The sky was shrouded in darkness, devoid of sunlight.
It wasn't night—according to the clock, it was just past three in the afternoon, typically the hottest time of the day.
The sky's somber gray came from the dense clouds that blanketed it entirely, steadily sinking lower with the passing hours. The oppressive weight of the storm clouds hinted at an impending tempest.
Inside a grand hall, a group of people knelt on the floor, their faces pale with fear.
Judging by the scattered documents and chairs in disarray, it seemed these people had been holding a meeting before this sudden change reduced them to their current state.
This was the headquarters of a large magic association, and those present were undoubtedly its highest-ranking members—prominent figures even in the broader magical community.
Yet before the figure standing at the doorway, they appeared pitifully small and insignificant.
The figure was a man clad in armor, with an unkempt stubble covering his chin.
But anyone with eyes could see—this man was already dead.
His once powerful physique, honed through countless battles, was now emaciated, reduced to skin and bone. Thick, almost tangible deathly energy coiled around his form.
This was no ordinary man. This was an undead.
And not just any undead—he was of Great Knight caliber.
In this world, unless one became a Campione by slaying a god, the rank of Great Knight was the pinnacle of human potential.
Several of those kneeling in the room were themselves Great Knights.
If it were merely an undead of such rank, it would not have reduced them to this state of terror.
What truly terrified them was the master of this undead.
The most ancient and fearsome Campione.
In the stifling atmosphere, no one dared to breathe.
Even as suffocation set in, their minds clouded by oxygen deprivation, none dared to move or speak first.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the undead opened its mouth.
"How is the task I entrusted to you progressing?"
Its voice was grating, like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Yet it wasn't the sound that unnerved them—it was the content of the question.
"W-we're still investigating the identities of the two gods who fought in that mythic battle..."
"Not that."
The speaker's heart skipped a beat at the sudden interruption, a sharp pang of fear shooting through his chest. For a brief moment, he thought he would be killed.
"I asked about your progress in gathering gifted priestesses to summon a heretic god."
"!!!"
The leader of the group was inwardly shocked.
Why has he suddenly lost interest in those heretic gods? And why does he want to summon another one?
These questions swirled in his mind, but he dared not voice them aloud. To answer a question with another question was unthinkable. He could only respond directly to what was asked.
"Because we diverted some resources to investigate the two gods that appeared, we haven't gathered enough priestesses yet..."
Lowering his head even further, he stammered on.
Receiving no immediate response, the leader felt a chill run through his body. It was as if a feral wolf loomed over him, jaws agape, ready to rip his throat out at any moment.
"But we've identified the candidates! Soon, we'll bring them to you!"
The hall fell silent once more.
Each passing second deepened their fear.
They knew that to anger this Campione would be a fate far worse than death.
The most terrifying outcome wasn't simply being killed—it was becoming like the undead before them, trapped in eternal servitude, their souls bound and tormented for eternity.
The silence was finally broken by the undead.
"Very well. I look forward to hearing good news."
A chilling fog of purple-black death energy rose from beneath the undead's feet, enveloping it entirely.
When the fog dissipated, the undead was gone.
Sunlight began to pierce through the oppressive clouds outside, and the suffocating atmosphere lightened slightly.
Those kneeling on the ground exhaled in relief, grateful simply to have survived.
But there was no time to celebrate. They immediately scrambled to carry out the order, preparing to scour the world for priestesses who met the requirements.
The chosen priestesses would likely face a grim fate—most of them would die in the summoning process. If even a quarter survived, it would be considered fortunate.
Though these talented priestesses were highly valued by various organizations and nations, the request came from the most ruthless Campione of all. Refusing him was not an option.
---
Amid a dense thicket, an elderly man sat calmly on the ground.
He wore a well-tailored suit beneath a long coat, complete with white gloves—a picture of gentlemanly elegance. Yet his piercing gaze, filled with wild ferocity, starkly contrasted his refined attire. His white hair was slicked back, completing the image of a hunter.
Beside him lay a massive gray wolf, larger than a horse, its head resting on its paws. The man gently stroked the beast's fur with one gloved hand.
This was the most ancient and malevolent of the Campiones—Sasha Dejansdal Voban, the Marquis of Voban.
For nearly three centuries, Voban had hunted and slain gods, amassing a double-digit kill count. No one knew exactly how many authorities he had acquired.
Even the Witenagemot, which specialized in gathering intelligence on Campiones, knew little about him.
After delivering his orders to the subordinate magic association through his undead servant, Voban let out a derisive laugh.
"Investigating the identities of the two gods from the last battle? Hmph. These fools don't even realize those two are already dead. And it wasn't just two heretic gods at that battlefield—there was a third."
"Dead gods hold no value for me. Their pitiful authorities don't interest me."
"But that third god... now, that's a hunt worth pursuing."
A sinister gleam shone in his pale green eyes, his grin predatory, like a wolf locking onto its prey.
The massive wolf beside him growled low, sensing its master's excitement.
"Hahaha! You're eager too, aren't you? Eager to sink your teeth into divine blood? I feel the same. In these three centuries, only battle and the thrill of the hunt make me feel alive."
Voban's thoughts drifted to a certain Progenitor he had recently encountered.
That one had been crafty, escaping from Voban's grasp.
It was from this Progenitor that Voban learned of the third heretic god.
Scoffing, he muttered to himself, "You want to use me to find this 'king' of yours?"
"If you think you can manipulate me, I hope you're ready to be devoured, bones and all."
---
...
Huh. You really stuck it out all the way to the end.
Didn't think you had the patience. Guess I was wrong.
WiseTL's the one who actually made all this come together. I'm just here putting a bow on it… or, well, shoving it in a backpack and calling it a day. Same thing.
If you had fun, you know what to do:
👉 [patreon.com/WiseTL]
Heads up—Patreon's 50% off for all tiers during May. So if you were on the fence? Now's the time.
And if you're the social type, there's a Discord too. Pretty decent spot to hang out—no battles required.
👉 [discord.gg/wisetl]
Alright. That's enough standing around. Go on—before you make it weird.
—Leaf