sustained roar of battle echoing, many adventurers should have noticed the situation by now.
They should have already sent relief.
Asfi only grew more and more worried as time went by, her eyes darting across the smoke-choked battlefield, searching for any sign of a large adventuring party cresting the nearest hill. ‘What if they too are under attack?’ she wondered, a chilling thought that threatened to freeze her blood.
The silence from other sectors, the lack of a coordinated counter-attack, was more terrifying than the immediate threat.
But her thoughts were abruptly interrupted, shattered by a deep, sinister voice that cut through the cacophony of battle, resonating unnervingly close.
“Now is not the time to be daydreaming, Perseus.”
Asfi’s breath hitched.
She knew that voice.
It was Olivas, a high-ranking member of the evilus.
Wheeling around, Asfi was startled to see him standing there, as if he had simply materialized from the swirling dust.
A malevolent grin stretched across his face, revealing teeth that seemed too sharp.
A longsword, its blade disturbingly dark, was held casually in his hand, its tip scraping lightly against the ground.
“This place will be your grave,” he said, his voice a low growl, his muscles visibly tensed, ready to lunge at her.
His eyes, cold and calculating, gleamed with anticipation.
Asfi didn’t waste time with speaking.
There was no parley with Olivas.
He was an enemy, a dangerous one, and that was all she needed to know.
Her mind, despite the shock, snapped back into focus, her instincts screaming.
She brought her short sword up, positioning herself defensively.
With incredible, almost blur-like speed, the two of them threw themselves at each other.
Olivas, with the raw power of a charging bull; Asfi, with the agile grace of a striking viper.
Clang!
Asfi couched her short sword, a specialized blade designed for speed and parrying, and nimbly deflected Olivas’s crushing longsword strike.
There were flashes of sparks, a harsh screech of metal against metal that made her teeth ache.
A tremor, agonizingly strong, shot up her arm, making her fingers tingle with pain.
Despite her training, despite her skill, the sheer force behind his blow was overwhelming.
Asfi staggered backwards, her heels dragging, forcing her to take several quick steps to regain her balance.
One clash. That was all that was needed to reveal the terrifying difference in power between them.
Olivas was stronger, undeniably so, and not by a small amount.
Asfi’s face morphed in horror, a cold sweat breaking out on her brow.
She had nothing that could stop Olivas from bearing down on her.
Her short sword, usually an extension of her will, felt like a feather against his steel.
‘No, Asfi. You can’t afford to die here,’ Asfi encouraged herself, her inner voice a desperate whisper.
Her slender arms and legs moved with a newfound urgency, defending as best they could, parrying, deflecting, dancing just out of reach of his punishing blows.
Each clash of their weapons echoed the disparity, the sheer effort it took just to survive.
“Hehehehehe, I am afraid this is the end, little girl,” Olivas sneered, his malicious and leering smile stretching wider.
It was like the grin of a viper that had successfully driven its prey into a corner, savouring the impending kill.
He pressed his attack relentlessly, forcing her back, step by painful step, towards a crumbling wall.
Just then, through a momentary lull in the closest explosions, Asfi heard Falgar’s voice.
He was shouting something, his voice strained, desperate, and it looked urgent.
Most sounds were drowned out by the continuous thud and roar of battle, but Asfi strained her ears, forcing her mind to focus.
She watched his lips, reading them, recognizing the shape of the words.
“Asfi! Look behind you!”
The warning, though garbled by the din, was clear enough.
Turning around instinctively, Asfi immediately became acutely aware of a second foe.
This one was a shadowy figure, moving with silent, predatory grace, who had been approaching her from behind, a wickedly sharp dagger gleaming in hand.
Olivas earlier smile, then, made chilling sense.
It wasn’t just a simple duel; it was a trap, a pincer movement designed to ensure her demise.
The assailant, realizing they had been spotted, immediately abandoned stealth, letting out a guttural snarl and sprinting directly at her to finish the job.
Asfi, reacting on pure instinct and a lifetime of split-second decisions, whirled around with her blade.
Thanks to a combination of excellent reflexes, and a dash of pure, undeniable luck, she managed to counter the surprise attack.
Her short sword met the dagger with a loud clink, deflecting the blow.
