Chapter 283
In the blink of an eye, a new predawn had arrived, a dawn that ushered in the seventh day of the war.
Its pale, uncertain glow crept along the glass windows of the Guild Headquarters, painting fleeting, distorted shadows across the stone floor.
For two full days, the fifth and sixth, a fragile, almost blasphemous quiet had settled over Orario.
Both the adventurers and the sinister forces of the evilus had used this reprieve to lick their wounds, to regroup, to sharpen their resolve and forward their individual, divergent agendas.
Yet, the respite was merely the drawn breath before a scream.
Every soul could feel the taut, suffocating tension of the upcoming battle, a knowledge that vibrated in the very foundations of the city.
Within the Guild HQ, the air crackled with a different kind of energy………..a focused, almost meditative intensity.
Adventurers, filled with a diverse tapestry of races, moved with urgency, completing their final, meticulous checks.
Their minds, honed by countless forays into the dungeon and the brutal realities of war, were focused solely on the task at hand, on the immediate, tangible present, and on nothing that lay beyond the cold steel of their blades or the warm wood of their staves.
They took stock of their trusty weapons, each familiar weight a comfort.
Swords gleamed with the fresh polish from the cities craftsmen; axes boasted edges keen enough to split a hair; and arrowheads, painstakingly fletched, promised swift, silent death.
Their armour, scoured of the grime from previous encounters and reinforced where needed, felt like a second skin – sturdy breastplates, articulated gauntlets, greaves that hugged their calves.
Along their belts and within their pouches, they double-checked their ration of all-important items: restorative potions glowing faintly, vials of mana potions, smoke bombs for diversion, and healing salves that promised a brief reprieve from the inevitable wounds.
There would be no room for error, no mercy for oversight.
The slightest imperfection, the smallest miscalculation, could mean the difference between life and the embrace of the abyss.
Veteran adventurers, hardened by years of facing monstrous threats, sought to channel their nervous energy through familiar rituals.
Some sparred with bare fists, the thud of impact against flesh a grounding rhythm, a final calibration of their reflexes and strength.
Others locked forearms, muscles straining in silent arm-wrestling matches, reaffirming bonds and measuring the raw power that would soon be unleashed.
It was a common pre-battle ritual for them, a way to shed the weight of impending doom and embrace the warrior's spirit, a tacit acknowledgment of the camaraderie forged in the crucible of danger.
Younger recruits, their faces pale beneath their burgeoning beards or youthful determination, did their best to calm their nerves, their hands clenching and unclenching on weapon hilts, their gazes darting towards the seasoned warriors for reassurance.
Older warriors, their faces etched with the lines of countless battles, moved among them, imparting a few encouraging words, a reassuring pat on the shoulder, a shared, knowing glance.
"When we get back, the first round’s on me, kids," one burly dwarf bellowed, his voice rough but kind, echoing through the vast hall.
A chorus of agreement, a mix of genuine hope and forced cheer, rose in response.
Thus, promises were forged, fragile as glass, whispered against the backdrop of an unspoken truth: most of them, despite their strength and courage, would not survive this day.
It was a macabre contract, a bittersweet farewell cloaked in camaraderie.
Among the throng, a figure stood out, radiating an almost unnerving calm.
Finn, the pallum commander, was dressed to the nines, too, just like Ottar, the Bahamut and Astraea familia crew – each a paragon of their respective fighting styles.
“Can’t have our captain being upstaged, now can we?” Loki murmured, her grin a faint, knowing curve on her lips.
Amidst all the bustle and mounting tension, Loki sat perched on a discarded crate in the Guild’s lobby, an oddly serene observer, watching her child with a mixture of pride and deep, motherly concern hidden beneath her typically mischievous demeanour.
The crimson robe Finn wore over his top-class equipment was not mere adornment; it was a signature written in blood, a vibrant splash against the muted tones of steel and leather.
The rich cloth ran over his right shoulder and was fastened in place at the waist, while the remainder flowed from his shoulders like a cape, giving his small frame an unexpected majesty.
His other arm, the one not draped by fabric, was protected by a polished steel brace that extended past the elbow, both defensive and symbolic.
