Chapter 279
“I’m sorry I didn’t come here sooner.” echoed the somber voice of Shakti, a heavy weight pressing down on each syllable.
The air in the makeshift cemetery hung thick with the ghosts of unspoken farewells, a chill that had nothing to do with the waning evening sun.
While Adi, her last remaining kin, circulated amongst her friends, offering what comfort she could, Shakti stood alone, an unyielding pillar of grief amidst a sea of graves.
These were not grand monuments, but simple, stark markers: jagged splinters of broken swords piercing the ravaged earth, or rough-hewn wooden sticks driven into the soil.
The ground beneath her feet felt cold, unresponsive, unable to truly hold the magnitude of the loss.
“Honestly…I didn’t want to come here,” she confessed to the silent markers, her voice barely a whisper.
“At least not until we had wiped those bastards out.”
A choked gasp escaped her, raw and involuntary, as the full weight of her statement crashed down.
She had lost too many friends, too many comrades, too many familiar faces who had once laughed and fought beside her.
Even Adi, her only family left, had been nearly brought to the brink..
“Most of you aren’t even sleeping there beneath the soil.”
Her gaze swept across the desolate field.
It was a grim truth, one that haunted her waking moments.
A great many of the graves only housed whatever body parts remained—a severed limb, a scorched uniform, a lock of hair—or simple mementos, cherished tokens that were all that could be recovered.
A part of their soul, perhaps, but not their whole.
The victims’ true bodies were either blown to oblivion, scattered as dust in the wind, or lost forever beneath mountains of rubble, swallowed by the earth that evil had so savagely torn apart.
The crunch of heavy footsteps on the loose soil behind her broke the shroud of her solitary mourning.
She knew that sound, that presence.
It was unmistakable.
“…Shakti.”
The voice, surprisingly gentle, reached her ears.
Shakti answered without turning, her gaze fixed on a cluster of three broken sword hilts, side-by-side.
“I wished to grieve alone, Ganesha,” she said, the words edged with a weariness that went bone-deep.
“I thought I told you that.”
Her god’s usual boisterous energy was the last thing she needed right now, his strange antics a distraction she couldn’t afford.
However, Ganesha spoke again, his voice oddly subdued, lacking its usual booming bravado. “Will you not cry?” he asked, a genuine question, devoid of judgment.
“I can’t……..Not yet.”
The admission was a struggle, a confession of a burden too heavy to release.
As captain, she had to remain strong, firm, cold even, at times coming off as indifferent.
It was the only way to maintain a state where she could make rational decisions, where she could lead the living.
The luxury of tears was not hers, not yet.
A pause, then Ganesha’s voice rose, trembling with an almost disarming sincerity.
“Then I will!”
“…What?” Shakti muttered, finally turning, surprise cutting through her grief.
The god’s declaration was so utterly unexpected, a bit too serious for his usually eccentric, demeanour.
“OOOOOOOHHH!! MY CHILDREN!!”
The god’s subdued silence lasted all of two lines, then shattered like glass.
Shakti spun around fully to see him, the great elephant-masked deity, bawling his eyes out, his broad shoulders shaking with uncontrolled sobs.
“MY PRECIOUS FOLLOWERS!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHH!!”
Tears and mucus streamed down his elephant mask, a torrent of raw, unbridled emotion.
Manly tears and manly mucus, of course, as befitted a god of his stature.
Shakti just stood there, staring, mouth half-agape, before finally shaking herself back to her senses.
“S-stop it, Ganesha! Get a hold of yourself! If anyone sees you, it’ll bring shame to our familia!” The words came out sharper than she intended, an automatic defence mechanism against the overwhelming display.
“No! Never!” Ganesha cried, stepping back as Shakti attempted to reach out to him, perhaps to offer a comforting hand or simply to silence his wails.
He deftly evaded her, retreating further into his cascade of grief.
