One bottle of regeneration potion after another poured down Quaiesse's throat. The massive wound in his chest began to show signs of healing, but the injury was simply too severe.
Relying solely on the potion's sluggish healing effect, Quaiesse would likely expire long before recovery.
Lyle had no choice. He cast Greater Healing. The combined efforts of magic and potion forcibly stabilized the dying man's fading life force.
Quaiesse, whose consciousness had been blurred by the approach of death, was violently jerked back to clarity by the excruciating pain.
Am I… alive? The thought flickered through his mind.
Quaiesse lifted heavy eyelids, revealing deep crimson eyes. But the figure looming over him wasn't a familiar ally. It was Lyle. The sight of his nemesis filled him with shock and fury. His already pale face drained further of color, turning ashen.
"Ss—!" Quaiesse tried to speak, but a torrent of blood gushed from his mouth, choking his words.
Thwack!
Lyle's foot snapped up, connecting sharply with Quaiesse's neck. The impact knocked him unconscious instantly. Lyle wasn't about to give his dangerous captive a chance for clever words or last-ditch tricks. He knelt, efficiently patting down Quaiesse's limp form.
Seven remaining magic rings were stripped from fingers. A well-crafted magic pouch followed. Finally, a necklace humming with enchantment was unclasped. He didn't bother appraising them yet, simply dumping the haul unceremoniously into his Item Box.
'Alright,' Lyle mentally assessed, hefting Quaiesse's unconscious body out of the crater. Current analysis suggests Quaiesse couldn't actively contact the Slane Theocracy, nor was he carrying any relics of the Six Great Gods. The two biggest immediate worries seemed unfounded.
He recalled the Message spell from YGGDRASIL. In most games, it was just basic player chat. But in the brutal reality of that world, and now here, it was a vital tool for coordination in hostile environments.
Nazarick's Floor Guardians used Message scrolls constantly. While cheap, if Nazarick stockpiled them, it stood to reason the Theocracy, inheritors of the Six Gods' legacy, might possess similar communication tools.
The problem was information scarcity. Anime and light novels offered frustratingly little detail.
Lyle couldn't rule out other, unknown contact methods. That's why he'd deliberately held back against Quaiesse, only showing power within the realm of a Hero. He needed to prepare for the worst-case scenario: his true capabilities being exposed to the Theocracy.
Quaiesse's desperate choice – choosing death – was actually reassuring. It confirmed Quaiesse lacked an immediate way to call for help. His suicide attempt was a grim, final warning signal.
Lyle shot back through the canopy, Quaiesse's limp form dangling from his grip. He landed near the original battle site.
The Grey Robed mage remained blissfully unconscious, guarded by one of the Principality Angels. The twin witch sisters, who'd tried to flee during the chaos, hadn't gotten far. Another Angel had rounded them up. They now huddled together at the base of a massive tree, trembling like leaves in a storm.
Lyle's gaze settled on the pair of demi-human witches. An eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. He strode towards them.
The Leaf Witch flinched violently, pulling her sister, the Mist Witch, close and burying the weaker girl's face protectively against her own chest. Her eyes were wide pools of terror, confusion, and utter despair.
The Grey Robed mage had been an insurmountable monster in their eyes. The man who arrived later, Quaiesse, radiated equal menace. Yet both had fallen to this… this seemingly unassuming human youth.
Humans were supposed to be weak!
A flicker of utter bewilderment crossed the Leaf Witch's face. Why were the humans they encountered so terrifyingly powerful?
Lyle stopped directly before them. "Do you two have any idea," he asked, his voice dangerously calm, "how much trouble you've just dumped on my doorstep?"
Both witches flinched as if struck. The Grey Robed mage and Quaiesse – keeping them alive was risky, killing them was potentially messy. The uncertainty surrounding their affiliations and capabilities was a headache.
Still… their high-value status meant they were potentially goldmines of critical intelligence. High risk, potentially high reward.
"Question and answer time," Lyle stated flatly. "Understand?"
Hearing it was just questions, not immediate execution, the twins nodded frantically.
"What species are you?"
"We… we don't know," the Leaf Witch whispered, her voice trembling. "We're the only two of our kind in the entire Great Wetlands."
Lyle felt a pang of disappointment. Given their current state of abject terror, he doubted they were lying about this. "Explain everything. From the beginning."
The story spilled out under Lyle's cold scrutiny, the twins desperate to cooperate.