To the average pallum, witnessing their diminutive champion arrayed in such exotic gear, he must have looked like an incarnation of their goddess, a tiny, yet indomitable force.
Finn wasn't content with just looking the part.
He flexed his joints, testing the armour for flaws, the give of the leather, the smooth movement of the metal plates, right as a scouting party, haggard and dust-stained, returned from the treacherous upper floors of the dungeon.
Their faces were grim, their movements weary, but their purpose was clear.
One of them, a nimble elf, extended a rolled-up scroll to Finn.
Their exchange was swift, a clipped series of questions and answers that spoke volumes of their urgency and mutual understanding.
Then, the scouts, without pause, headed out once more, disappearing back into the maw of the dungeon, their brief presence a stark reminder of the continuous, brutal attrition of this war.
As they left, a faint tremor, deeper and more resonant than the usual rumblings of the dungeon, shook the very foundations of the Guild HQ.
It rattled the weapons on their racks, made the hanging lanterns sway, and sent a shiver through the less experienced adventurers.
Finn, however, remained impassive.
He unfurled the parchment, a freshly drawn map of the enemy’s reported locations—and studied its contents in silence, his azure eyes, usually so expressive, narrowed into slits of intense concentration.
It was during this heavy silence, punctuated only by the distant rumble and the nervous shuffling of feet, that Royman came over, a torrent of anxious words spilling from his lips, spraying spittle as he spoke.
"I’m begging you, Finn! We’ve invested every last drop of our city’s resources in ensuring you adventurers have the best equipment money can buy! You cannot fail us now!!"
Royman’s nerves were every bit as frayed as those of the warriors going to fight on the front lines, perhaps more so, for his was the burden of the entire city's welfare.
His substantial flab jiggled with a frantic rhythm as he nagged Finn like a nosy mother-in-law, his desperation thinly veiled by a desperate, official tone.
Finn didn’t even spare the man a glance.
His focus remained absolute, his gaze unyielding on the map.
He just replied, his voice a low, steady murmur that somehow cut through Royman's panic, "We’ll do everything we can," as another, more violent tremor rocked the building, making the very stones groan in protest.
The ceiling dust rained down in fine powder, and a few small cracks spider-webbed across the ancient plaster.
At the same time, a flustered Rose, ran in, her movements jerky with alarm.
"We’ve just received news that the monsters have reached the nineteenth and seventeenth floors! The scouting party has suffered heavy casualties!"
In more peaceful times, Rose worked as a regular receptionist, her lovely face often graced with a polite smile, but now it was twisted with genuine fear, her eyes wide with a horror she couldn't mask.
"They cannot continue the mission! They’re requesting permission to evacuate! I’m sending the retreat order right now!"
Rose shouted her report, her voice cracking with urgency, causing almost every adventurer within earshot to turn and stare in horror.
A ripple of unease, cold and sharp, spread through the room.
Royman, already pale, went an ashen grey, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Only Loki and the core first-tier adventurers were able to stay calm, their expressions tightening but their minds clearly working through the implications.
"Accounting for the time it took this report to arrive," said Gareth, stroking his thick, braided beard, "the beasts should have reached the sixteenth and eighteenth floors by now. A little slower than we expected."
There was a note of subtle surprise in his tone, a slight deviation from their predicted enemy movement.
"Yes," replied Riveria, her eyes fixed on the jewelled staff in her hands, its crystal orb pulsing with a faint, inner light.
"But that’s fine. The Bahamut, Astraea familia and I are done with our preparations. We are ready to go anytime… Finn?" Riveria paused, her sharp gaze observing Finn's odd expression, an almost imperceptible furrowing of his brow that spoke of deep, troubled thought.
The pallum commander had still not said a word, his eyes fixed firmly on the contents of the parchment, tracing invisible lines across the map.
There was a brief, agonizing silence as everyone, from the terrified recruits to the seasoned veterans, turned to him, recognizing the weight of the moment, seeking his guidance, his decision.
Possibilities, countless permutations of enemy tactics and allied responses, raced through his head, each scenario played out.
After five excruciating seconds, which seemed to stretch into an eternity, Finn licked his thumb, a small, unconscious gesture he made when deep in thought, when his instincts were screaming. He then pointed to a specific spot on the map.