“Aaaaaaaaah! I loved you all, your kindness, dedication, and loyalty to our cause.”
His voice hitched, cracking with a sorrow that was both divine and deeply mortal.
“Whenever any of you saw any wrongdoings, you acted, diving headfirst into danger to protect the smiles of the innocent and brighten up their lives! I miss you all so MUUUUUUUUUCH!!”
There seemed to be no end to his words, no bottom to his feelings.
Everything he had kept bottled up, a god’s responsibility to his children, he now spilled forth with a poignant pride.
He wept not just for them, but for Shakti, too.
She was the one who had to process the deaths as captain of the familia, deal with the loved ones left behind, manage the logistical nightmares, and shoulder a multitude of other follow-up duties. A pervasive guilt had taken root within her; she had been the one to lead them to fight, and in a way, their deaths felt like her responsibility.
Yet, she had to remain a fortress, impenetrable.
Ganesha continued howling into the sky, his cries reverberating through the desolate field.
These were his honest tears, hot enough with emotion they could melt the iciest glacier, a cleansing flood for the parched earth.
Shakti watched him in shock for a long moment, the initial mortification slowly giving way to something else—a faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreading through her chest.
Then, a small, fragile smile touched her lips.
“You really are a noisy god,” she said, her voice softer now, devoid of its earlier edge.
Then, after another moment, she looked up to the darkening, bruised sky.
“Ganesha, the rain’s coming.”
“AAAAAAAAA…..Oh? Rain?”
At her words, Ganesha lifted his gaze, his sobs momentarily interrupted by curiosity.
Thin, reddish clouds, the color of old blood, floated ominously in the evening sky, tinged by the setting sun.
“I don’t see any rain. There’s a few clouds, but…..”
He paused, his elephant-like eyes scanning the horizon, then a flicker of understanding crossed his features.
“No, you’re right,” he said, his voice now hushed.
“Looks like a shower’s on its way.”
Respectfully, he turned his back to Shakti, providing her with the privacy she hadn’t explicitly asked for, but deeply needed.
“Wouldn’t be surprised if we got a little wet, standing out here like this.”
Behind him, nobody saw the rain that rolled down Shakti’s cheeks, silent and cleansing.
………………………………………………………
Time flowed on, an unstoppable river carrying away fragments of the past.
A mournful silence, heavy and pervasive, settled over the city, a quiet broken only by the hushed ceremonies where citizens carried out funeral after funeral.
There simply weren’t enough healers, not enough magic, not enough time to stop the critically injured from becoming the dead.
Life had been cheapened, its fragility exposed.
The ashen-haired witch, wherever she was, would likely welcome this quiet, this pervasive gloom, but to the dismay of those who fought against the darkness, it could not last forever. Twilight was giving way to moonlight, and night was falling once again, ushering in the grim prelude to the sixth day of war.
“………”
The heavy hall-clock standing against the stone wall in the Guild Headquarters war room steadily carved away time, each tick a hammer blow against the dwindling hope.
Finn and Loki sat in their chairs, eyes closed, surrendering themselves to the relentless passage of moments, their postures conveying weariness.
The air was thick with unspoken tension, the quiet amplifying the weight of their decisions.
At last, Finn opened his bright blue eyes, sharp and alert once more.
“They’re here.” His voice was a calm, steady counterpoint to the storm brewing.
As if summoned by his very words, a pair of frantic footsteps raced up the hallway, growing louder with each stride.
The heavy oak door burst open, slamming against the wall with a jarring thud.
“O-our scouts! They’re back with their report!” cried a flustered Guild woman, her voice a thin, reedy sound that shattered the tense silence of the room.
Her face was ashen, eyes wide with a terror that spoke volumes before she even finished her sentence.
“They’ve located the targets, as instructed! It’s even worse than we imagined!”
Her breath hitched, and she visibly swallowed, the colour draining from her face as she shakily relayed their terrible findings.
“The creatures are on the way here, destroying everything in their path!”
