165. King of the Snakes (1)
*
– We’ve arrived.
‘We’ve gained half a day.’
In the distance, the port with its flickering lighthouse lights came into view. In the early dawn, Fernandez, half-asleep, reflexively woke the warriors who were rowing.
The nearly exhausted warriors couldn’t hide their admiration as they looked at Fernandez. They had traveled from Hazart Palan to Hazart Kazal, a two-day journey, in less than a day and a half.
“My goodness, I’ve never sailed at such speed before. Are all southerners like this?”
“Stop the nonsense and focus. We’ve infiltrated enemy territory with just one ship.”
As Fernandez spoke coldly, tension began to fill the warriors’ eyes. Hazart Kazal was one of the strongest clans in the north. Originally a modest territory, it had rapidly grown during the era of Erik the Wild, devouring surrounding tribes.
Now, the only hostile tribe left near Kazal was the Palendar clan. Realizing they were the last move of that clan, the warriors, with aching arms, looked at Fernandez with fiery eyes.
“Well, anyway. No one can live forever.”
A warrior with a large scar over one eye chuckled. His fierce laughter spread among the group, and the warriors quietly snickered. They slowly prepared themselves, lifting their shields and axes.
“So, Mr. Savior, how do you plan to get us to that port?”
“With magic.”
At Fernandez’s words, the warriors momentarily looked dumbfounded. The warrior who could slice through demons in seconds was a mage? Ignoring their expressions, Fernandez stood firmly on the deck, raising both arms.
– Whoosh…
The flow of the wind felt tangible. With closed eyes, Fernandez raised his hands like a conductor of an orchestra. His index and ring fingers folded, his wrist turned slowly, and with a gesture…
– Swoosh…
The knot of magical energy formed and simultaneously unraveled into dozens of runic characters. Though no visible change occurred, Fernandez’s senses captured beyond sight, delicately and repeatedly adjusting them.
– Rustle…
With a gesture like pulling back a curtain, he disrupted the flickering magical energy. The circuits of the Bronze Throne activated, breathing in the flow, then exhaling, weaving the spell.
At this moment, his hand’s gesture, the angle of his wrist, the speed and direction of his arm’s movement—all encompassed a three-dimensional space, making the gesture itself the magic.
– Swoosh…
Each strand of the spell was flawless. Finally, as the third gesture was completed, a dense fog began to disperse around Fernandez.
“Oh, oh…”
The warriors looked at Fernandez in awe, as if gazing at some incomprehensible monster. The sticky fog that obscured even the presence of their comrades enveloped the entire port, rising as if the sea itself was sighing.
– The fog of Srylart… This should be fun.
Faijashi whispered in a nostalgic voice. Fernandez, with closed eyes, quietly said,
“Move forward.”
“But we can’t see anything?”
“You don’t need to see. I can see.”
Fernandez’s other hand rested on his forehead, palm outward, spreading wide. Within it, an eye glowing purple was drawn.
‘The vision of truth. How long can I hold it at the Bronze Throne’s level?’
– Three hours.
‘That’s enough.’
If the operation wasn’t successful within three hours, it would be a failure anyway. Fernandez chuckled. When had he ever not been in a hurry?
No, never. Through his past life and now this one, he had always been running from monsters. There was never a time when he wasn’t in a hurry. With the end chasing him.
So, move forward. Forward, forward… Fernandez laughed within the strange rhythm created by the oars cutting through the fog and the warriors’ muscles flexing.
*
“It’s magic.”
Orion lifted his head, holding a silver dagger. From the moment the sticky magical energy covered the port, he instinctively knew his opponent was a superior mage.
Blood dripped from the tip of the dagger. He gestured to the man standing beside him, who bowed respectfully.
The man silently stepped aside and soon brought a young man tied with ropes. Covered in strange tattoos and with his hair shorn, the young man, gagged, panted in fear.
His scalp was scarred from the rough cuts. Orion slowly placed the dagger on his scalp. The young man tightly closed his eyes and sobbed at the cold sensation.
“Are you afraid?”
“Ugh… Ugh… Gasp…”
“Do not be afraid. I do not intend to harm you, only to lead you to a great paradise.”
At Orion’s words, the men in the room all made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads. The young man, panting, looked up at Orion with eyes half-filled with hope and terror.
“This material world will soon meet its end. It is my role, as the prophet Orion, to lead those here. You, young beast among us, just follow.”
“Ugh… Gasp…”
“There, there. You must be scared.”
Hope began to mix into the young man’s eyes as the soft words slowly seeped in. Maybe this crazy guy wouldn’t kill him after all. And the moment that thought crossed his mind, a spark flew in the young man’s eyes.
This bastard had killed all his family and friends. If he got out of here, he swore on Botan’s beard, he would—
-Slice.
