Chapter 301
At the same time, while Draco was keeping Mors at bay………..
In the heart of Orario, the maelstrom of crumbling ice and swirling mist finally dissipated, revealing the solitary figure of the Warlord, Ottar.
He stood amidst the debris of a titanic struggle, his form etched against the bruised, smoke-hazed sky.
The very air thrummed with the fading echoes of an unimaginable clash, a battle that had pitted champions against each other and left the central district scarred.
When the residents of Orario, laid eyes upon this scene, a collective gasp rippled through the war-torn city.
Then, the tears began to fall – tears of relief, of sudden, overwhelming joy.
"It's the Warlord!" a woman's voice, thin yet piercing, sliced through the cacophony of monstrous roars, carrying an unburdened hope that felt almost foreign in the grim reality of the siege.
Her cry ignited the spark.
Immediately, a cascade of cheers erupted.
"Hooraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!"
Like a sudden, virulent fire, the exultation spread, leaping from adventurer to civilian, touching every desperate corner of the beleaguered city.
The weight of despair, which had threatened to crush Orario beneath an endless horde, lifted, if only for a fleeting moment.
"Ottar!" Allen, snarled the name, a complex mix of grudging respect and almost angry exasperation twisting his features.
He knew the cost of such a victory, the sheer, brutal effort.
Ganesha, his voice booming with his characteristic fervor, threw his head back and cheered, "You did it!"
Loki's eyes, ever keen, widened to an extent rarely seen, reflecting the staggering truth of the Warlord's achievement.
"You defeated him! One of the mightiest mortals this city has ever known!"
Her voice cracked, resonating with a mix of awe and disbelief that transcended mere admiration. This wasn't just a victory; it was a rewriting of history.
Even Hermes felt the unbidden excitement creep into his voice, his customary suave giving way to genuine astonishment.
"You have finally reached the level of Zeus and Hera!" he declared, his gaze sweeping across the war-torn skyline, as if seeking confirmation from the heavens themselves.
"A thousand years of history finally showing signs of being surpassed!"
All across the city, those who stood in the light of justice felt their hairs bristle, a primal surge of adrenaline coursing through their veins, and their hearts ignited with a renewed, ferocious resolve.
Even the citizens cowering in the strongholds, cut off from the direct spectacle, knew.
They knew, with an instinct deeper than reason, that their sword had finally pierced evil’s breast, that a critical blow had been struck.
One after the other, they began to stand, their confused murmurs slowly transforming into a rising tide of cheers, a symphony of defiance.
"Raise your voices, adventurers!" Finn roared.
He would not let this pivotal shift in momentum pass them by, not when the scales of war had finally, dramatically, tipped.
Zald’s defeat was more than just a victory; it was the spark capable of rekindling the dying coals of triumph, a clarion call to arms.
"Salute your champion!" Finn bellowed, momentarily setting aside his gnawing concern for the new shadow brewing in the city’s south, a different kind of darkness that still threatened to consume them.
"Your one and only: Warlord!"
"Roaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!"
Finn roared at the top of his lungs, his voice, usually so measured, now a primal expression of triumph.
It was a fuse, igniting a charge that had been building in Orario’s heart for days.
From every corner of the city, an unstoppable outflow of raw emotion erupted.
The people’s clamor, a crescendo of "Ottar! Ottar! Ottar!", caused the very earth to quake beneath their feet, and even the towering edifice of Babel, usually impervious, seemed to shudder under the immense, unified cry.
The chant echoed beyond the distant mountains, rising above the thick clouds of battle smoke.
Yet, this thrilling triumph was bitter, caustic news to the Evilus.
"H-he defeated Master Zald?!" A voice, filled with an almost childish disbelief, gasped from a beleaguered encampment in the southwest.
"Impossible! No one can best Master Zald!" another shrieked, refusing to accept the reality that had just unfolded.
"Th…then how…?"
The question hung heavy in the air, a poisoned arrow of doubt.