This report, which Finn and Loki had been waiting so patiently for, had confirmed their worst fears, and then some.
It had been brought up during the meeting of the gods, a dire warning of what was to come, but there wasn’t much they could do to prevent this exact, terrifying situation.
The creatures were, powerful, and utterly devoid of mercy.
“That bastard Erebus,” spat Loki, her usual playful smirk replaced by a snarl of pure venom.
Her fist clenched, knuckles white.
“This is what he was after the whole time”
“Very likely, though perhaps there might even be more layers to his plot,” Finn mused, his mind already racing ahead, dissecting the enemy’s likely next moves.
He stood up from his seat, moving with an unhurried grace that belied the urgency of the moment.
“It looks like our time is up.”
He turned to the trembling Guild employee, his gaze firm but reassuring.
“Dispatch messengers to every familia. I want all forces in Central Park by midnight. We will make our stand there.”
“Y-yes, sir!” The woman, invigorated by his calm authority, snapped to attention and disappeared down the corridor without another word, her footsteps echoing in the distance.
Then the pallum hero made to leave the room as well, his weapon already in his grip.
“Where are you off to all by your lonesome, Finn?” Loki asked.
Finn’s answer was simple, direct.
“I’m going to gather the strongest warriors we have.”
The fate of Orario, and perhaps the world, depended on it
.………………………………………………………………………………………………
Off in the south, beyond the endless sea of clouds, the last vestiges of twilight surrendered to the approaching veil of night.
Yet, beneath the deepening crimson and indigo hues of the sky, fierce, guttural cries still tore through the ravaged streets of Orario, knowing no pause.
“Rooooaaaaaaaaaghhh!!”
The air vibrated with the raw power of a boaz’s great-sword as it crashed like a thunderbolt against the catman’s spear.
Metal shrieked on metal, a sound that etched itself into the very stones of the ruined district. Though both combatants stood bloodied, beaten, and bruised, their bodies screaming with exhaustion, these magnificent beasts still raged, fuelled by an infernal drive.
With the calamitous attack of the evilus having finally ceased, this isolated corner of southwest Orario had become the city’s sole active battlefield.
Here, amidst the skeletal remains of buildings and shattered cobblestones, the very spirit of Folkvangr was being remade.
Here, the first-class adventurers of the Freya Familia engaged in a sacred, brutal ritual combat – to claim each other’s lives and, in doing so, forge the most powerful Einherjar ever conceived.
“That damn cat…” Hedin, the white elf, knelt amidst the debris, his weapon lost from his grasp, his arm clutched tight against a pulsing wound.
Blood, warm and metallic, trickled from his lips as he grimaced, his sharp features contorted with a mixture of pain and bitter frustration.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit…!!”
His defeat, a stinging blow to his pride, echoed in the quiet desperation of his voice.
Even the legendary cooperation of the Gulliver brothers, usually an insurmountable force, proved insufficient against the overwhelming, extraordinary strength of the boaz man, Ottar.
The four pallums now lay sprawled on the ground, their gazes fixed on the darkening sky, unable to conceal the raw frustration and burning anger that consumed them.
Each breath was a struggle, each muscle a protest, yet their eyes still held the fire of unyielding spirits.
Nearby, propped against a jagged piece of rubble, the battered dark elf, Hogni, extended a quivering arm.
His fingers, trembling with residual strain, slowly dragged his beloved sword back toward him, its hilt cool against his fevered skin.
“I lost…again…” he uttered, his voice a hoarse whisper, “to Ottar…and Allen, too… But this time… this time my regret burns like a flame, a conflagration powerful enough to consume all who stand in my way!”
He cradled the sword in his arms, a shattered yet sacred artifact.
In that moment, he embraced a hope that even the searing pain of his repeated defeat would not diminish.
There were no tears to be shed in this hallowed arena—only blood, sweat, and unyielding will. Hogni understood this truth.
