Rumors (1)
The rain of fire soon subsided. It was never meant to cause such extensive damage in the first place.
Dalen’s lack of skill proficiency was partly to blame, and the overly wide range he attempted only diluted its power.
Thus, the spell he cast, “Hegaleus’s Rain of Flames,” did little more than ignite small fires here and there in the forest, flames that would soon extinguish themselves.
Whoosh.
Of course, the mandrakes, sensitive to changes in the air, would likely wither within a day or two from the smoke alone.
Merchants who had flocked here upon hearing the rumors might suffer some losses, but what could be done? Human lives came first.
Dalen, wrapped in a large cloth Lucia had brought him, waited for the rain of fire to cease before descending into the pit.
Inside lay four ashen corpses, neatly arranged. Dalen reached out to retrieve them.
[You have retrieved the corpse of a powerless herbalist. You inherit their abilities.]
[Inheritance Reward: Sensory +1]
[You have retrieved the corpse of a righteous and brave warrior. You inherit their abilities.]
[Inheritance Reward: Strength +1]
The herbalist and the warrior only offered a slight boost in abilities, as expected.
The warrior’s body was from the first encounter with the boss mob, the Ash Witch.
He had managed to grow somewhat in the early stages of the game, but when the end began to encroach in the mid-game, he couldn’t adapt and met his demise.
The herbalist, on the other hand, was a casualty of a concept play, caught by a sudden trap spell deep in the forest.
“It wasn’t even the Revivach Forest back then.”
This was why Dalen was determined to deal with the witch as swiftly as possible.
Even after massacring the residents of Revivach, the witch continued to offer hundreds, if not thousands, of sacrifices to the dark god, gaining power in the process.
Dalen reached for the next corpse.
[You have retrieved the corpse of a crusader who stalked the witch. You inherit their abilities.]
[Inheritance Reward: Stamina +1, Seal of Curse Ward (D)]
”…”
The odd name of the corpse caught his eye. Dalen forced himself to focus only on the rewards.
The Seal of Curse Ward was a power inscribed on the skin, similar to a holy tattoo.
Feeling a tingling on his shoulder, he pulled back the cloth slightly to reveal a rune the size of a thumbnail.
“It blocks minor curses from local dark wizards and, as proficiency increases, can even reduce the power of stronger curses.”
Thinking about how he acquired the skill made him blush with embarrassment.
While playing as a paladin character, he had been captivated by the unexpected beauty of the Ash Witch upon first seeing her true form.
Dalen, behind the monitor, had spent an entire playthrough chasing after her, smitten.
The curse he received from the witch was too much for his holy power alone, so he had earnestly sought out an elf mage to inscribe the rune.
“I was out of my mind. Falling for a game character like that.”
Shaking his head, Dalen reached for the last corpse.
[You have retrieved the corpse of a silent assassin. You inherit their abilities.]
[Inheritance Reward: Dexterity +3, Magic +1, Spell Slayer of the Dark Moon]
“Hmm?”
As he retrieved the corpse, a dagger fell into his hand.
Savoring the surge in his abilities, Dalen raised an eyebrow and examined the dagger.
Its thin blade split into two, weaving left and right like waves.
“Spell Slayer.”
A legendary weapon that could nullify subpar spells on contact and counter powerful spells with physical strikes.
Moreover, it carried a curse that could temporarily disrupt a mage’s magical sensitivity with just a slight cut.
“I didn’t expect to find an item here.”
He knew items could be inherited, but this was his first time experiencing it.
Considering he had retrieved dozens of corpses so far, he hadn’t expected any items at all.
And even if one appeared, its usefulness was always in question.
“If it’s a treasure of the Dark Moon, it’s worth at least a decent C-rank skill.”
Dalen tore a piece of cloth to wrap the dagger carefully.
As he emerged from the ash pit, he opened his status window and invested his newly gained points into stamina.
“Hmm?”