Morale, which had been tenuously held together by Zald’s sheer reputation, plummeted with the swiftness of a stone cast into a well.
The monstrous hordes, and their tamer masters, visibly faltered, their confidence shattering.
This effect was only hastened by the rallying cry of Orario’s troops, a tide of renewed defiance that swept through the city, enveloping them.
It was a complete and utter reversal of fortune, a cruel twist of fate that threatened to unravel their entire siege.
"Th-this can't be…! It’s impossible…!"
Even the evilus lieutenants, hardened and ruthless, began to show cracks in their composure. Olivas, felt the humiliation burn hotter than most.
A self-inflicted wound, it seemed.
"Was it those old fools…? Should I have stopped them after all…?"
He muttered, his mind desperately replaying the earlier diversionary tactics employed by Noir and the other old veterans.
This action though small in the grand scheme of things, combined with the effort of Vasiliki, Michalis, Eleni, the mages and Allen, had bought Ottar the crucial few seconds needed to seize victory.
Realizing he was at least partially responsible for their enemy’s success, Olivas tore frantically at his hair, letting out a maddened scream of frustration and self-loathing.
"Zald…lost?" Valletta, their cunning strategist, stared blankly into the distance, her usually sharp mind momentarily paralyzed.
"Hold on. You’ve got to be kidding me. There's no way. There's no way…"
Her shocked stupor gradually gave way to a deranged anger, a dangerous glint entering her eyes. But the cold logic of her intellect quickly reasserted itself, her mind rapidly assessing their grim situation.
‘First, Zald lost,’ she tabulated, her nails digging unconsciously into her palm.
‘Then that monster kid from the Bahamut familia awakened and seems to have gotten some ridiculous ability, strong enough to keep that shit half-elf occupied. Alfia is in the dungeon, so we can’t get her up here in time. Fucking hell, we are in a shitty situation.’ Valletta surmised, the bitter taste of defeat already acrid on her tongue.
"In that case, I can only do that," Valletta decided, her gaze hardening, a chilling determination replacing the momentary panic.
She shot a deadly glare at the Boaz man standing triumphant in the distance, then issued a sharp, concise order to her troops.
"Listen to me, you tamer shits! Ottar's got to be on death's door after that intense battle! Send in the monsters and finish him off!!" Valletta declared, her voice cold and cutting.
Then, turning to a messenger on her left, she issued another set of secret orders, her eyes glinting with a new, desperate gambit.
The tamers, despite their plummeting morale, jumped to attention, their fear of Valletta momentarily overriding their disbelief.
They hurried to execute their leader’s command, lashing their whips with renewed savagery.
The ruby-studded giants, and the other monstrous beasts, unquestioningly followed their masters’ cruel commands.
Most of the immense horde, save for those still engaged with Mors in the southern district, converged on the Central Park, where the flames of war still raged, now focused on a single, weakened prey.
"Oooooooouuughhh!!"
The guttural roars of the approaching monsters filled the air, a renewed wave of terror washing over the weary defenders.
"Grh…" Ottar grimaced, watching them approach.
The battle with Zald had pushed him beyond his limits, leaving him severely injured; it was a miracle he could even stand.
Deep gashes crisscrossed his mighty frame, his armor hung in tatters, and every strained breath was a powered by his dwindling will.
His allies, heroic but exhausted, attempted to hold back the surging horde again, but the dwindling ice barriers, remnants of Vasiliki’s effort, was failing.
Monsters streamed in from almost all directions, an overwhelming tide that threatened to engulf the beleaguered defenders.
"Dammit… Ottar!"
Even Allen, had reached the bitter limits of his endurance.
Vasiliki, had expended her last reserves of magic and potions.
They could no longer protect the Central Park as they had been doing, their strength drained, their hope flickering.
All they could do was watch, helpless, as the monstrous deluge breached the plaza, their jaws agape, their eyes glinting with murderous intent.
It was at that moment, when all hope seemed irrevocably lost, that a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack echoed across the chaotic battlefield.
