As the rain ceased, the soldiers moved under orders.
This hunt would be harder, more grueling.
Yet, under the name of the new god, blessed by Hokhma, the soldiers preparing for the coming hunt wore smiles.
The predatory process of summoning blood and death brought them joy.
Overlooking this transformation, the King of Mosul smiled.
The forces surrounding the Elon Sect were tightly knit, leaving no room for even an ant to escape.
Clank.
The sound of metal announced a knight’s approach behind Tolland.
The king turned to face his perfect reflection, his most trusted ally, a figure evoking his younger self, ready to face the coming age of chaos.
Garland.
They say a son is his father’s mirror.
Tolland’s eyes, gazing at the fully armored vanguard leader for this mission to hunt Elon’s heretics, brimmed with pride and joy never shown before.
“Garland.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The king’s son stood before him, the epitome of loyalty, a steadfast general, a knight eagerly taking the lead.
“I’m proud of you.”
Tolland, reciting a prayer to the new god, smeared prepared dye onto the armor and helm protecting his son. A basic but highly effective protection spell.
“In Hokhma’s name.”
With Medeya’s power-infused voice, the consecration concluded, transforming Garland into an unprecedentedly formidable warrior.
This was no illusion.
Divine blessings were real, their effects on mortals beyond the comprehension of mere human sight.
Do not dare to understand. Simply bow and obey the divine voice…
Tolland Hamilton had changed. He followed Hokhma with sincerity.
“It is done. Go, in the name of the King of Mosul, in the name of our new god. Punish those vile heretics.”
“I obey, Your Majesty.”
Garland led the soldiers, charging into the heretics’ temple.
Watching the formation tighten step by step, Tolland no longer suppressed his laughter.
My son, you will succeed me as king. A divine agent unlike any in the past or future!
Soldiers followed the armored Garland like a swarm of black ants.
***
It was night.
Mosul, meant to be cloaked in the dark veil of night, was stained deep red.
Torches soaked in oil illuminated the city like day, their black ash glinting white and black in the firelight.
The Elon Sect’s temple was blood-red.
Tonight, the moon was absent, and thick clouds blocked even a speck of starlight.
The celestial gods cannot see us. Nor the horrific hunt and death before this night ends…
The city’s citizens, unable to comprehend but sensing the looming horror, locked themselves indoors, barring doors and windows.
Garland had memorized every detail needed for this hunt.
Lists of those to kill, those to capture alive, those to spare if possible but kill if they resisted…
Before setting out, he glanced at the paper depicting the top-priority heretic to capture alive.
High Priest Moriah.
The highest priest appointed by the Elon Sect for Mosul’s peace and safety.
He was no mere priest. In the war against the Demon King’s Army, he fought fearlessly as a holy knight on the front lines.
Since the war turned into a distant stalemate, Moriah hadn’t donned armor—until today.
“Priest Moriah, in the solemn name of the King of Mosul, I’ve come to arrest you.”
They stopped at a distance where their voices carried, close enough that any lapse could spark a fight.
A moment’s carelessness could lead to irreparable, fatal harm.
Garland didn’t underestimate the “retired” holy knight.
“Ah, I knew. See? We’ve prepared some resistance. Arming desk-bound priests wasn’t easy.”
“Abandon resistance. There’s no need for needless bloodshed.”
“That won’t do. Even if death surrounds us, resisting, struggling, fighting back—isn’t that the most beautiful and worthy act? If you haven’t forgotten, you know this is Elon’s teaching. None here fear the coming death.”
“Is negotiation over?”
“Did we ever have anything to negotiate?”
Moriah stood, a warrior’s figure, holding a holy shield engraved with Elon’s sigil in his left hand and a mace studded with spikes in his right.
Garland, cape billowing, stepped back with the soldiers at his side.
“…Begin the hunt.”
At his low command, the soldiers guarding their positions drew their weapons.
***
Natalia paused, feeling tremors above, watching falling dust.
Elon…
Recalling her mentor’s final request, she traversed a century-old, forgotten underground passage.
Moriah’s claim that it was untouched by human hands was true. Cobwebs, thick dust, mold, repulsive insects, and damp air greeted her.
Should she thank her mentor for kindly covering her nose and mouth with cloth to shield her lungs, or resent him for forcing her into this filthy place?
“We can’t all escape. Not all of us will survive. Elon no longer wishes us to live.”
“Elon doesn’t wish us to live?”
“Death is merely a farewell from this land. It’s just one path we all must take.”
Moriah’s words, claiming Elon’s will, were orthodox.
Natalia swore to fulfill her duty without looking back, though she didn’t know what it was.