In the same fluid motion, she spun, using the momentum to bring the pommel of her sword crashing into the assailant’s temple.
The cultist crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
However, the brief moment of triumph was fleeting.
The exchange had been swift, but it had left her exposed, shown weakness to Olivas.
He wasted no time.
With a roar of glee, he immediately began sprinting, his long strides rapidly closing the distance between them.
There was no escape.
“You know what Zald told me, little girl?” Olivas bellowed, his voice filled with a raw, seething fury as he inched towards her, his dark longsword raised high.
The very mention of Zald’s name seemed to ignite a fresh, maniacal glint in his eyes.
“He called me a maggot. A maggot fit only for crushing other maggots like you!” he yelled, as if unleashing the accumulated rage, the humiliation he bore towards Zald, directly onto Asfi.
He poured every ounce of his hatred and resentment into the swing that followed.
Swish!
The blade, dark and heavy, descended with a whistling sound.
Asfi, caught off guard by the sheer velocity and her own recent exertion, could not fully parry. The flat of the blade, not the sharp edge, slammed into her back with a sickening crack.
A searing, white-hot pain ripped across her spine, a sensation of impact and tearing.
Her beautiful droplets of fresh blood, bright crimson against her pale skin, spilled out like scattered flower petals.
“Gaaaah!” Asfi stifled a scream, biting down hard on her lip to keep the sound from escaping. Her body staggered forward, a puppet with severed strings, pitching her headlong towards the ground.
The force of the blow had not only wounded her but had also robbed her of equilibrium and breath.
She landed awkwardly, sprawling onto her knees, then collapsing onto her side, gasping, her vision blurring at the edges.
Olivas merely laughed, a harsh, grating sound that seemed to mock her pain.
He slowed his approach, savouring the moment, his face a mask of sadistic delight.
With a theatrical flourish, he pulled out a second blade from his belt.
This one was shorter, broader, and pulsed with a faint, ominous red glow.
He pointed it at Asfi, who lay helpless, struggling to push herself up.
“I will graciously allow you to be the first victim of my new magic sword,” Olivas said, his voice dripping with condescending malice.
As he spoke, the very air around him grew blistering hot, shimmering with an oppressive, suffocating heat.
The red glow on the second blade intensified, pulsing like a malevolent heart.
Asfi, her body screaming in protest, managed to spin around, pushing herself onto her elbows, her eyes wide with a desperate fear.
She looked up, her gaze fixing on Olivas.
His sadistic smile was framed against the backdrop of the full moon, a luminous, indifferent orb in the smoke-hazed night sky.
It was the last thing she saw with clarity.
The very next moment, with a blinding flash and an infernal roar, a raging hellfire, born from Olivas’s terrifying new magic, descended upon her, engulfing her form in a searing, all-consuming inferno.
…………………………………………………………….
“Asfiiiiiii!” Falgar’s voice, a raw, primal roar torn from the depths of his chest, was a futile whisper against the monstrous symphony of destruction.
The braying tempest of fire, a living, roaring entity, drowned out every sound, every colour, painting the world in a single, terrifying shade of crimson.
Pillars of flame clawed at the smoke-choked sky, and the very air thrummed with the immense, suffocating heat.
Rubble, the fractured remains of what was once a bustling marketplace, glowed with an internal inferno.
Olivas, a chilling smile splitting his face, watched the burning inferno with an almost religious glee.
His eyes, cold and calculating, reflected the flickering light of the conflagration in satisfaction.
However, just then, from the heart of the inferno, a flicker of white flashed.
Olivas’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of disbelief, then a widening of his eyes.
Asfi, as if in defiance, burst forth from the core of the raging flames, her body a broken, desperate arc across the charred and fractured ground.
She bounced like a rag doll in the grip of unseen forces, across jagged chunks of masonry and the splintered skeletons of market stalls before finally skidding to a halt.
“Hah… Cough, cough…!” Asfi struggled heroically for breath, each ragged intake of air a painful rasp.
A cruel gurgle escaped her lips, followed by a spray of scarlet blood that stained the dust-choked ruins around her.
It was no miracle, no divine intervention, that she survived the full force of Olivas’s magic sword.
