Chapter 303
“Roooooooooaaaaaaaah!”
The sound came not from a single throat, but from a thousand bursting chests.
It was the collective roar of a city reborn, the sound of hope slamming the door shut on despair.
The triumphant declaration of the warlord’s monumental victory over Zald, and his subsequent ascension to Level 7, had instantly injected a feverish strength into Orario’s defenders.
Like fire spreading through dry kindling, morale soared.
The adventurers, having spent days surviving the siege, now became the aggressors, pushing back the Evilus coalition from every boundary.
Victory was no longer a distant hope; it was mathematically inevitable.
In an overcrowded trading house wedged into the city’s southwest corner, Valletta felt that triumphant roar as a physical blow.
The cheers outside were deafening, mocking her frantic concentration.
She was the acting commander of a rapidly dissolving force, and the sheer momentum of the counterattack threatened to wipe them out before she could even reorganize.
The tactical situation was dire.
In the south, the surrounding of the grand Casino, a crucial enemy foothold, was being dismantled by the methodical efficiency of the Hermes Familia.
The Freya Familia, operating out of the blood-soaked area of the Arena, had finally contained the most powerful threats in their section.
Though battered and bruised, high-tier restorative potions would swiftly return them to fighting strength.
At the beating heart of Orario, Ottar stood resolute, an immovable bulwark ensuring the city’s center remained secure.
This turn of events meant the Ganesha, Hermes, and Freya Familias would soon be free—a floodgate of reinforcements ready to swamp the remaining pockets of resistance.
The decent-level evilus soldiers who had managed to survive in those respective places were now fleeing chaotically, disrupting the last semblance of coordinated command.
Valletta pressed her fingers against her temples, fighting the suffocating panic.
Her eyes narrowed as they scanned the tattered battle map—a chaotic tapestry of red and blue markers.
‘What to do?’ she mused.
“South,” she muttered, the direction magnetizing her focus.
The only reason the southwestern and southern strongholds of the adventurers weren't already overrun was the massive monster concentration swirling around a single, immensely powerful figure.
The monster horde had acted in this bizarre way because Draco had thrown Mors in that area.
‘If we can rally our remaining troops around Mors, there might be a chance,’ she calculated, her forehead creasing.
‘The chain of command is broken, but Mors although useless is still a Level 7. He might be able to anchor the line. We might be wiped out before the Behemoth arrives—if it even does. If Zald, can fall, then relying on Alfia is a fool's hope, but…’ Valletta reconsidered.
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High above the devastated landscape separating the south and southwestern strongholds, Draco hovered, his reptilian eyes taking in the grand flow of the battles around the city.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone and spilled blood, but beneath the stench of war lay a rising current of clean wind…..the promise of victory.
Down below, Mors moved, a grim, tireless engine of destruction.
He wasn't fighting the monsters; he was erasing them.
Each heavy strike annihilated dozens, leaving nothing but shimmering magic stones piled high like scattered treasure.
It was only a matter of time before the area was sterilized.
That was the moment Draco planned to act.
But a persistent knot of concern tightened in Draco’s chest.
The speed of the victory was thrilling, but Mors’s strange cooperation was deeply unsettling. Since their last clash, only about three minutes ago.
Mors had focused solely on the monsters.
They were annoying, certainly, but most posed no threat to a Level 7.
Mors could have ignored them, using his speed to immediately breach either the Hermes or Ganesha familia strongholds.
If Mors had chosen that path, Draco would have been severely constrained, unable to deploy his full array of abilities without risking massive collateral damage to his own allies.
Mors, caring nothing for life, would have been unbound.
Yet, he hadn't.
He had simply moved, patiently murdering monsters.
This calculating patience was the greatest warning sign.
‘Why? Why is he going through all this trouble?’ Draco pondered, his powerful claws flexing, ready to descend and end the charade.
‘Should I just go all out now and kill him?’
As the thought crystallized, Mors delivered a final, crushing blow, punching straight through the skull of the last remaining Minotaur.
Its magic stone clattered onto the mound of its predecessors.
The battleground was now eerily quiet, save for the distant roar of the city.
“Thank you for your hard work,” Draco called down, furling his wings slightly as he descended. His talons met the ground, the pointed edges digging deep into the cracked earth.
Mors looked up, wiping a smear of monster ichor from his jaw.
“Finally decided to come down, huh? Thought you never would.”
“I had to let you clear out the area,” Draco replied, his tone laced with cold disdain.
“It would be inconvenient to make your grave with all those beasts running about.”
The green glow of his magic began to intensify, his magic power surging in anticipation.
“My grave, you say? Hahaha!” Mors chuckled, the sound dry and sinister.
“You must be joking. I’m sure you’re perplexed at why I bothered to clear this stage for us.”
He held Draco’s gaze, as if reading the Dragon’s mind with unnerving clarity.
“Not really. If I kill you now, does the reason matter?” Draco retorted.
The wind picked up, swirling violently around his rising aura.