The Grey Robed mage had arrived in the Great Wetlands years ago. He'd quickly found and subjugated them. Using the magical cauldron stolen from the Lizardman tribe, he'd forced the twins to assist in his arcane research on the eggs of the Frogmen.
Progress had been agonizingly slow. Only recently had his experiments borne fruit. The twins realized with chilling clarity that once his research was truly complete, their usefulness would end. Permanently.
It was then, through their loyal Burrow Lizard scouts, that they learned of Lyle – the human who'd single-handedly challenged an entire Lizardman tribe and emerged victorious.
They saw their chance. Luring Lyle deep into the wetlands was a desperate gambit, a hope he could distract or defeat the Grey Robed mage long enough for them to escape. Quaiesse's appearance? Utterly unforeseen chaos.
As the Leaf Witch finished, Lyle processed the information. He gestured towards one of the Principality Angels guarding the Grey Robed mage. The celestial being moved instantly, hoisting the unconscious mage and bringing him before Lyle. With efficient movements, the angel reached into the mage's robes and retrieved an object – a semi-transparent, glassy sphere about the size of a large marble. It resembled an egg.
The Angel offered it to Lyle.
"So," Lyle murmured, taking the peculiar object. "This is what consumed years of effort?" He rolled it between his fingers. Smooth, slightly yielding, yet resilient.
The Grey Robed mage had clearly intended this as bait for Quaiesse. The fact that a member of the Black Scripture would pursue it spoke volumes about its potential value.
"[Appraise Item]."
A stream of information flooded Lyle's consciousness:
[Item: Artificial Monster: Frogman Egg] (Defective)
Rank: Lowest Tier (Levels 1–10)
Limitation: Can only be controlled by its creator.
Effect: Infuse mana to activate the egg. It will rapidly mature into an adult Frogman. Level varies randomly between 5 and 10. Due to forced maturation, the resulting entity possesses no intelligence.
Lifespan: 1 hour post-activation. After this period, it dissolves into inert sludge.
Description: An artificially created monster spawn.
---
Lyle drew in a sharp, quiet breath. His gaze snapped towards the unconscious Grey Robed mage, a new level of wary respect dawning.
Artificial Monsters? He actually created this?
Levels 5 to 10. In human kingdoms, that represented hardened, veteran soldiers. And this single, palm-sized egg could potentially replace one. No wonder Quaiesse was interested!
A rare flicker of profound seriousness crossed Lyle's face. He recalled basic biology: a single frog could lay thousands of eggs.
Even if Frogmen were less prolific, reducing that number tenfold… if those eggs could be mass-produced into these artificial soldiers? An army of magically conjured, mid-tier warriors could be raised almost overnight. Mindless. Fearless. Utterly obedient. The strategic implications were staggering.
The sheer, terrifying potential sent a jolt through him. Then, practicality reasserted itself. This never showed up in the original timeline. Why? The answer was obvious: the process was likely fiendishly difficult, fraught with failure, and utterly unsustainable for mass production. Probably took years and rare resources just for this single defective prototype.
But the knowledge… the technique…
Lyle turned fully towards the Grey Robed mage, still held upright by the impassive Serene Archangel. Without ceremony, Lyle drove his fist hard into the mage's solar plexus.
"GAAACK!" The mage convulsed, eyes snapping open as agony ripped him from unconsciousness. He retched, gasping for air. The violent sound made the huddled witches flinch again.
No time for resistance. Lyle's will lashed out.
"All Race Charm."
Invisible tendrils of psychic energy, potent and invasive, surged into the mage's vulnerable mind. His pained cries cut off abruptly. His eyes glazed over, pupils dilating, his body going slack in the angel's grasp.
Against a prepared, conscious opponent, such magic might fail. But broken, disoriented, and in agony? He had no defense.
"Identify yourself," Lyle commanded, his voice devoid of warmth.
"I am a member of Zurrernorn," the mage droned, his voice flat and emotionless.
Lyle couldn't suppress a dry, humorless chuckle. "Zurrernorn. Figures. Seems I have a recurring appointment with your lot's brand of madness." He pressed on. "What species are these twin witches?"
He sensed the mage hadn't found them by accident.
"According to intelligence gathered," the mage intoned, "the twin witches possess a connection to the Demon God who descended two centuries ago. The probability is high that they are residual offspring… bastard progeny of the Demon God."