Her continued existence, however fragile, was owed entirely to the ingenious magic item of her own creation: a snow-white cloak, woven with and imbued with a potent defensive enchantment.
Just before the apocalyptic flames had completely engulfed her, Asfi, with a speed born of desperation, had managed to wrap the cloak tightly around herself.
The pure white fabric, now singed and soot-stained, had pulsed with a faint, ethereal glow, momentarily boosting her magic defence by a lot.
Yet, even the culmination of her brilliant craftsmanship could not fully withstand the sheer, unbridled power of Olivas’s attack.
The magic sword was a weapon of true destructive capability, a living manifestation of pure annihilation.
Scorch marks, angry red and black lines, marred the usually pristine skin of her face, twisting her features into a mask of agony.
Her arms and legs, too, had suffered severe third-degree burns, the skin blistered and raw, couldn’t stop shaking.
A searing, relentless pain clawed at her back, where the protective enchantment had thinned, leaving a deep gash that bled sluggishly, staining the tattered remnants of her clothes.
Asfi groaned, every beat of her heart sending waves of excruciating discomfort through her battered frame.
Olivas’s initial shock evaporated, replaced by a booming laugh that echoed amidst the crackling fire.
It was a sound devoid of warmth, a chilling, triumphant cackle that spoke of malice and delight. “Not dead? Oh, wonderful!” he bellowed, his voice ringing with a perverse joy.
Though a sliver of disappointment that she hadn’t immediately perished lingered, it was quickly overshadowed by the thrill of prolonging her suffering.
More fun, indeed.
Without wasting a precious second, Olivas pointed his magic sword at her once more.
The blade, already pulsing with magic energy, flared to a terrifying, incandescent red.
The air around it warped, shimmering like a heat haze, before coalescing into a massive, volatile fireball, a miniature sun of pure destruction, that hurtled towards Asfi with terrifying velocity.
“Aaaaaagh!” Asfi screamed, the sound more a guttural cry of pure anguish than a vocalization.
It was a desperate attempt to muster what little strength remained in her broken body, to force her battered limbs to obey, to evade the incoming death.
Thud!
She managed it. Just barely.
With a desperate lurch, she threw herself to the side, a ragged roll that carried her clear of the immediate trajectory of the fireball.
It screamed past her head, leaving a wake of superheated air, before exploding against a nearby wall with a concussive roar, sending shrapnel of stone and fire into the air.
But her escape came at a brutal cost.
In her desperate dive, she landed awkwardly, her entire weight crashing down onto her already burnt hand.
An immense jolt of white-hot agony shot through her arm, seizing her entire body and stealing her breath.
She cried out again, a sound lost in the chaos.
“Asfiiii!” Falgar’s voice, a desperate roar, cut through the din, laced with an agonizing mixture of fury and helplessness.
He swung his great sword, a gleaming arc of steel that ripped through the ranks of the evilus soldiers blocking his path.
“Damn it, get out of my way!” he cursed, his face contorted with rage.
His blade, carved bloody swathes through their unholy ranks.
Yet, no matter how many times he swung, no matter how many cultists fell before him, the sheer, countless number of evilus zealots seemed to multiply, constantly reforming, relentlessly blocking his advance.
It was a suffocating, unending tide of bodies, each one a tormenting barrier between him and Asfi.
Asfi, on the other hand, was teetering on the precipice of collapse.
Her body screamed in protest with every single movement.
She was desperately diving left and right, a broken marionette trying to evade the relentless barrages of fireballs Olivas hurled at her.
Each dodge was slower, more painful than the last.
The constant jolts of agony from her burnt hand, the raw throbbing in her limbs, the searing sting in her back – it all conspired against her.
Her muscles spasmed, her vision blurred, and eventually, with a sickening lurch, her right leg gave out.
She stumbled, a pathetic, desperate gurgle escaping her lips as she watched, in slow motion, the next fireball hurtling directly towards her.
There was no time to react, no strength left to evade.
The fiery orb slammed into her, not on her chest directly, but glancing off her side and striking her left hand and shoulder.
In a blinding burst of fire, she was lifted off her feet, flung backward with sickening force, her body twisting grotesquely in the air before she crashed to the ground.
The impact shook the very earth around her.
