Chapter 274
With Bahamut’s decisive blow against Draco, the last embers of open conflict for the night were finally snuffed out.
The battle was over.
As Bahamut departed the scarred factory district with her familia children, returning to their abode in the northeast, a fragile quiet descended.
Draco, broken and ravaged by the backlash of his own power, was in dire need of immediate aid. Falazure, separating from Bahamut’s group, took the grievously wounded Mors with him.
With Bahamut’s sworn promise of a decisive battle within two days, he had no further reason to remain around her.
The night’s brutal chapter had closed, leaving only the grim task of shoring up defenses and cleaning up the wreckage for the city's adventurers.
……………………………………………………..
Hours later, the battlefield’s oppressive shroud began to lift.
The thick, grey clouds and acrid plumes of smoke that had choked the sky gave way to a breathtaking canvas of shimmering starlight.
The celestial light cascaded down, illuminating the city of Orario and compounding the beauty of the softly glowing magic-stone lamps that lined its streets.
Far from a city in mourning, the avenues below were alive with a cacophony of celebration, a wave of raucous, triumphant cries unlike any heard before.
Perched atop the cold stone of the city walls, Valletta gazed down upon the spectacle, a scowl etched onto her face.
“To think this place was like a fuckin’ wake just a few hours ago,” she spat, her voice a low growl.
“And now it’s bursting’ with life. How in the hells did they do it?”
Several hours had passed since the disastrous failure of Olivas’s invasion.
The evilus forces had been forced into a full withdrawal, the front line collapsing back to the enemy encampments on the walls themselves.
Orario’s adventurers, rather than harrying the retreat, seemed content to consolidate their gains and reinforce their positions.
An impromptu, unspoken ceasefire had fallen over the city.
“Olivas, you dumbass,” Valletta muttered, kicking a loose piece of stone from the battlement. “Couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you? We were this close to shattering their hope for good. Now look at them… they’re starting to get ideas.”
Yet, for all her cursing, a cool pragmatism kept her from being truly bothered by the setback.
It was a delay, nothing more.
Her brooding was interrupted by the sound of two pairs of light, bouncy footsteps approaching from behind, a sound that always set her teeth on edge.
“Everyone’s having so much fun in Orario tonight, aren’t they, Vena?” a singsong voice chirped.
“Oh, yes, Dina! It makes me just want to… wish them all a good time!” the other replied with a saccharine giggle.
It was the twin leaders of the Alecto Familia, the Dis Sisters, their fingers intertwined as they skipped and danced along the rampart.
Their innocent, cherubic smiles were a grotesque mask for the cloying malice that oozed from every syllable they spoke.
“Hey, Valletta?” they said in unison, their voices a deviously innocent harmony.
“Are we allowed to give them our scarlet bouquet?”
Valletta suppressed a groan.
The twins were a perpetual pain to manage.
“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” she snapped, not bothering to turn.
“They’re crazy, those adventurers. The more we pointlessly torment them, the stronger they’ll grow, like weeds thriving on poison. Besides, if you give away our location and expose yourselves with your little 'gift,' then the adventurers' spear will come out of the sky and nail ya. And trust me, you don't want to get nailed by that.”
“That’s scary!” The two girls did a complete, comical about-face, trembling in mock fear at the suggestion.
They may have been broken, but they weren’t stupid.
For days, the top adventurers of the Freya Familia had been locked in their own brutal combat, and while the twins had been eager to interfere—especially to get at Hogni and Hedin—they had been repeatedly scared off by a contingent of powerful Einherjar, whose eyes sparkled with unnerving fervor as they were instructed not to let anyone obstruct their “holy ritual.”
So, the two imps contented themselves with observing the humiliation from a safe distance.
It simply wouldn’t do to suffer a careless injury and be unable to hold their knife and fork—their sword and staff, respectively—when the coveted main course finally arrived.
Valletta thought along similar lines, though the object of her obsession was, of course, Finn.
Still, she would sooner die than admit any affinity with these fractured sisters.
She made a derisive snort in their direction just as a new voice joined them.
“You never can predict which way this city will turn,” it rumbled.
An older, yet powerfully built beast-kin ascended the steps from the market district, his presence solid and weary.
“For all our trickery and planning, there is no substitute for a purebred first-class adventurer. I bring shame upon the name of my mistress, Apate.”
“Basram,” Valletta acknowledged with a nod.
“How goes the spirit warrior business?”
Basram answered while giving the ringed staff in his hand a slight flourish.