"…We need to alter the dungeon team," he said, his voice quiet but resonating with absolute authority.
"Gareth, Ais, and Noir's team will go with Riveria, the Bahamut and Astraea familia as well."
"What?" Riveria was taken aback, momentarily losing her composure at this last-minute, monumental change of plan.
Her gaze shot to Gareth, then back to Finn, searching for an explanation.
"Hold on, Finn," Gareth interjected, his voice also laced with concern.
"The plan was for the Astraea and Bahamut familia to keep the beasts busy while Riveria charged up and hit hard enough with magic to take each out in one blow. What’s changed? Zald, Alfia, and maybe Mors will be coming. We can’t spare anyone else."
Gareth was right.
The threat of the three Level 7s, figures of immense power – albeit one, Mors, was severely injured by Draco – still exceeded that of the dungeon monsters.
Orario needed to meet them with everything they could muster, even if that meant dividing their forces unequally.
It was none other than Finn who had come up with that meticulously calculated plan in the first place.
To change it now, at the eleventh hour, was concerning.
"I thought so too, at first," Finn replied, his voice holding no trace of doubt, only a chilling certainty.
"But I’ve just read this report on the enemy dispositions… and something’s not right."
He walked over to the reception counter, taking control of the space, and spread the map on top of it, its parchment crinkling softly.
With swift movements, he placed black-and-white chess pieces to mark allied and enemy formations.
"I worked out seventeen different ways the enemy could deploy their forces," Finn explained, his finger tracing a path across the map.
"And what we’re seeing doesn’t match any of them. The battle hasn't even started yet, and already I can’t shake the feeling we’re missing something crucial, something fundamental."
He began to move the black pieces, one by one, reflecting the observed deviation in their predicted and actual locations.
As he laid out the discrepancy for them, the other adventurers, even the hardened veterans, began to murmur in discomfort, a collective unease rippling through the hall.
Finn's intuitive grasp of battlefield dynamics was usually accurate, and if he felt something was off, then it truly was.
The last piece to move was the enemy queen, which somehow ended up on the eastern side of the city, far from the expected main thrust, in a position that seemed strategically unsound for a direct attack.
Finn narrowed his azure eyes and glared at it, as if trying to divine its hidden motive through sheer force of will.
"…So, ya think the evilus are going to show up down in the dungeon as well?" Loki asked, her voice unexpectedly serious.
"That’s one possibility," Finn replied, his gaze still fixed on the queen piece, his brow furrowed in thought.
"But that’s not the worst thing they could do…"
He opened his mouth to elaborate, then closed it, shaking his head.
"...No, that doesn’t matter right now. What matters is, my thumb is aching, just like it did on the night the war began. We could be walking right into a trap again. I don’t want to take that chance."
A stunned silence followed his declaration. Royman gawked, his mouth agape.
To the uninitiated, it sounded like madness, a whim born of superstition.
But to those who knew Finn, who had marched under his command, it was a, chilling statement.
"Well, that’s a good enough reason for me," said Loki, breaking the silence with a shrug, though her eyes were filled with an uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Finn’s thumb can be more accurate than the gods sometimes."
"N-n-now wait just a moment! Surely you cannot be serious about making such important decisions, altering an entire battle plan, based on some…random pain in your fingers?!"
While Loki seemed convinced, fully trusting her captain’s unique gift, Royman loudly refused to accept Finn’s patchy reasoning, his bureaucratic mind unable to fathom such an esoteric justification.
His face was a mask of disbelief and frustration, his pleas falling on deaf ears.
But it was someone else who walked up behind him with soft, almost soundless footsteps, and an answer at the ready.
"It’s fine. Once we defeat the monsters, we can come back. It won’t take long."
It was Ais, the doll princess, her golden hair shimmering faintly in the dim creeping sunrise.
She carried a sword that seemed much too large for her slender frame, strapped securely to her back.
She had finally managed to shake off the dread she felt on the fifth night of the war, a personal demon she had barely wrestled into submission, replaced now by cold determination.
All eyes, from the panicked Royman to the most battle-hardened veterans, were drawn toward the girl who was so small, most in the room had to look down to see her.
Yet, her quiet words, delivered with absolute conviction, held more weight than any shouted command.