It was the sound of a pair of glamorous heels, impossibly clear amidst the roars and cries, ringing out like a distant bell.
"Stay strong, Ottar. I will not permit you to bend the knee here."
A gasp of recognition, almost a choked sob, escaped the Warlord's lips.
"…! Lady Freya…"
Appearing before the embattled Boaz man was a figure of ethereal beauty, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight against the grimy backdrop of war.
From her position atop the towering Babel, Freya had clearly seen the perils of venturing onto the battlefield, yet she had chosen to do so anyway, a goddess descending into the fray.
She stepped close to her weary warrior, her eyes, filled with an otherworldly calm, meeting his.
"You are victorious, Ottar," she said, her voice a balm to his raw spirit, yet imbued with authority.
"A true lord of war."
Her hand, impossibly delicate, reached up to cup his bloodied cheek.
"Always stand tall, Ottar. No matter who you face. No matter how painful. You must always bear my glory for this city to see."
"…Yes, my lady." Ottar replied.
There was no other answer Ottar could give, no other thought that could penetrate his devotion. He stood straighter, concealing his agonizing pain, his monumental will hardening, becoming his goddess’s unyielding rock once more.
"I shall now update your Status," said the goddess, her purpose clear.
"Stand still and stare down our foes until I am finished."
Freya moved behind Ottar, his magnificent, yet now broken, physique laid bare.
His armor was in tatters, revealing a large, jagged gash that ran from his shoulder, across his powerful back, and down to his flank.
It was there, upon that wound, that Freya penned her ichor, the divine fluid glowing faintly as it began to rewrite the hieroglyphics that covered his muscular back.
Before long, the ancient script pulsed with a sublime, golden light of ascension.
"Your great deeds have been recorded. Take up your sword, Ottar."
The Boaz man, with a strength that defied his injuries, silently obeyed, his heavily damaged weapon feeling impossibly light in his grip.
"You have strength enough to wield it?" Freya asked, her gaze penetrating.
"Yes…" Ottar’s response was a low, guttural affirmation, born of a renewed fire.
Freya paused, her eyes briefly drifting to the south, where a faint, green silhouette hovered above the smoke-choked skies.
"It is you who currently stands atop the peak?" she mused aloud, her voice unreadable.
Ottar, too, glanced to the south, his scarred face expressionless, yet he understood her meaning. Although he now bore the mark of the strongest in Orario, there was another, a burgeoning power, hot on his heels.
But his resolve was absolute.
"Yes…!" Ottar answered, echoing the unspoken challenge in his goddess's words with complete and utter conviction.
"Then show us. Remove those ghastly fiends from my sight." Her command was clear, absolute.
"As you wish, my lady."
Ottar twisted, his body, despite its myriad wounds, suddenly taut and vibrant, like a spring coiled for release.
The gargantuan muscles in his shoulders bulged and flexed as he positioned his sword, its immense bulk now moving with deceptive ease, behind him.
He prepared to execute his goddess’s will—a spinning slash, with the two of them at its unshakeable center.
All the while, the monster horde drew nearer, their guttural roars swelling, their eyes fixed on their seemingly helpless prey.
When they came close enough, too close, they pounced.
The fangs of beasts, sharp as spears, lunged.
The claws of monstrous birds, capable of rending steel, descended.
The primal cries of wyverns reverberated, a symphony of destruction.
"Rooooooooahhh!!"
But Ottar was simply silent.
His spirit, spent in his titanic duel, was now renewed, refined, concentrated into a single, devastating purpose.
The Warlord, eyes fixed on the approaching menace, only raised his hefty blade.
And swung.
Swish !
What came next was not just an attack, but a vortex of annihilation.
The creatures, so numerous moments before, were erased without a sound.
Ottar’s sweeping blade, moving with impossible speed and power, bisected every last one of them.
Before their monstrous minds could even register pain, before their vocal cords could utter a single shriek, they were gone.
"Wha…?!"