Her clothes, already tattered, were now little more than smoking rags, clinging to a body that was visibly charred and burned.
She lay motionless, a broken vessel, amidst the smouldering ruins.
Nearby, hidden behind the crumbling remains of a baker’s shop, a small cluster of civilians watched in horror, their faces illuminated by the infernal glow.
A collective gasp escaped their lips, a primal sound of shock and sorrow.
“That’s… that’s horrible,” a woman whispered, her hand clamped over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
“Is this… is this because we didn’t evacuate when they asked us that time?” a man, his face pale with dawning dread, stammered, his voice laced with a newfound guilt.
These were the people who had stubbornly refused to leave this particular section of the city. Despite repeated warnings from the adventurers, despite the clear and present danger, they had kept coming back, rebuilding their homes, attempting to settle in an area.
They had vehemently refused to move to the designated, safer camps that had been set up, openly stating their mistrust, claiming they couldn’t possibly trust the adventurers to protect them anymore, not after perceived past failures.
“Oh, yes!” Olivas’s voice cut through the air, sharp and clear, laced with a chilling amusement. He turned, sweeping his gaze across the hidden civilians, his face lighting up with a truly terrifying smile of malevolent understanding.
“That poor girl, that brave little hero, is going to die a most excruciating death. And so did many others, didn’t they? All because of your decisions. All because of your selfishness, your fear, your… normalcy.” He spread his arms wide, as if embracing the chaos, a theatrical gesture of gleeful triumph.
“You are all to blame! Or should I simply say, thank you for making my job so incredibly easy.” His chuckles were dry, rasping sounds of pure delight.
“The brave always die so young! And do you know why?” Olivas continued, his voice rising, addressing the terrified civilians directly, his words dripping with a cynical, twisted truth.
“It’s because the cowardly use them as shields! It’s a fact, isn’t it? A truth so often repeated throughout history, a crushing reality that countless heroic tales conveniently fail to include.” He gestured to the fallen Asfi, then back to the cowering civilians.
“The powerless, the ignorant, the feeble-minded,” he sneered, his eyes narrowed, “They cannot, or perhaps choose not, to swing a blade or wield a stave. Instead, they cling to the strong, acting like chains for those who fight on their behalf, cursed to guide the enemies’ blades directly into the backs of their protectors! Those content to stay at a distance, offering nothing but empty words but never any action. Those who put their own safety, their own comfort, before everyone else’s. Those who speak highly of their ‘rights’ without ever getting involved, without ever lifting a finger.”
He paused, a derisive snort escaping him.
“There’s nothing inherently wrong with people like that. In fact, it’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? Because mortals are far from perfect. Not everyone can be a fairy-tale hero, riding in on a white steed to save the day.” His voice dropped, becoming a low, venomous hiss.
“And yet, it is these very kind of people who decide whether a cause is righteous or not; perpetually, the followers of justice, the so-called heroes, need to obtain their approval, their validation, to be deemed worthy.”
Olivas stared at the civilians, his gaze filled with pure contempt.
His smile vanished.
He felt an intense, burning repulsion at their duality, their self-preserving inaction, their quiet condemnation of those who sacrificed everything.
“Change of plans,” Olivas announced, his voice suddenly cold and devoid of all previous mirth. It was a declaration, not a suggestion.
The Evilus cultists around him stirred, a ripple of anticipation passing through their ranks.
“We will slaughter all these foolish civilians before proceeding to the guild headquarters. Let their screams fuel our journey, let their blood pave our path.” He paused, letting the terror seep into their souls, before turning his gaze, slow and deliberate, back towards Asfi, who lay groaning and moaning, barely conscious, on the ground.
“But before that…” Olivas’s lips curved into a chilling, predatory grin.
He lifted his magic sword, the blade now glowing with a malevolent, anticipation-filled light. “Perseus,” he declared, his voice ringing with chilling glee, a promise of unspeakable torment.
“I will stick your head on a pike and parade it through the streets for all to see. A warning. A declaration. And I promise you, it will be glorious.”
Falgar, still battling with impossible fury against the unending tide of cultists, felt a cold dread grip his heart.
He knew who Olivas was threatening.
And the very thought of losing another captain sent a fresh wave of blinding rage through him.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on and donate.