Chapter 128: The Heretic
All the noise and illusions vanished in an instant. Before Gawain could even process what had happened, his vision had already returned to normal.
The corridor of the Leslie family castle stretched out before him. A dark red carpet ran along the floor, flanked by portraits of the viscount Andrew’s ancestors hanging on the walls. Between the paintings were embedded magical crystals, glowing steadily with charged energy. Yet something seemed to interfere with the light’s flow—though the crystals shone brightly up close, the farther reaches of the hallway were shrouded in an unnatural gloom.
Gawain instinctively glanced back and saw Sir Philip and the others stepping through the doorway behind him. Their movements were perfectly natural—no sign of disturbance. It seemed the strange effects had only affected him, and the fleeting illusions had lasted only a moment, unnoticed by anyone else.
“What’s wrong?” Amber whispered, noticing the change in his expression.
Gawain kept his guard up as he replied, “I think I just experienced an illusion, but it only lasted a second.”
“There was definitely some magical residue dissipating—most likely left by cultists,” Pittman analyzed quietly. “It probably collapsed on contact with a superior being like you. We need to be careful; there might be magical traps here.”
Gawain frowned. “Can you sense where the cultists might be?”
“They’re cautious, or their power is… unusual,” Pittman shook his head. “I can feel twisted druidic magic all around, but none of it is ‘active’.”
Sir Philip gripped his longsword tightly, pressing the hilt to his chest as he murmured a brief invocation to Kael, god of knights and warriors. This ritual summoned a near-divine power. Then he looked toward the end of the corridor. “The aura is gathering that way.”
That was the direction of the lord’s council chamber.
Gawain exchanged a glance with Amber and the others. Leading the way, he stepped forward with Pittman close behind, while Philip and Amber flanked them, alert and cautious. The four moved carefully down the corridor.
The portraits on the walls, illuminated by the corrupted magical crystals, cast a ghastly pale light. The ancestors of the Leslie family stared coldly at the uninvited guests. Their milky, lifeless eyes gave Amber an involuntary shiver.
Gawain barely spared the paintings a glance. The slight distortion was just a side effect of the magical environment—nothing to worry about. Besides, who hasn’t hung portraits on their walls?
The council chamber door stood ajar, faint light spilling out. Yet as they approached, neither Pittman nor Philip could detect any clear cultist presence. Gawain examined the door carefully, confirming no traps or hidden dangers. Then, with caution, he pushed open the ornately decorated wooden door, embossed with the Leslie family crest and woven with precious metal threads.
The chamber was empty. Pillars and vaulted ceilings scattered the dim, chaotic glow of magical crystals. The central table and chairs had been moved elsewhere, leaving only a single velvet high-backed chair on the raised dais—the lord’s seat.
Viscount Andrew of Tansan sat slumped in that chair. Behind him hung a portrait of the first Leslie ancestor to be granted a title. The viscount himself struggled to breathe under the watchful eyes of his forebear. Once tall and slender, he was now gaunt to the point of desiccation. His flesh seemed to have shriveled, skin stretched tight over bone like a pale, withered corpse. His head lolled against the chair’s back, eyes unfocused as he stared at the ceiling, whispering unintelligible words.
The magical crystals on either side of the chair cast a white glow, stretching Andrew’s shadow long and faint on the floor.
He appeared utterly immobilized.
Gawain gripped the Sword of the Pathfinder tightly and, with Philip and Pittman, approached the viscount. But Andrew seemed completely unaware of their presence, his gaze vacant as he murmured in confusion.
“His mind is trapped,” Pittman diagnosed immediately. “But it’s not severe—I can break the curse. Though the cultists will likely be alerted. Be ready.”
Gawain nodded slightly. “Do it.”
Pittman placed one hand on Andrew’s forehead, withdrawing a small vial from his cloak with the other. He bit off the cork and let a few drops of liquid fall onto the viscount’s head.