The first one to break the silence was the old dwarf warrior, Gareth.
"Ha-ha-ha!" Gareth laughed, a booming sound that cut through the tension, a release valve for the collective anxiety.
"Right you are, girl! Beat the monsters quick enough, and it doesn’t matter if Finn’s prediction is off the mark!"
His laughter was infectious, a balm to the strained nerves.
"We owe our lives to your hunches, Captain," added Riveria, her serene expression returned, her voice firm and resolute.
"I’m perfectly happy to place my trust in you once more."
Her loyalty, combined with Gareth's hearty endorsement, solidified the dramatic shift in strategy. Their faith in Finn was absolute, built on a foundation of shared trials and countless victories snatched from the jaws of defeat.
Royman couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
His face was a picture of utter bewilderment, then outrage.
"H-have you all lost it?!" he shrieked, his voice cracking, fully convinced that the world had gone mad.
But his protests, desperate and logical though they might be, were utterly drowned out by the quiet, unified resolve of the adventurers.
Finn, seeing the unshakable trust in the eyes of his comrades, only smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened the hard lines of his face.
"Thank you, both of you. And you too, Ais. I’m counting on you."
The golden-haired girl gave a single, silent nod in response.
The new plan was set.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
At the same time, on the rooftop of the guild, Hermes, surveyed the urban sprawl.
Lights, usually vibrant, now cast long, nervous shadows, mirroring the dread that clung to the eve of war.
His gaze swept over the fortifications quickly erected, the distant, muffled sounds of preparation, and the ever-present, daunting silhouette of Babel.
A soft rustle of fabric, then a voice like chilled moonlight, caused him to turn.
“Hermes.”
Astraea stood there, her hair catching the faint glow of the rising sun, her eyes, fixed on him with an unsettling intensity.
Hermes felt a flicker of concern.
“What’s up, Astraea? The war’s about to begin; you should get to safety.”
Her expression remained unchanged, a silent dismissal of his worry.
“I called you here because I have something important to tell you, Hermes. I believe Erebus has descended into the Dungeon.”
The words struck Hermes with the force of a physical blow.
Any notion of persuading the goddess to seek refuge vanished.
For a few taut moments, he grappled with the implications.
“…On the day the war began,” he finally spoke, his voice measured, “Erebus appeared before us. That was part of a performance to draw our attention away from what was happening in the Dungeon.”
Erebus’s true goal that night was by now well-known.
By preaching absolute evil and massacring multiple deities at once, the dark god ensured all eyes and ears were on him.
As a result, nobody realized that some god had unsealed their Arcanum down below and summoned two nightmarish fiends.
“Unless Erebus can be in two places at once, then the god who unleashed their Arcanum has to be someone else,” Hermes went on, his arguments clicking into place with cold logic.
“In other words, he couldn’t have been in the dungeon. He has an alibi, so to speak.”
There was no other way to summon a monster of that caliber besides breaking the divine taboo within the dungeon.
If the summoning really did occur during Erebus’s speech, it was physically impossible for him to have done it.
In essence, the dark god had demonstrated his innocence to the entire city of Orario.
There was another, equally compelling reason Hermes found it hard to believe.
“There’s only one way down there, and that’s through Babel,” he reminded her.
“Precisely where the Loki and Freya Familia has been positioned all this time. If Erebus came within spitting distance of the entrance, there’s no way they wouldn’t know about it.”
Draco had made the decision early to make the Central Park the base of allied operations, and Finn supported this, so the foot of Babel was the most fortified location in the city.
The evilus probing attacks hadn’t managed to come close to scratching the tower.
Even disguised as Eren, Erebus would have an impossible time making it past the eyes of countless sentries.
“But you already know all this, don’t you, Astraea?” Nothing Hermes said should have come as a surprise to the goddess.
“I do,” she confirmed, her gaze unflinching.
“But even so, I am certain he’s down there, leading the enemy as the incarnation of absolute evil.”
A heavy silence descended between them, broken only by the wind’s mournful sigh.
Hermes, a god who armed himself with reason and logic, felt a subtle tremor of unease.
He was certain Astraea knew that despite his logical arguments, he still harboured doubts. Astraea’s eyes, as deep and knowing as the starry skies, saw everything.
