An hour earlier…

Anlyth's thoughts churned like a storm as she trudged through the dark, damp corridors. It had been hours since she'd lost sight of that infuriating creature she'd been unceremoniously handed off to—treated like an object, bartered by that snake of a deity.

The bitter realization gnawed at her—she had been traded. Not for power. Not for a cause. Handed over as a Champion to the very monster responsible for her husband's death.

No reason given.

No explanation.

Just a single, damning promise: serve, and he'll be returned to life.

It was a jagged, blasphemous truth—one that shattered everything she believed about the divine, about gods, about morals… about herself.

And yet, she had accepted it.

But it made no sense. A Champion serving someone other than a god?

Unthinkable.

It shattered the very foundation of her faith. And yet…

The more terrifying thought clawed at the edges of her mind.

What if Blake was a god?

No.

She clenched her fists. She couldn't go down that path. Not yet.

And still—more terrifying than anything else—what if the Ascended Gods… weren't gods at all?

What gnawed at her even more was the truth she could no longer deny: it had been her actions that set the events in motion.

Not her husband's death.

No.

The memory of killing that goblin child haunted her now in ways it never had before.

That was when her path had first crossed with the black pudding. She just hadn't known it at the time.

Feral goblins were so common, so monstrous, that finding one with a soul was nearly mythical—at least, that's what she had told herself. It was the justification she'd clung to during every raid. Ockpool Dungeon had been no different. The creatures within hadn't been people; they'd been targets. Monsters. Easy to slaughter when the gods called it holy.

But now?

Now she saw it.

The goblin child. The others she'd vanquished. They weren't mindless feral beasts. They had souls. Families. Lives.

And her blade had cut through all of it.

The revelation cracked through her holy crusade like a faultline. Doubt seeped in like blood on white silk. The gods she had trusted, the mission she had followed without hesitation—to purge the realm of the feral—felt... wrong.

Her gaze swept over the beastkin.

So many kinds. Some bore humyn or elven features, marked only by tails, ears, or slitted eyes. Others resembled wild animals far more than people—claws, fur, muzzles—but even they had something unmistakably humyn in their eyes.

What struck her most wasn't how different they were.

It was the hunger.

The emptiness.

The quiet despair on so many faces.

And it gutted her.

She'd called them inferior. Savage. She'd killed others like them and called it righteous.

But looking at them now… tired, starved, broken—what kind of god could still call this holy?

Maybe that was why she hadn't run. Maybe that was why she hadn't refused.

Because something inside her had shifted.

Not faith. Not loyalty.

Responsibility.

Grudging, reluctant, and painful—but real.

If she had helped ruin these lives, then maybe becoming Champion to a nightmare was the first step toward atoning for it.

As Anlyth wandered, lost in her thoughts, she stumbled into a space that had been hastily converted into a makeshift smithy. The setup was crude—tools of poor quality, benches half-assembled, scorch marks on the floor. Everything looked thrown together in a rush, a desperate attempt at order born from chaos.

Among the clutter, one figure stood out—focused, hunched over a workbench far too small for anyone but him.

Anlyth recognized him immediately.

The gnome.

He worked with intense concentration, shaping an object unlike anything Anlyth had seen before. It resembled a warped sword hilt—or maybe a metallic wand—its design strange, almost arcane. A small mechanical lever curved near the base, and a depleted mana crystal had been awkwardly mounted to the side.

Curiosity got the better of her.

"What is that you're working on?"

The gnome jumped with a hiss, spinning around, the odd hilt raised and aimed directly at Anlyth's crotch. Her eyes narrowed at the gesture.

Recognition flickered across his face a second later, and he let out a sharp breath.

"Oh. It's just you." He lowered the weapon with an annoyed sigh. "I call it a crystal-lock. But the damn crystal won't hold a charge. It keeps bleeding mana."

"Crystal-lock?" Anlyth tilted her head, keeping a healthy distance. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

Realizing his lapse in manners, the gnome straightened and offered a polite nod—though his posture suggested he wasn't exactly thrilled with her presence.

"Nikola," he said, flashing a stiff, too-wide smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

His expression shifted—pride mingling with frustration—as he gestured toward the workbench. It barely reached her calf.