“Two more days, and they will be fully operational. Ingenious though they are, the spirit warriors are not without their caveats. A force of this size requires regular ‘tuning’ after every engagement.”
These spirit warriors were the Apate Familia’s secret weapon, the very backbone of the evilus elite forces and the reason they had been so effective against the Freya Familia.
However, the fusion of a spirit into an adventurer’s body was an unstable art.
After each battle, a team of highly skilled mages and hexers had to recalibrate the spiritual balance.
Otherwise, the host’s physical body and the infused spirit would begin to reject each other, leading to mental disturbances, a horrific breakdown of the flesh, and eventually, a complete loss of control.
At that point, not even Basram’s staff could command them.
His words rang with a hard-won truth: no amount of trickery could perfectly replicate the power of a true hero without a terrible cost.
“As long as they’re ready when we need them, I don’t care about the details,” Valletta sneered. “All we need is one more night like the last to stamp out this new hope for good. Not to mention our god’s special little plan.”
Without Basram’s forces, they were incapable of any large-scale maneuvers.
It was why their engagements had been limited to skirmishes until now.
Just as Finn had predicted, they were biding their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
As Valletta rested a boot on the battlements, her gaze sweeping over the revitalized city, a final figure appeared.
Vito, his blood-red hair quivering in the night wind, materialized beside them as if from the shadows themselves.
“We certainly did underestimate several familias this time around,” he said, his tone light and amused.
“And here I thought the Loki and Freya Familias were the only serious threats this city had to offer.”
With his arrival, all the top evilus executives were gathered, save for the recovering Olivas.
“To think that the Bahamut Familia hid such a monster! Oh, they must surely be chosen by fate!” Vito threw up his arms, his voice filled with the theatrical wonder of someone cheering for the heroes in a children’s fairy tale.
A visceral shiver traced its way down Valletta’s spine as she recalled the terrifying power of Draco’s breath attack on the factory district.
She spat on the stone at her feet.
“Wipe that smarmy-ass grin off your face, Faceless. We wouldn’t have awakened that thing and be in this mess if you and your useless god hadn’t slinked off somewhere. I’m expecting a full apology from you both. Where is he, anyway?”
Vito’s smile never wavered, but his gaze became as sharp and prickly as a needle.
“I’m afraid,” he said softly, “my god has already departed.”
He opened one eye just a fraction, his lips twisting into a gentle, chilling curve.
“To usher in this land’s demise… as the harbinger of absolute evil.”
Far beneath the city, in a place untouched by starlight or magic lamps, two evil gods stood face-to-face in the dark gloom.
The air was heavy, cold, and ancient, the silence so suffocating, it was almost a physical pressure.
“Enough of your games, Erebus,” one of them growled.
He was a dark-skinned male god with short, crimson hair, his form built as sturdily as the strongest Level 7 adventurer.
“You nearly died out there. Not only that, your little scheme has created a monster and provoked that crazy goddess into action.”
The god took a menacing step forward, his presence radiating immense power.
“You have invited ruin upon the familias of myself and of Thanatos. How do you intend to right this wrong?”
“I’m sorry about that, I really am,” came Erebus’s flippant reply.
He made a show of looking apologetic, but his eyes danced with amusement.
“Honestly, I feel terrible about it. But rest assured, Falazure will deal with her in two days outside the city. As for her little monster, Falazure confirmed he’ll be out of commission for quite a while. Soooooo…” Erebus dragged out the word, punctuating it with an annoying, dismissive wave of his hand before changing the topic entirely.
“How are things progressing on your end?”
The crimson-haired god clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and violent in the oppressive silence. He clearly wanted to grill Erebus further but knew it was a pointless endeavor.
Instead, he answered.
“It’s gone well,” he replied, his voice a low rumble.
“Sickeningly well. They are on their way as we speak.”
He walked past Erebus, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“My part in this is done. Figure out the rest yourself.”
“Oh, I will,” Erebus replied with a serene smile.
“Thank you, Rudra.”
He watched as the god whose name meant “the most frightening one” departed, his terrified followers scrambling to keep pace.
Where Rudra’s hand had rested, faint scorch marks now marred the fabric of Erebus’s clothes, a subtle hint to the barely contained power of his fellow deity.
Alone once more, Erebus turned and resumed his walk, heading deeper into the ink-black gloom. His footsteps echoed in the vast, empty darkness, a solitary rhythm marking the approach of a long-plotted finale.
“It is time for the final movement,” he whispered to the shadows, his voice filled with a quiet, terrible joy.
“The beginning of the end, Orario.”
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