A cold gust caressed Hermes’s cheeks, a chill that had nothing to do with the predawn air.
After a moment, he let out a deep sigh, a surrender to the creeping intuition that defied his intellect.
“…What does it change?” he asked, the words barely audible above the rising wind.
“Even if our hunch turns out to be right, and Erebus is there, why does that matter? Why come to me now?”
Hermes levelled his keen gaze at her once more, cutting through the intellectual debate to the heart of her purpose.
“What do you want from me, Astraea?”
The goddess said nothing, simply staring back, her silent intensity an answer in itself.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………
When the age of the gods began, and divine beings, once figures of whispered prayers and ancient scrolls, mortals came to learn the truth.
With their arrival, the comforting veil of myth surrounding death was torn away, replaced by stark, unsettling truths.
The fanciful tales of Elysium fields or shadowy Hades, of Valhalla or the pure void, dissolved into a new, terrifying reality.
Facing irrefutable miracles and divine pronouncements, mortals had no choice but to accept this new, frightening understanding of their ultimate fate.
Fear coiled in the hearts of many.
Sleepless nights were spent wrestling with the knowledge that eternal paradise or unending torment truly awaited them.
Debates raged, voices growing hoarse over the precise nature of the suffering that simmered in the netherworld’s deepest abyss.
But as the seventh day of war and death crawled towards its bloody beginning, as evil’s work was finally nearing completion, all those terrified souls would surely agree: if hell were to suddenly manifest before them, it would look precisely like this.
The sky above Central Park was a bruised indigo, the first hint of dawn barely brushing the horizon.
A thin mist clung to the grass, muffling footsteps and turning the city’s heart into a hushed graveyard.
The air vibrated with a low, resonant tremor—like a dragon’s growl reverberating through the earth’s ribs.
Kaguya, her black hair flickering in the dim light, pressed her ear to the trembling ground.
“The quakes are still coming from the Dungeon,” she whispered.
Alise eyes scanned the empty avenues.
“Other than that, everything’s quiet,” she replied, her voice flat but edged with unease.
“It doesn’t feel like a final showdown is about to begin.”
Around them, a dozen warriors stood in a loose circle, faces set in grim silhouettes.
No one spoke; the rumble beneath their boots was the only sound, a reminder that something vast and terrible was stirring far below the city’s streets.
Vasileios curiously looking around spotted something odd, with a gentle push, he nudged Lyra’s armour with a finger.
“What’s with that shield strapped to your back? It makes you look like a turtle.”
Lyra snapped, eyes flashing.
“Who you calling a turtle?”
“It’s my secret weapon,” she said, tapping the massive round shield that covered most of her body.
It would have covered her head as well if it extended just a little bit above her shoulders.
The metal was etched with runes that glowed faintly, the craftsmanship unmistakable.
“The great and almighty Perseus forged it for me,” Lyra added, a hint of pride breaking through her sarcasm.
The shield seemed more suited to a dwarf……….not to mention the shield was and unusual amount of defensive gear for Lyra.
It seemed absurd for someone who usually fought in the shadows of the rear ranks, to carry this cumbersome gear.
“I was going to leave it behind, but then Finn told me to take it with me. I ain’t got a clue how its supposed to help, but who knows.” Lyra explained.
“Well is it?”
…Whatever, forget it,” said Lyra with a wry smile and a shake of the head.
Then she glanced over to elsewhere in the crowd, where a soot stained head of sky-blue hair was visible.
“Are you okay?” Dimitra asked Asfi, who was visibly disheveled.
The disheveled teenager, Asfi, shook her head.
“It’s all that Chibi‑demons’ fault. I haven’t slept a wink in seventy‑seven hours.”
She laughed hollowly, the sound cracking like broken glass.
Ryuu stepped forward, her gaze flickering between Lyra and Asfi.
“I’m sorry, Asfi,” she said, bowing her head.
“I don’t think its entirely my fault” Lyra murmured, much to Asfi’s annoyance.
“ Aaah, I can’t take it anymore, there is so much work left. If I die out there, make sure everyone knows it’s her fault, okay?” Asfi yelled in a protest.