"It's a sort of pistol. Or more like a flintlock. That's why I call it a crystal-lock." He gave a half-shrug. "I've never had much of a knack for magic," he added, giving the device a shake. "But this? This bridges that gap. Single-shot design, so I doubt it'll catch on."

He tapped a finger against his chest. "I've always been able to instantly recharge mana crystals—about the size of a ruby. No problem."

Anlyth blinked. "Wait, really? You can recharge mana crystals?"

"Yep."

"Huh. That's… useful."

"And rare! I've yet to meet anyone else who can do it," he said with a proud grin.

"So what you've built is basically a wand," she said, squinting at the device. "Why not just use a traditional one? Embedded mana crystal, standardized casting—it'd be more practical."

Nikola snorted. "Sure—if you like weak, slow-casting garbage. You'll get, what, maybe a hundred fireballs a week out of a basic wand before you have to swap in a fresh crystal?"

He lifted the crystal-lock like it was something holy.

"With this, I could fire the equivalent of a hundred full-power spells as a single raw mana bolt—and with my recharging ability, I could fire one every few seconds." He paused, frowning. "Well… could, if the mana in the crystal wasn't leaking out."

Anlyth gave him a wary look. "That sounds… rather terrifying."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Nikola grinned. "That's the idea."

She folded her arms. "I overheard something about all the ambient mana down here getting funneled into some kind of concealment array."

Nikola suddenly let out a shrill scream and yanked at his own hair. "I forgot about that! That explains why all the mana I've been shoving into this thing keeps disappearing! Ugh! I've been working on this thing for over an hour! I thought the crystals were just defective!"

He looked up at her, eyes wide with renewed purpose. "I'm heading topside to work on it. You coming?"

Anlyth shrugged. "Sure. I should check on that gooey bitch I'm stuck with now. I bet she's lost."

Offering an unintentional predatory grin, Nikola bent down to grab a small leather pouch. "Might as well try recharging these crystals while we're out," he remarked. "It's surprising how many people leave empty mana crystals lying around. But hey, one person's trash is another's treasure," he chuckled, voice tinged with excitement.

He set a brisk pace, leading the way out of the chamber. Anlyth followed close behind, drawn in by the gnome's infectious, if slightly unhinged, enthusiasm.

As they wound through the corridors, a strange scent tickled at their senses. Something charcoal-like, mingled with the mouthwatering aroma of cooked meat. Curious, they followed it to one of the larger chambers near the exit—where most of the beastkin had gathered.

The sight that greeted them was... unexpected.

Blake had rigged together a makeshift barbecue from broken Slaethian armor and dented shields. A crude grill blazed over a pile of scorched rubble, and thick smoke curled through the air. Despite the haze, no one looked particularly concerned—Nikola doubted the smoke would do any real harm in such a vast space. But the question hung in the air like the grease-laced smoke:

Where had Blake gotten all that meat?

She was hunched over the grill with a gaping hole in her chest, happily humming while tossing chunks of meat and bone over the fire. Every so often, she'd pluck a piece from the grill, pop it into her mouth, and crunch down with eerie contentment. Malnourished beastkin clustered around her, eagerly accepting whatever she offered.

"What are you eating?" Anlyth asked, suspicion thick in her voice.

"Hmm? Oh hey, Anal," Blake chirped, flashing a grin that should've come with a health warning. "Just some finger food."

And then she crunched down on what was very clearly a finger.

"I have teeth," she added, voice bubbling with pride and madness. "Want a rib?"

She held one out, cooked to crispy perfection and disturbingly humanoid in shape.

Nikola took it without hesitation and bit down with a happy groan.

"I can't remember the last time I had real food," he mumbled through a mouthful, eyes fluttering with genuine bliss. "So much better than the moss and bugs we've been choking down."

Blake's Champion knew better—knew what it was—but didn't have the heart, or the stomach, to tell the gnome that wasn't real food. Just let him enjoy it. Ignorance tasted better anyway—and the starved beastkin around them didn't seem to care either. Hunger had a way of rewriting morality.

"Teeth?" Anlyth muttered, brows knitting.

"Threads of Horror! So useful," Blake chirped, as if that explained anything. (It didn't.)

"Threads of Horror! So useful," Blake chirped, as if that explained anything. (It didn't.)