In the pitch-black passage, where each step stirred waist-high dust, she advanced toward an unknown darkness, one step at a time.
I must hurry.
Bringing a torch was fortunate.
Magic lamps, functional a century ago, had long ceased working.
She didn’t know where the passage led—Moriah hadn’t said—but the need to proceed was unchanging.
Her duty, as Elon’s eyes and mouth, felt overwhelmingly difficult.
Yet it was better than dying above, stalling the King of Mosul and his soldiers.
In Elon’s realm, she stood before her faith, belief, path, light, soul—everything.
“My precious servant,” Elon said, as dewdrops on wildflowers and a warm, gentle breeze soothed her anxious soul.
A mighty stag’s eyes gazed at her. “By my will, you shall live.”
She couldn’t understand.
“…What about Priest Moriah and the others?”
Natalia asked.
Elon fell silent.
That alone was enough for his servant to understand what was coming.
Death. Endless, irreversible death.
But it would take time for the temple to burn and for soldiers to find the passage to the underground.
Moriah had said he’d buy time for her to escape.
“Buy time? How? We’re priests, not warriors!”
“They are. I’m not.”
Natalia saw Moriah break the glass case holding a decorative mace and shield in the main corridor, acting as if he’d long prepared for this moment.
Elon’s priests didn’t seek wars filled with death, but they could fight as holy warriors if needed.
Moriah, ready for battle, summoned all the sect’s priests to the temple.
Natalia couldn’t stay to watch them prepare for danger, arm themselves, and brace for their final stand.
Moriah thrust her into the passage, and the door shut firmly.
No change of heart could reopen it.
Like approaching death, the door was immovable by human hands.
Her possessions for this journey: a waterskin, some biscuits, and a thick cloak.
Descending into the dark passage, she clutched her cloak and hurried forward.
Above, she felt movement—harsh shouts, tremors, screams, the shadow of death’s scythe reaping lives relentlessly.
It all passed in an instant.
Elon… No matter how she called, no answer came. This place was too deep for the celestial god’s voice.
Relying on her torch, she occasionally found still-functioning magic lamps.
She tossed her fading torch into a puddle with a dead rat and took a lamp from the wall.
How much farther…
With no vents to the surface, she had no way to track time.
When hungry, she halved a biscuit, melting it slowly in her mouth. When thirsty, she sipped sparingly to wet her lips.
The damp, filthy floor saw rats scurrying, and during uneasy naps (she decided to call rest “night”), unseen shadows loomed close in her sleep—hallucinations or subterranean creatures claiming this untouched passage.
This is the last of the water…
Fear clung like an inescapable shadow. The carefully rationed water ran dry.
Natalia resisted the urge to turn back—a mistake she avoided.
Turning back? Isn’t that the right choice? Isn’t trudging endlessly through this passage the real mistake?
Starvation, exhaustion, and flickering, illusory lights blurred her mind. She debated turning back.
But she didn’t. As Elon’s priest, her duty outweighed her life.
Elon had spoken, and if Moriah judged it so, there was reason.
The divine will was beyond mortal comprehension.
Her throat parched.
Hunger clouded her mind, her vision hazy.
Each step, once painful, now felt dreamlike.
She couldn’t tell if she was awake or floundering in a dream or hallucination.
Even the magic lamp’s light faded.
In complete darkness, she didn’t know if she moved forward, circled, or retraced her steps.
She just walked. Walked, walked, and walked…
My life ends here. Never even fell in love…
Splash! Collapsing into a puddle of dust and rat fur, Natalia closed her eyes.
Then, light flared.
“A person? Mike, didn’t you say this was an abandoned passage no one uses?”
“It’s not completely abandoned. That’s why we’re here to maintain it, right?”
“Maintained after a century? Ordered by His Majesty? Look, she’s fainted. No time for maintenance, Mike! Handle it. I’ll save her first.”
“…If you skip work again, His Majesty will have your head, Your Highness Boromir.”
“Whatever, I don’t hear you. Is saving a citizen a crime? Do your thing. Honestly, there’s nothing for me to do here. His Majesty won’t come down to this stinking place to check.”
Mike sighed, watching his superior shrug while hoisting the unconscious woman onto his back.
“Please, Your Highness Boromir, at least send some servants. Replacing all these magic lamps is tough for a blind man.”
“Got it, got it, Mike. Anything else?”
“…I’m peckish. Some biscuits and boiled milk would be nice.”
“Still a kid’s palate, huh? How about coffee?”
“Magic needs sugar. Since you offered, coffee too, please.”
Mike smiled, seeing off the prince returning to the palace.