A strange, intense floral scent wafted out, accompanied by the activation of druidic magic that drove away evil and soothed the soul. The dark spell binding Andrew’s mind began to loosen, bit by bit.
Suddenly, Andrew’s eyelids fluttered. Clarity returned as he looked up at Gawain, eyes wide with terror. His voice was hoarse and chilling: “He’s inside my shadow!”
Almost as the words left his mouth, the shadow cast on the floor twisted violently. The crystal behind the chair shattered with a loud crack. The shadow grew larger, coalescing into a black figure that lunged straight at Gawain’s face.
But Gawain seemed to have anticipated this. Before the viscount’s warning, he had already taken a step back, pulling Pittman with him off the dais. Sir Philip followed swiftly.
The shadow’s attack missed by a hair. Before it could recover, the shadow writhed again, and a booted foot shot out, kicking the figure hard in the back.
“I’m inside your shadow!” Philip taunted.
The shadow was forced out of its form, tumbling clumsily off the platform. Midair, it exploded into drifting smoke, carried by a gust to the far end of the hall, where it reformed into a hooded figure cloaked in black, face obscured.
Amber sprang out of the shadows and darted behind Gawain.
Gawain smirked at the black-robed figure. “A magic user who can’t even stay hidden to lob fireballs, and instead tries to assassinate a fully armored knight? Is every cultist in the End of All Things so refreshingly unconventional?”
The failed attacker couldn’t hide his shock. “You weren’t affected by the Voice of Truth?!”
“Voice of Truth? You mean that magic you left on the door? The one that bombards the first person who enters with endless noise?” Gawain asked curiously. “Yeah, I heard it. But just as I was about to chat with it, the noise stopped. Did I drive it mad with a single sentence?”
The black figure’s hood shook violently as a venomous curse hissed from the shadows: “Heretic who defies the iron laws of the End of All Things, returned from the realm of the dead—you should never have been allowed to live!”
As the words fell, a sudden cacophony of cracking and shattering erupted outside the hall.
The council chamber’s windows shattered with a crash. Doors were smashed and blown open by tremendous force. Thick branches and vines burst through every opening, surging into the hall.
The plants writhed on the floor, creaking and twisting as they rose upright—towering treants over two meters tall. But unlike the normal druidic summons, these were grotesque: their branches were twisted and rotted, their bark cracked open with oozing toxic sap that reeked foully.
As is well known: when the druids of the End of All Things forsake their faith in life and nature, the power of “life” vanishes from their spells.
The corrupted treants charged at Gawain and his group.
“Their cores are in those black, decayed leaves!” Pittman shouted, hurling several magical seeds. “Don’t let the poison splash in your eyes!”
The seeds hit the ground, glowing green before rapidly rooting and growing into tough vines and thorny brambles under Pittman’s druidic magic, binding the attacking treants from all sides.
Gawain shot Pittman a grateful glance, then swung his sword, severing a treant’s arm.
Amber and Philip fought fiercely alongside him against the corrupted treants.
Amid the chaos, Gawain’s attention never wavered from the black-robed cultist.
The figure had yet to engage directly, only sending the corrupted treants into battle. He watched silently from a distance, brooding and hesitant.
Gawain quickly understood: this cultist knew who he was.
He knew about Gawain Cecil—the legendary resurrection. Though the cultist had been loud and arrogant at first, his reluctance to fight suggested fear.
Yet he hadn’t fled, instead commanding the treants. This meant he likely guessed that Gawain was still weak after his resurrection.
He was watching, assessing just how much power this “legend” still possessed. He was taking a risk—and whatever was here was worth it.
Gawain’s mind raced. In the few seconds it took to strike down a couple of treants, he pieced together many possibilities. He didn’t know how the cultist had learned about him, or how much he had deduced. Nor did he know what the cultist sought here. But that didn’t stop him from setting a trap to end this quickly.
In a flash, Gawain plunged his sword into the magical core of a treant. As he withdrew the blade, he deliberately let his hand tremble, making it seem as if his strength had suddenly failed.
(End of chapter)