"Just figured it out while cooking," she added, utterly delighted. "I think I'll try making bones out of it next."

She hummed to herself, grinning wide—as if she hadn't just crunched through a finger moments ago like it was a snack-sized tasty morsel.

Anlyth narrowed her eyes at the second rib—still dangling from Blake's outstretched hand, her arm frozen like a statue, grin carved so deep it looked stitched in place. The meat was crisp, charred just enough to look appetizing… if you ignored the fact it had once worn a name. Her gaze flicked to the beastkin around them—gnawing, chewing, hollow-eyed and too starved to ask questions.

"I'm good," Anlyth gagged, taking a half-step back.

Blake shrugged and tossed the rib back onto the fire, then licked the grease from her fingers with a slow, exaggerated slurp. "Hmm? Fine. Shame really. Ms. Robes tasted mighty fine," she said, pointing casually at a blackened lump near the edge of the flames. "But most of it's goblin."

Her tone was disturbingly nonchalant—like she was talking about leftovers.

Silence fell over the chamber like a dropped body bag.

Even the beastkin froze mid-bite, their sensitive ears catching every word.

The only sound was Blake—chewing contentedly as she turned meat over the flames, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a lullaby.

Anlyth's stomach turned. Apparently, eating elves, dwarves, and humyns was fine with the starving beastkin... but goblin? That crossed a line. Or maybe it was just the saying it out loud part that soured their guts. Most of them looked like they'd made the conscious choice not to ask questions. Hunger had a way of making denial palatable.

Nikola stared at the charred meat, his face draining of all color.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Don't get squeamish now," Blake muttered, shoving another piece into her mouth. "Eat or starve—that's the game down here. Choice is for people who aren't dancing with death."

The beastkin glanced at each other... then kept eating. Slower this time. Quieter.

"Oh, Anal," Blake added sweetly, suddenly chipper again. "Cleared out that Slaethian fort or outpost or whatever above ground. Should be clear of patrols now!"

A few beastkin choked.

"But we should move before they send reinforcements. What are they called again? Knights? Grunts? Whatever—those stabby types."

Her eyes sparkled as she spun without pause, voice manic with glee. "Nikola, darling! You're a vision! You build airships, right? Or something? We need one. Well… they need one. I suppose I could just run away."

Nikola said nothing. He was too busy staring in horror at what looked disturbingly like an elf rib cage resting on the coals.

~

Sophia's breath came in short, ragged bursts—part exhaustion, part frustration. Sweat clung to her brow, her fingers twitching as she struggled to harness the magic she knew was there, somewhere just beneath the surface. The teachings from the vampires and dungeon-born had been useless. Their dogma about inner mana and spiritual flow felt like trying to catch fog with a fork.

In contrast, Rob's advice—before he left—had actually helped. Not that she'd admit it out loud. Her lip curled just thinking about it.

"Traitor," she muttered, the word escaping like venom.

He'd just walked away. No warning. No goodbye. No explanation. Abandoned her like she meant nothing. The betrayal gnawed at her. Not because she missed him—she didn't. Not anymore. But because he'd been useful. His tips on external mana manipulation had opened something inside her. A door the others never even acknowledged existed.

So she'd slammed their teachings shut and found her own way. One that didn't kneel to the system's constraints. One that felt right.

Her new title, Dark Acolyte, hadn't come with fireworks or flashy powers—just one perk. But what a perk it was.

Sophia learned faster. Ridiculously faster.

She absorbed new spells with a speed that made seasoned mages blink. And it wasn't their death-puppet necromancy that intrigued her—it was the soulwork. The endless, writhing ocean of potential in every captured soul. That was real power.

A low chuckle slipped from her lips as she remembered summoning her first spectral warrior. It shimmered in sickly green hues, translucent and loyal. She'd stood there, trembling, not with fear—but delight. Thirteen more followed in the days since. Silent. Unseen. Ever-watching.

No one knew.

No one ever saw them.

But they were always there.

Around her now, thirteen ghostly sentinels floated, their forms invisible to the naked eye. To anyone else, she was alone in the cavern.

How wrong they were.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. A little fantasy played in her mind—Jason, cocksure and cruel, brought to his knees. Her specters swarming him, unseen, unstoppable, clawing into his chest as he screamed.