He suddenly paused, looking down at the ground he had just walked over.
Just outside the boundary where lightning had struck, two intertwined red flowers had miraculously survived, blooming amidst the ashes.
Returning to the clearing, Dalen found Lucia tending to a boy.
Her hand on his forehead glowed with holy power, healing the boy’s dying body.
Dalen reached for his belt, only to realize he was wearing nothing but a large cloth. He let his arms fall naturally and asked, “Is the boy alright?”
“For now. I’ve ensured he won’t die immediately. But to fully heal him, we’ll need to find a priest at the temple.”
Dalen nodded, turning his gaze to the other captives who had been taken as sacrifices.
“What about them?”
”…They’re dead. There was no time to save them.”
“Surviving is a miracle in itself.”
At Dalen’s words, Lucia bit her lip and lowered her head.
The remnants in the clearing made it clear that the witch’s sacrificial rituals were unlike any other.
Dismembering limbs to create totems, extracting eyes to feed beasts, then gutting and burning the beasts—these were common practices.
She would extract organs only to put them back, flay skin, and inflict excruciating torture, yet keep the victims alive.
The cries and curses of those who endured such hellish pain were offered as sacrifices, and when their bodies became numb to the agony, she would finally slit their throats.
It was a ritual akin to a grand sacrificial ceremony, but far more brutal and sinister.
For those so horrifically violated, survival was impossible.
Most of those caged were essentially living corpses, kept alive by the witch’s magic.
The young mercenary, Farn, had survived only because he was the most recent to be captured.
“Damn Enaxagus.”
Dalen muttered under his breath. In hindsight, every scene of such heinous sacrificial rituals was tied to that accursed god.
The atrocities of the dark god, once familiar through the monitor, were now a harsh reality.
The tragedies he had once brushed off now pierced his heart with a bitterness multiplied many times over.
Why was he brought to this world? Was it to stop this?
If he hadn’t played this game, would this world have become reality? Was he the root of this tragedy?
Voices he had long silenced began to stir within him once more.
The savage barbarian, now part of him, remained unfazed by these voices.
But the man who once clicked a mouse was not so strong.
Behind his impassive face, a moment of confusion, feeling like an eternity, passed.
Dalen spoke.
”…Let’s go. Dawn is breaking.”
“Yes. Farn needs treatment as soon as possible.”
Lucia stood up, and Dalen carefully lifted the young mercenary onto his back.
The warmth of the boy’s body, separated by only a thin cloth, was a small comfort.
Back in Revivach, the group took a day to rest.
To be precise, only Dalen rested. Lucia stayed up all night tending to Farn.
In truth, after receiving the miracle of healing from the temple priest at dawn, there was little more she could do.
Yet the young squire continued to change warm cloths and feed the boy thin porridge, caring for him like a sister worried about her sick brother.
Perhaps her devoted care truly had an effect.
The young mercenary, Farn, regained consciousness the next morning.
”…He screamed for an hour straight before losing consciousness again.”
Lucia informed Dalen, who had come to check on the boy.
Her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, her face showing the limits of her fatigue.
“It’s a memory too heavy for someone so young. You’ve done well to stay by his side.”
“It’s nothing. As the temple priest said, he’s a child with a strong spirit, enduring well on his own.”
“Even the straightest sapling needs support to grow well. You’ve been that support.”
Lucia was silent for a moment. She rubbed her eyes and asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Better, somewhat.”
Dalen replied, rolling his shoulders.
He hadn’t intended to leave Lucia to care for the boy alone.
But as soon as they returned to the inn and he relaxed, overwhelming fatigue washed over him.
The brief exposure to the witch’s curse, endured with only the regenerative factor of dragon’s blood, was the cause.
In the end, Dalen spent the entire day sleeping.
Lucia, having spent considerable time with him and knowing a bit about his abilities, understood this completely.
“Get some rest. I’ll keep watch,” Dalen said, giving her a reassuring pat on the back.