“Oh, but it does matter, for what I am about to do.” Mors’s hand dipped into the folds of his clothing, retrieving something small and dark.
When he presented it, Draco immediately felt a violent tremor of revulsion…..a primal instinct screaming alarm.
Mors held a sinister crystal, the same one he had shown Adi several moments earlier.
It was an object fundamentally twisted, an affront to the natural order of life and death, radiating a toxic malevolence.
Draco’s spirit half took over.
Before conscious thought could intervene, he raised a claw and unleashed a condensed, hyper-pressurized torrent of wind.
Whoosh!
The attack screamed across the empty space, carving a deep, smoking trench where Mors had stood a moment before.
Mors was already meters to the left, unharmed, a dark smirk playing on his lips.
Draco's reptilian pupils dilated with an unsettling, focused rage.
“What is that cursed thing?” Draco demanded, his voice dangerously low.
“Heh-heh, and why would I ruin the fun by giving you the answer?” Mors replied, his bandaged hand tightening around the crystal.
Microscopic cracks appeared on its obsidian surface.
“I never thought I would have to waste the gift of my master on the likes of you, but you have proven to be a thorn that I must eradicate if I am to live through this day,” Mors continued, a viscous red liquid….not blood, but something thicker and fouler……leaking from the crystal’s fractures.
‘Forgive me, my lord, for I must break my oath,’ Mors thought, then he began to chant, his voice echoing eerily in the suddenly desolate field.
“Forgive me father, for I plunder from the root of life and offer it to the malevolent deity…”
Thrum!
As if responding directly to the first verse, a vast, oppressive wave of magical energy washed over the area, momentarily suffocating the breath in Draco’s lungs.
The red, corrupted essence spilled from the crystal and began sinking into Mors’s skin, spreading like rapidly growing spider webs.
His tattered bandages, useless now, fell away to reveal skin that was already beginning to warp.
Draco reacted instantly.
He rushed forward with every ounce of speed he possessed.
Every instinct he owned confirmed the same cold truth: Mors must not be allowed to complete the spell.
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Meanwhile, far beneath the chaos of the city, in the Dungeon’s eighteenth floor…
“…Well now. I certainly didn’t expect to see you down here.” Erebus could hardly conceal his shock, though his demeanor remained lazily amused.
The last of his devoted followers lay sprawled at his feet, defeated by the nimble team accompanying his unexpected guest.
The dark god leaned back slightly atop the rocky bluff, taking in the scene.
He smiled, lifting his head to meet her steady gaze.
“You sure do like surprising me, don’t you, Astraea?”
Standing before him was a goddess clad in robes of purest white, her long, rich walnut hair flowing down to her waist.
For the second time, this goddess of Justice had abandoned her safety to confront absolute evil in person.
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The flames of battle, not yet extinguished, cried out nearby.
Crumble, crack, perish.
The eighteenth floor, the storied "safe zone," was no longer a paradise.
It had become a scorching, trembling arena, scarred by the dueling forces of shadow and light, evil and justice.
“Those adventurers with you… Followers of Hermes, I presume?”
Erebus looked over Astraea’s small escort: a lean, dark-skinned male elf, a swift Chienthrope thief, and a determined human girl.
“I suppose that makes sense,” Erebus said, his tone carrying an unsettling aura of calm detachment.
“After all, your own followers are otherwise occupied, aren’t they?”
“Yes. But Hermes was kind enough to lend me his own from outside the city,” Astraea replied, her voice smooth and firm, yet devoid of anger.
“It was pressing that I meet with you, you see.”
Her indigo-blue eyes were resolute, like the tip of an arrow aimed toward absolute truth.
The corners of Erebus’s mouth crept into a wry smile.
“And why is that, Astraea? Come to pass your final judgment on me, have you?”
Erebus was isolated now, unbacked by any mortal force.
Most of his followers had sacrificed themselves protecting him from the monstrous rage of Delphyne, and Astraea’s quick-moving escort had surgically dispatched those who were too wounded or too slow to flee.
If Astraea chose to exercise her divine right here and now, there was no doubt she could do it.
But instead, she gently shook her head, the motion subtle and sorrowful.
“That is not why I have come, Erebus. After all, if you die here, you will not simply return to the light of Heaven.”
Erebus’s smile finally faded, replaced by cold silence.
“The Dungeon will devour you,” Astraea continued, her voice heavy with the terrible finality of the concept.
“You will be forever lost to us.”
Erebus stiffened, then offered a casual shrug, choosing a theatrical indifference to mask the sting of her words.
Astraea stepped forward, closing the distance between them, standing beside him high above the ravaged floor.
“I only came to see you, Erebus. To stand with you, as the representative of justice, while the final fate of our children plays out below.”
She looked out over the floor, where the black, corrupted winds fought against Delphyne.
She looked past the prone bodies of his defeated faithful, and beyond to the followers of justice who were on their knees, before the might of Silence.
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