A wicked grin split her face.

"Oh, Blake," she whispered, her voice honey-sweet and bitter at once. "You're going to love what I've become."

~

"This is utter bullshit," Jason muttered under his breath, fury simmering just beneath the surface. "Why am I the one being sent? I'm not some errand boy for that leech—I'm the bloody Champion."

The Priestess of Nightmares, having caught wind of Blake's return and her projected emergence point, had quickly funneled the intel to Aurelia. And, acting discreetly, Aurelia dispatched Jason—the wrong Champion—to track down and retrieve their fellow Earthling.

"I'm the fucking Champion of the Dream Goddess," he spat. "Not Aurelia's damn errand bitch."

Problem was… Jason hated everyone. Especially Blake. Especially Aurelia. And most especially the amphibious freakshow who summoned him into this hellhole of a world.

If not for the Crone—the goddess who held his leash—Jason would've already gone full murder-hobo, grinning like a lunatic as he carved his way through half the continent. But the Crone, ever watchful, ever whispering, kept him tethered. A leash around his mind. A cage over his impulses. And oh, how he resented her for it. All of them. Everything. This world. That vampire.

And Vorigan.

"What's wrong, lover?" came that smooth, teasing voice from behind him.

Jason's eye twitched. Slowly, he turned. The frog-faced freak was grinning again. Always grinning.

"Don't you ever call me that." His voice dropped into a venomous growl. "Do it again, and I'll rip your heart out through your ass—after I'm done skull-fucking you."

Vorigan's eyes lit up with unholy delight. "Yes please! We could do that right now. Right here. In the woods."

Jason's hands balled into fists.

Originally, this mission had been solo. Simple retrieval. In. Out. Done.

But no.

Vorigan had tagged along like a clingy ex with regeneration powers and no concept of personal space. No matter how many times Jason stabbed him, beheaded him, set him on fire, or buried him in holy salt, the vampire just kept coming back—cheerful, horny, and eager for more abuse.

Jason had tortured him. Repeatedly. Creatively.

Vorigan had thanked him for it.

And now, they were on day two of trudging across the wilds toward what remained of the Beastveil Kingdom—Jason muttering curses under his breath while Vorigan hummed love songs and kept calling him "lover."

As if things couldn't get worse, they still had to sneak past the Slaethian army—which was somewhere between them and their destination. Jason didn't know where, didn't care. It was all bullshit.

"Why couldn't we just use an airship?" he grumbled on the second morning, glaring at the walking kink disaster beside him. "Or a damn portal?"

Vorigan grinned wider. "The Slaethians have an air fleet far superior to ours, which is to say... we don't have one. And portals? Last one we opened needed a dungeon core. Those aren't exactly growing on trees, lover."

Jason stopped.

Vorigan blinked.

The word was barely out of his mouth when Jason spun, drew his blade, and lopped the vampire's head clean off.

The frog's body hit the dirt with a wet thud. His severed head rolled to a stop, lips still curled into a smug little smirk.

Jason dropped his trousers.

A few hours later, they trudged toward the beastkin kingdom—Jason muttering curses like prayer beads, each step dragging his patience closer to the edge.

Vorigan bounced beside him, fully healed and grinning like a perverted toad on honeymoon.

That grin hadn't faded since Jason last decapitated him. If anything, the gleam in his bulbous eyes suggested he was hoping for round two.

"I think we're lost," he croaked cheerfully.

Jason snarled, casting a venomous glance back at the frog-faced vampire who refused to die properly or stay anywhere else. "We're not lost," he hissed through clenched, needle-like teeth.

"At this pace, we'll reach Beastveil in a few months," Vorigan croaked, almost gleeful. "Which is fine! More time together."

Jason's stare lingered, sharp and twitching. He noted how the vampire's skin blistered and peeled under the sun—only to heal a moment later. On repeat. It was like traveling with a flesh balloon that liked being popped.

Jason's eye twitched. Maybe Vorigan wanted him to snap again.

Fine.

"Shut the fuck up," Jason growled. "Or I'll rip your arms off this time and shove them up your ass."

Vorigan's eyes sparkled. He bounced in place with alarming enthusiasm. "Yes, please!"

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.