Lucia stood up, stifling a small yawn. “Wake me if anything happens.”
“Don’t worry, just sleep.”
She was just as exhausted. After all, she had single-handedly dealt with two of Kalkas’s hounds and hadn’t rested while tending to and nursing the boy.
Once the knight had retreated to her quarters, Dalen settled himself in front of the makeshift bed where the boy lay.
“What a mess,” he thought.
The boy’s condition was dire. His left arm was severed just below the shoulder, and his left eye was brutally gouged out, as if pecked by a bird’s beak.
Thanks to Lucia’s divine power and the priest’s miracles, the festering wounds had healed, but the lost parts hadn’t regenerated.
At least he hadn’t suffered the fate of other victims, who were tortured with organs ripped out and skin flayed. That would have been beyond even the priest’s miracles.
Knock, knock.
After a couple of hours of keeping watch, there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Volcma!” came the reply.
Dalen raised an eyebrow, puzzled as to why the busy merchant was here. He got up and opened the door to find Volcma Gallios struggling with a large tray.
The tray was precariously loaded with stew, lamb chops, bread, and beer. Volcma asked, “Mind if I come in?”
“Set it down first, or you’ll spill everything,” Dalen advised.
He took the tray and placed it on the table inside. Volcma sighed in relief and entered the room. As he adjusted his clothes and twirled his mustache, he froze at the sight of the boy on the bed.
“Isn’t that the mercenary who escorted the caravan? I heard he was promoted to a full member and took on another job right away…”
“Yes, we found him injured on that job and brought him back for treatment.”
“By the gods. To suffer such a fate at such a young age.”
Volcma rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a coin pouch. He took out half a gold coin and gently placed it on the bedside table. “When the boy wakes, tell him it’s a token of my sympathy.”
“That’s quite a sum for a mercenary whose contract is over.”
“It’s nothing compared to the bright future he has ahead of him. I’m merely investing a little in that future, as a merchant who once crossed paths with him.”
Dalen raised an eyebrow, suspecting there was more to Volcma’s gesture. “And, of course, by showing such generosity, you’re hoping to stay on the good side of his guardian, who took down three hundred orcs in one blow.”
Volcma chuckled heartily. “You’ve grown even more shameless than before.”
“Isn’t that a merchant’s virtue? Ha!”
Dalen chuckled in return, raising his beer mug. He took a long drink and asked, “So, what brings a busy merchant like you here, with a tray no less?”
“Neither you nor the knight came down all day, so I thought I’d bring you something to eat. Besides, all my scheduled auctions and deals have been canceled or postponed.”
Dalen smirked. “I thought maybe you’d gone bankrupt and taken up a job at the inn.”
“Don’t even joke about such dreadful things.”
The merchant shuddered, and Dalen laughed again, raising his beer mug. He was famished after sleeping all day and then tending to Paren.
He downed the rest of his beer and devoured a lamb chop in one bite before continuing, “What do you mean the auctions and deals were canceled?”
“Something strange happened in the Revivach Forest the night before last. The sky turned ashen, lightning struck through it, and then fire rained down.”
Dalen’s hand paused momentarily, but only for a moment. He continued to strip the meat from the ribs.
“Herbalists are refusing to enter the forest for now. Rumors are flying about demons opening the gates of hell and being struck down, or a grand wizard from a magic tower dueling a witch.”
As Dalen dipped bread into the stew and chewed thoughtfully, he mused that people’s imaginations were surprisingly accurate.
The merchant, dismissing the rumors as nonsense, lamented about the herbalists being steeped in superstition. Dalen let the complaints wash over him as he finished the food on the tray.
As the lamb chops and stew disappeared, Volcma suddenly changed the subject, as if remembering something.
“Oh, have you heard the rumor? About a week from here, on the northern frontier of the Empire, the dead are rising.”
At that, Dalen’s hand, which had been reaching for more food, froze.