Before that thought could even finish, the hand that had been caressing the young man’s cheek moved like lightning, and the blade plunged into his throat. Gurgling, the young man barely recognized death before it enveloped him.
-Splatter.
Blood scattered across the floor. The crimson liquid flowed along the engraved patterns, emitting a red glow. Orion quickly made a gesture and slashed the dagger through the air a few times. Seeing this, the men in the room followed suit.
-Whoosh…
A hot, sticky wind circulated through the room. Corpses, blood, and countless vessels filled with blood. Among them, a glowing pentagram.
The wide room, every wooden pillar densely carved with rune glyphs drawn in blood and oil, the patterns branching out like tree limbs toward the center of the room.
Orion soon nodded again. The next sacrifice was dragged in, gasping for breath.
“You, my loyal servant. Drive out the outsider.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Buy me time. The ritual will soon be over. I grant you five snakes.”
Orion spoke as he placed his hand on the arm of the man beside him. Sizzle, the sound of flesh burning, and smoke rose. When Orion removed his hand, a black rune glyph was etched beneath.
The man, whose expression hadn’t changed throughout, bowed and stepped back. Orion then approached the next sacrifice.
“Are you afraid?”
The next sacrifice, a young woman, screamed as tears streamed down her face.
*
The smell of death and hell filled the air. This was Fernandez’s first impression as he set foot in the port. Welcome. Fernandez shook his head, feeling the roars of lions mixed in the air.
A rough but powerful spell was flowing. The despair and fear of the dead overlapped, reaching a critical point, becoming a kind of magic itself. This region was exactly like that.
And the moment he felt it, Fernandez sensed that this operation had gone awry. Hazart Kazal was neither the capital of the Kazaldar Tribe nor Erik’s stronghold.
This city was merely a factory. Erik, waging endless battles outside, would send captured slaves here, where demons were literally ‘manufactured.’
Thus, this place couldn’t be the tribe’s capital. No sane leader would open a gateway to hell in their own capital. At least, if they had any sense of leadership.
“Truly sad, isn’t it, friend?”
Fernandez didn’t bother to turn his head. Thanks to his vision of truth, he could see Loft, who had appeared like the wind, sitting on the wall beside him.
“Look at this smell, this death. Meaningless, worthless, merciless. No, no. Death doesn’t need to be noble… but it shouldn’t be consumed so vulgarly.”
Loft’s glowing blue eyes flickered as he gazed into the void, waving his hand. Following his gesture, remnants of souls swirled in the air.
“Fools. They’ve forgotten why my brothers and I gathered warriors, why we prepared for war…”
-Swish.
Loft stabbed his bony finger into the air and shook it. Soon, a spirit screaming in pain gathered in his palm.
“Abandoned by the gods they believed in. Drifting alone without a father. Look at these… pitiful things. Friend.”
-Crackle.
As Loft clenched his fist, the spirit quieted. Due to the bodies and souls sacrificed to demons, the spirit was but an unstable fragment. A broken clockwork of a soul, endlessly repeating the pain and fear of its death.
When Loft opened his hand, there was a small, glimmering gem. Rolling the tear-like gem between his bones, he soon swallowed it.
“Rest in peace, fragment. Death has swallowed your sorrow.”
“Where is Sadarkelisa?”
“Move forward, friend. You’re heading in the right direction.”
Loft chuckled, his spiky hair swaying in the wind. At that moment, Fernandez’s head jerked sharply. A spear flew past where his head had been, embedding itself into the wall.
Seeing this, Loft exclaimed, “Oh!”
“You could have died. Aren’t I your friend?”
“No.”
“That’s disappointing. Haha.”
Ignoring Loft’s cackling on the wall, Fernandez looked in the direction the spear had come from. Beyond his vision of truth, a massive figure approached. Four-legged demons, wielding spears, axes, and greatswords, were closing in.
Fernandez gripped his sword hilt and took a stance. Loft muttered as he watched the demons approach.
“Botan, you fool… You were the one who raised the Einherjar to stop them…”
Soon, Loft clapped his hands. He shook his head and jumped down from the wall. His body began to fade slowly.
“Where are you going?”
“Loft means ‘wind’ in our language, friend. And wind and death are everywhere…”
So, move forward. If you fall, I’ll catch you. Loft disappeared like dissipating fog. Fernandez clicked his tongue and drew his sword.
The warriors lined up behind him stared blankly at Fernandez, who was muttering to himself. They couldn’t see Loft. Seeing their dumbfounded expressions, Fernandez smirked and said,
“All units, prepare for battle.”
“Prepare for battle!!”
As the warriors shouted, the demons in the distance began to pick up speed. Move forward? That was the plan anyway. Fernandez thought as he drew his sword. Honestly, among the gods, he had yet to meet one who was truly helpful.
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