A partial cry of utter shock escaped Valletta’s lips, her strategic mind failing to grasp the impossible.
The large monsters, their colossal forms reduced to mere fragments, crumbled, drumming the earth in a sudden, brutal melody of death and collapse.
The smaller ones, countless in number, simply returned to dust, their magic stones shattered, their essence obliterated.
Ottar’s single, devastating attack had nearly wiped out the entire horde, leaving a gaping, bloody crescent in the enemy's ranks.
"That whole horde… Gone, just like that!" Valletta couldn't believe her eyes.
Her counter-attack, had been negated in a single, impossible stroke.
But it wasn't only her.
Every adventurer who witnessed the impossible spectacle reeled in collective shock, their weariness momentarily forgotten in the face of such overwhelming power.
"Such overwhelming power…" Asfi breathed.
"That can only be…!"
It was Falgar who completed her words, his voice ringing with a newfound awe and reverence. What he had just seen was so destructive, so absolute, it had to belong to a higher category; another plane of being entirely.
"The power of a Level Seven!!" he declared, his eyes blazing.
"Ottar has well and truly surpassed us all!" Finn exclaimed, his worry for the south momentarily eclipsed by the dazzling, terrifying birth of a new ruler, a person now standing on the same, legendary level as Zald once had.
The Warlord had not merely endured; he had ascended.
The title of mightiest adventurer was an invaluable weapon in and of itself.
Simply usurping it from the evilus side was enough to turn the tide of war.
“All units! Eliminate the remaining enemy forces!” Finn pounced on the opportunity to issue his next order.
While the enemy faltered, he raised his spear to finish them off.
“Their morale is in tatters! Don’t let up now!!”
“Raaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!”
It was a fledgling cry of rebellion.
……………………………………………………………………………………………………
Back at the outskirts of the Arena…….
“Orariooo!! A filthy city of contemptible heroes!!”
The reality of encroaching defeat washed over Basram, the words tearing from his throat in a roar of impotent rage.
His army, his carefully crafted instruments of chaos, were faltering.
"This cannot be! I refuse to let it be so! I refuse to accept your wretched, righteous faith!!"
His goddess reveled in injustice, in the crooked and the rotten.
She was the antithesis of fairness.
That fundamental truth—that pure, unadulterated justice, devoid of any artifice, had triumphed—was a bitter pill to swallow.
Zald’s defeat had twisted his usually tranquil, priestly features into a mask of frustration.
“Kill those tiny weaklings, my spirit warriors!! Show them that our profane ways trump the rule of law!!”
Shedding his gentle facade, Basram swung his ringed staff with unbridled fury.
A soulless yell answered him as his four spirit warriors lunged.
The Gulliver brothers, a formidable quartet themselves, combined their weapons to parry a single, devastating great-sword swing.
Even so, the sheer force of the blow sent all four of them tumbling backward.
They had been struggling throughout the engagement.
The enemy, their Level 5 opponents, had them completely outmatched.
Blood now marred the dashing features of the four pallums, their helmets lost in the fray.
Yet, they did not falter.
“Dvalinn, what have you found out?” Alfrigg, demanded.
“The human uses fire, the elf and dwarf employ lightning, while the animal person has no magic. Only the latter two possess strong regenerative capabilities,” Dvalinn reported, his keen senses already sifting through the enemy’s capabilities.
“Berling, are there any other foes around?”
“Not that I can see. They must have been scared off. And our fellow adventurers are keeping the other spirit warriors busy,” Berling replied, his eyes sweeping the surroundings.
“Grer, have you worked out their strengths and weaknesses?”
“The human is fastest to respond to Basram’s staff, while the dwarf is slowest. Of all of them, the elf is the least proficient with a blade; it’s likely they used some other weapon when they were an adventurer,” Grer observed, his gaze pinpointing subtle nuances in their opponents’ movements.
“Alfrigg, put it all together!”
Alfrigg’s mind raced, weaving the disparate pieces of information into a cohesive plan.