The overworked captain of Hermes familia had deep bags under her eyes and looked like she had aged years in the course of a few days because of all the last-minute commissions.
She had turned into a walking corpse, and Ryuu had nothing to offer her beyond her deepest apologies.
Asfi let out a deep sigh.
“But, Leon,” she said.
“I can’t help but notice that sword you’re carrying. Not your wooden sword, the other one…”
Her eyes were fixed on Ryuu's hip.
The elven girl carried two swords side by side.
One was a freshly‑commissioned blade named Alvs Lumina, its edge shimmering with a green light.
The other was a battered, familiar weapon that Asfi recognized instantly.
“Is that…?” Asfi began, but Ryuu cut her off.
“It’s Sacred Oath,” she said, reverently.
“Adi’s old weapon. I salvaged what I could and repaired it.” Ryuu added.
She wanted to carry a piece of her friend who couldn't freely participate in the war.
“Today she fights with us.” Ryuu muttered.
“I see"
Asfi smiled, finding comfort in Ryuu’s proud display.
“In that case” she said.
“Make sure you come back alive. I would love to share a victorious drink with you and her when the war ends.”
Ryuu inclined her head.
“I intend to,” she promised.
“You stay safe too, Andromeda.”
This was the type of camaraderie that could only be forged in the battle field.
Just then, Gareth approached Riveria.
It was time to begin.
“Everything’s ready,” he murmured.
“We move on your mark.”
Ais stood beside her mother figure, waiting, while looking up at her face.
Riveria’s eyes which were closed in contemplation, opened slowly.
She took a deep breath, her lungs filling with the crisp air, before slowly exhaling.
“Very well,” she said, voice resonant as a cathedral bell.
The first light of dawn slipped over the horizon, painting the sky in bruised gold.
Across Orario, banners fluttered, and the streets were filled with the adventurers ready to defend their home.
All around the city borders, the evilus grinned as they prepared to manufacture hell on earth.
“It is time” echoed an eerie voice.
On the wall of the city, Valletta, licked her lips, and levelled the tip of her sword toward the white‑walled tower at Orario’s core.
“Today the tower falls!” she shouted, the words cracking like a whip.
The evilus soldiers roared in unison, their voices shaking the clouds.
“Roaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!” they bellowed, a guttural sound that threatened to drown the world.
Above the Guild Headquarters, Finn raised his golden spear, its tip catching the newborn sun. “Let your voices be heard! Today we fight for Orario!” he cried, his voice amplified by a magic device .
“Haaaazzzzzzzzaaaaaaaaaahhh!!” the crowd answered, a chorus of steel and resolve.
The city immediately transformed into a battlefield of mythic proportions, as soldiers from both sides quickly flooded the streets.
Riveria and Gareth lead a contingent of elite fighters to the foot of Babel, the towering structure that pierced the heavens.
“Move out. We have a monster to slay,” Riveria commanded, her voice a low thunder.
“Follow me, younglings!” Gareth answered, and the two vanished into the tower’s maw, followed by Ais and a contingent of Loki familia elites.
Members of Astraea and Bahamut familia brought up the rear, their footsteps pounding a rapid rhythm as they sprinted down the winding stairs, through the tower’s basement, and into the dark, yawning entrance of the dungeon.
……………………………………………………………………………..
Far off to the north, within the desolate expanse of the Beol mountain range, two colossal wills clashed before a single blow was struck.
Bahamut and Falazure, stared each other down.
The pressure they emitted was immense, suffocating, crushing the very air.
Every monster descendant, every beast that had once called these peaks home, had already fled, leaving behind an eerie silence.
These fleeing creatures, driven by primal fear, would spread like a plague, attacking nearby settlements, creating fresh casualties while Orario fought for its life.
But Bahamut could not afford to care.
The opponent before her demanded, consumed, her entire focus.
As the morning sun finally ascended, casting its full, fiery gaze upon the world, the two dragon gods began their terrible transformation.
Flesh writhed, scales expanded, and bones elongated, until their titanic forms, larger than the mountains below, blotted out the sky.
Then, with a catastrophic initial clash that tore the very fabric of the earth, sending tremors that reached the distant battlefields of Orario, the battle had truly begun.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on, donate and read 1 extra chapter as a free member.