As did Hedin.
As did the Gulliver brothers.
And as did the two titans still locked in their furious dance.
The other members of the Freya Familia stood in a wide, solemn circle around them, their presence a silent vow to allow no one to intrude upon this sacred space.
Among them were the bare minimum number of healers, their skills reserved only for the aftermath, ensuring the battle’s natural, brutal progression.
All of them watched with bated breath, their hearts thrumming with anticipation as Ottar and Allen clashed, fighting to the very last ounce of their monumental strength.
They didn’t have to wait much longer before the decisive moment arrived.
Allen, the catman, unleashed a final, desperate charge, moving with the unstoppable momentum of a war chariot.
His spear, a blur of motion, aimed for the heart of his opponent.
But Ottar, the Boaz, a mountain of muscle and resolve, stood fast.
He planted his feet wide, his great-sword held out like an unyielding barrier, a steel wall against the charging fury.
The devastating collision of blow was not merely a clash of metal, but a thunderous crack that split the very earth beneath their feet.
A shockwave rippled outward, sending dust and small stones skipping across the ruins, filling the air with a cacophony that drowned out all other sounds.
Then, as abruptly as it began, it gave way to a deafening silence.
When the dust settled, it was the catman who had bent the knee, his spear clattering uselessly to the ground.
“Ghaah…” Allen gasped, his body trembling, his pride shredded.
Seeing his defeated stance, Ottar slowly lowered his great-sword, its massive blade gleaming ominously in the encroaching gloom.
“Allen…” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Thank you.” His eyes, though weary, were unclouded, his anger and frustration having melted away, replaced by a quiet, deep respect.
Allen, meanwhile, clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white, his body shaking with unspent fury.
“I wasn’t…doing this…for you, you fucking asshole!”
His voice, raw and ragged, tore through the silence.
“I wanted to win… I wanted to be strong!!” he bellowed, his teeth about to crack from the sheer force of his frustration.
That same frustration, a bitter, burning venom, mirrored in the eyes of his defeated peers.
With a final, guttural shout, he slammed his bruised fist into the ground, the impact echoing the blow to his ego.
“Fuck!!”
Consumed with a self-directed rage that promised future vengeance, Allen admitted his painful, undeniable defeat.
Somewhere far out of sight, high above the crumbling city, a pair of beautiful, delicate ears registered every sound, and a pair of ethereal silver eyes saw every detail of the brutal spectacle.
Allen, after a few laboured breaths that hitched in his chest, slowly staggered to his feet, his gaze piercing through the rising darkness to meet Ottar’s.
“Looks like you’re going on ahead, Ottar. If you lose now, then don’t bother showing your face again, you hear?!”
It was an insult wrapped in a challenge.
“…Of course,” Ottar replied, his gaze sharpening, accepting the weight of the unspoken oath. “Leave him to me.”
A solemn pledge thus forged, binding him to their collective ambition, Ottar turned his back on Allen and the others.
His mighty muscles, gleaming like newly forged steel, rippled with renewed power, tempered by the fires of a toxic camaraderie.
He stepped out of the field of rubble, leaving the defeated behind, to see a small, stoic figure who had been silently watching the battle from a slight distance.
“…Finn,” Ottar rumbled, acknowledging the Captain of the Loki Familia.
Finn met his gaze, his expression grave.
“I’m sorry it’s not Freya meeting you like this,” he replied, his voice calm but imbued with a chilling urgency, “but I’m afraid we’re short on time.”
“Is it time?” Ottar muttered, turning his gaze towards the looming, distant tower that pierced the sky, where his goddess awaited him.
Dusk had moved on, and become utter night.
The blackened veil now swept completely over the sky, chasing the last, lingering vestiges of sunlight over the western horizon, leaving only the cold, indifferent stars.
“Yes,” replied Finn, his blue eyes reflecting the deepening darkness.
“Its time for the final showdown.”
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