“We must take them out one by one, before anyone comes to help. First the elf, then the dwarf!”
The four pallums readied their weapons.
Among the siblings, Grer excelled at observational skills, Berling at reconnaissance, and Dvalinn at magical sensibilities, while Alfrigg’s superior analytical abilities enabled him to make quick, decisive judgments for the group.
“Last time, we panicked, and it ended up as four one-on-ones,” Alfrigg stated, a grim reminder of a past mistake.
“Yup,” Grer confirmed.
“That was silly,” Berling added.
“For us, four, four-on-ones is the only way!” Dvalinn declared, his voice firm.
Four pairs of hawk-like eyes fixed on the spirit warriors under Basram’s control.
The dark priest shuddered for a fleeting moment before steeling his resolve.
He swung his ringed staff again.
“Silence, you incessant chatterboxes! Don’t think for one second you could even begin to understand the true depths of my goddess’s majesty!”
The staff chimed, and the four spirit warriors launched themselves into battle.
In response, the four siblings sprang into action.
They allowed their charging foes to sail right over them, the spirit warriors crashing into the ground behind their backs in a devastating explosion of dust and rubble.
Seizing the moment, the brothers drew their weapons, their intention clear.
“Ghhhi!!”
Spinning as one, they immediately converged on the elf spirit warrior, precisely as planned.
A great-sword and great-axe sliced in from the foe’s left and right.
The spirit warrior, with practiced ease, blocked each with a sword of its own.
This, however, was merely a feint.
As the elf’s defenses were occupied, a great-spear lunged for its throat.
Expecting this maneuver, the spirit warrior leaped back—directly into the path of a waiting great-hammer.
The powerful blow sent the spirit warrior reeling, isolating it from its allies.
“You’re first in line!!” the brothers yelled in unison, pressing their advantage and swarming their isolated target.
“Tch!” Basram clicked his tongue in annoyance.
He recognized the Gulliver brothers’ strategy: split the spirit warriors and eliminate them one by one.
He couldn’t allow this to succeed.
He swung his staff, ordering his remaining three servants to flank the pallums and strike them from behind.
“……”
Even as they approached from the rear, the four siblings exhibited an uncanny agility, effortlessly evading the spirit warriors’ lunging blades.
Their relentless charge continued, unhindered.
‘Your back isn’t your only blind spot! Be aware of attacks from all angles! Leave no gaps in your defense! You have to be ready to dodge, block, and counter all at once!’
This was a lesson learned during the clash of first-tier adventurers at Folkvangr, just before the final showdown.
It was there the brothers had discovered the secret to defeating Basram’s spirit warriors.
It all came down to tactics.
The Level 5s possessed superior might, and their attacks were undeniably potent.
But so long as the four pallum brothers could endure the onslaught and focus all their energy on orchestrating a four-on-one assault, victory was within their grasp.
“If that boar can do it, then so can we!” Alfrigg’s words echoed the envious rage that burned within them, a desire to replicate Ottar’s legendary feat.
Spear, sword, and axe converged, severing one of the elf’s limbs.
Moments later, the final hammer blow crushed its head.
“Impossible!!” Basram’s disbelief was palpable, but the brothers spared him no attention, their focus already shifting to the dwarf.
With only three foes remaining, splitting them up became an even simpler task.
Basram had made a critical error, severely underestimating the significance of this shift.
There was a reason the Gulliver brothers were renowned for their ability to overcome any foe through their teamwork.
Once all four had completed their individual analyses, the enemy was rendered transparent, their every move predictable.
The brothers then utilized their superior coordination to finish them off.
“Gaaaaaaaaahhh!!”
Upon receiving their combined assault, the dwarven spirit warrior unleashed a torrent of lightning—the raw power of the spirit dwelling within.
The human spirit warrior joined the fray, adding its fiery magic to the lightning, creating a volatile explosion of elements designed to rip the brothers away from their captive thrall.
Smoke and dust billowed across the battlefield, forcing Basram to shield his eyes.
Yet, a confident smile played on his lips, assured of his opponents’ imminent demise.
However, it was then that he heard a voice from behind him.
“It was Dvalinn and Grer who figured it out. They realized the spirit warriors would use their magic if threatened.”
Basram spun around, his eyes widening in shock to see one of the pallum brothers wielding an enormous spear.
The brother, bloodied and battered, met Basram’s gaze with cold, piercing eyes that conveyed a silent, damning truth.
“You of all people should know better than to take us at our word, Basram.”
This had been their plan from the very beginning.
A deliberate bluff.
They had announced their intention to eliminate their foes one by one, drawing out the enemy’s magical defenses, creating a smoke screen.
Within that chaos, one brother would slip away, positioning himself to strike at Basram himself.
“Without that staff of yours, the spirit warriors are nothing but mindless beasts, isn’t that right?” Alfrigg glared at the magic item in Basram’s hand—the sole conduit for controlling the dark priest’s heretical creations.
It took Basram half a second to overcome his shock, and another half a second to raise his staff. But it took Alfrigg far less time than that.
His spear swung in a blinding arc, severing the beastman’s arm and, with it, the golden staff responsible for so much pain and misery.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaarghhh!!” Basram’s howl of agony echoed through the battlefield.
The artifact’s sudden absence triggered an immediate, unnatural twitch in the spirit warriors.
It was a momentary magical glitch, but the brothers were swift to capitalize.
Crossing their weapons to deflect the final handful of spells, Dvalinn, Berling, and Grer lunged, severing the limbs of the beastman spirit warrior and shattering the spirit dagger lodged in the dwarven one’s brain stem.
The remaining human spirit warrior attempted to lash out in a final, futile frenzy, when a thrown spear shattered its skull from behind, bringing the battle to an abrupt and decisive end.
Alfrigg’s three brothers gathered at his side, returning his spear.
Then, all four turned their murderous gazes upon the fallen dark priest.
“Krh… Rgh… My…arm…” Basram groaned, clutching his severed limb.
His remaining hand fumbled within the folds of his robes, retrieving his desperate last resort…..the final spirit dagger, carefully wrapped in a hex-proof cloth.
“You tiny, insignificant wretches!!”
He plunged the blade into his own bloody stump and began to transform.
This spirit dagger was unlike the others.
Its wild magic surged into Basram, grotesquely enlarging one side of his body until he was no longer recognizable as his former self.
He had become one of his own monstrous creations.
This was the ultimate fate of a doctrine that abandoned intelligence and individuality.
“What are you, stupid?” said the three younger siblings with identical looks of exasperation.
“A man whose last resort is to trade away his mind for power…” said Alfrigg, an enlightened twinkle in his eye.
“Isn’t that exactly the sort of thing the gods mock us for?”
‘Well that Dragon-kid was an exception. He was really scary’ they all thought.
The four brothers stared down this hideous monster, then readied their cracked and battered weapons for one last symphony of death.
Basram swung a magic-infused punch, which the four brothers dodged before each disposing of one of the creature’s limbs.
The mass of flesh pitched forward, and Alfrigg drove his spear right through its heart.
The misshapen lump oozed red effluent and was silent.
“M-Master Basram?! A-all units, retreat!!”
After watching it all play out, one Apate familia officer raised his voice, then hurriedly retrieved the blood-soaked staff before fleeing the Arena alongside the other spirit warriors that Mia and the others had been fighting.
“Erm, Alfrigg?” said the three younger brothers, after watching the enemy retreat so easily with their artifact.
“…Apologies,” answered their eldest, wearing a look of guilt.
“I let down my guard.”
All of them realized they were far too wounded to give chase.
Their heroic victory over four Level 5s had come at a heavy price, and none of them could even stand upright a moment longer.
All Alfrigg could do was watch as the remaining four spirit warriors fled to the southeast.
“I let them get away…” he muttered.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on, donate and read 1 extra chapter as a free member.