Date: 22nd of Upper Earth Month, Autumn
Location: Skies above the Argland Council State
Night blanketed the land like a dark velvet shroud, its silence broken only by the crisp whistle of mountain winds. Stars glimmered in the high heavens as Lyle flew deeper into the treacherous Argland mountain range. As he neared the range's northernmost interior, the temperature dropped sharply, the air thinning until each breath felt like frost scraping against his lungs.
He wore a black traveling cloak now, having long shed the white robes of a priest. Slung over one shoulder like an inconvenient parcel was the limp, unconscious body of Quaiesse.
Ahead, a deep red glow bled through the ridgelines, painting the horizon in ominous firelight.
Seven days had passed since the death of the Grey Robe. Three days since Lyle entered this hostile land. His mana had fully replenished, and even the once-depleted [Orb of Death] throbbed faintly with renewed magical essence.
The decision to deal with Quaiesse here, at the heart of these mountain depths was no accident. If the Theocracy had some means of tracking him, let them try doing so in a place where terrain and monsters were equally lethal. The wetlands might have been easier, but there were fewer places to hide a resurrection-blocking execution.
Besides, if this place confused the enemy's detection, that was just a bonus.
"Seven days..." Lyle muttered to the cold wind. "Wonder if they've started to panic."
A sharp screech tore through the air.
A dark blur dove from the night sky, talons gleaming, wings spread wide. A harpy, roughly human-sized, but with clawed feet and feathered wings, streaked toward him like a feathery missile.
Lyle didn't bother dodging.
With a flash of cold steel, a runed greatsword materialized in his hand. In one fluid motion, he swung upward.
Schlunk!
The harpy cleaved in two, dead before its brain registered the attack. Its halves spiraled into the darkness below.
[EXP +1211]
[EXP: 82907 / 120000]
No magical energy, no noise beyond the brief whine of wind. A silent kill, perfect for keeping a low profile.
Magic was best reserved for important matters. Here in the Argland peaks, where Frost Dragons, Frost Giants, Dwarves, and the absurdly durable Digger Beastmen held territory, announcing oneself with flashy spells was practically a death wish.
If he hadn't been able to fly, traversing this range on foot would've taken weeks, assuming he survived the locals. Even the supposedly 'tinkering' Dwarves were no joke. A single fully armed Dwarven unit could trample most human battalions. As for the Beastmen? The king of their underground kind was a level 38 aberration with skin thick enough to laugh at siege weaponry.
If the Theocracy dared send anyone short of the Black Scripture into these mountains, they'd be lucky to retrieve bones.
"There it is," Lyle murmured, eyes narrowing. Below, illuminated by moonlight, a vast chasm tore through the mountains like a scar. "The Great Rift."
He passed over it swiftly, noting its proximity to the eastern dwarven strongholds. Their mastery of Runesmithing was something he planned to investigate later, after the Quaiesse problem was settled.
A sudden wave of heat slammed into him.
The frigid night air gave way to scorching turbulence as he neared his destination, the volcanic zone buried deep within the otherwise frozen Argland range. A crimson light bathed the land below, where rivers of lava coiled between jagged obsidian ridges like glowing serpents. The transition was jarring, like flying from tundra into an oven.
Violent crosswinds buffeted him as the hot and cold air masses collided. Even his magically assisted flight wobbled under the turbulence.
Grimacing, he dove sharply and landed on the less molten edge of the zone.
Hsssssss…
His boots sizzled against the rock. Immediately, sweat pooled on his brow. The heat wasn't just physical, it was saturated with thick, ambient mana.
"Lovely vacation spot," Lyle muttered, stepping back from a particularly glowing rock. He glanced around. No monsters in sight. Good. Only creatures immune to extreme temperatures could survive here. That meant no nosy wildlife.
And definitely no spies.
"This'll do."
He tossed Quaiesse's limp body onto the scorched earth like a sack of spoiled potatoes. The heat woke the man with a startled yelp.
"We can talk about this!" Quaiesse blurted, red eyes wide in panic. "The Theocracy is willing to negotiate—"
"All-Race Charm."
Lyle's eyes flared with violet light.
Quaiesse went rigid. The magic took hold instantly, snuffing the resistance from his mind.
"Explain the ability of Astrologer. Everything. Now," Lyle said, his voice flat.
Quaiesse's mouth moved, words falling out like a puppet's: "Astrologer… specializes in detection magic… innate talent magnifies all scouting spells beyond their tier…"
But his expression began to twitch. Sweat beaded on his temples. This was his third forced confession, mental safeguards must be pushing back hard.
Lyle listened intently. Astrologer was worse than he thought. Even a basic divination spell became a high-tier bloodhound in their hands.
Quaiesse's voice broke into a scream.
SPAT!
Blood erupted from his mouth. He collapsed like a rag doll, dead before he hit the rock.
[EXP +13512]
[EXP: 96419 / 120000]
"Huh. Less XP than the Grey Robe," Lyle noted, inspecting the corpse. "Guess babysitting beasts doesn't pay as well as throwing fireballs."
He wiped a bit of blood off his glove.
"Well, time to see what's left of you."
"Raise Dead!" Mana swirled from his palm as he began casting.
Meanwhile – Slane Theocracy, Earth Temple
The Earth Temple's grandeur was solemn and imposing. Polished marble floors reflected flickering torchlight. Sacred murals loomed from the walls, carved in deep relief, depicting the Six Great Gods annihilating waves of demihumans.
All tones were muted brown, representing Earth's god.
At the altar, the High Priest of Earth knelt in prayer, his aged face serene beneath a hood of coarse brown wool.
BOOM.
A gust of displaced air exploded behind him.
A young man appeared in a blur, dressed in minimalist enchanted armor, black hair swept back, eyes intense.
"Quaiesse is dead," he said flatly.
The High Priest didn't flinch. His spine stiffened, but he rose calmly, like a mountain rising from mist. Turning slowly, he faced the newcomer and inclined his head in a respectful bow.
"Patience is a virtue, Captain," he intoned. "Your role requires composure. And your presence here... breaks protocol."
The Captain of the Black Scripture barely held back his frustration.
"You gave me autonomy for resurrections. I've tried. It failed. Quaiesse can't be brought back. Someone on the other side is also using resurrection magic—and they're blocking mine."
For the first time in decades, the High Priest's face betrayed genuine shock. His gaze sharpened, his gentle aura dissolving into a cold, calculating presence.
"This is no longer just a missing operative," he muttered. "You are to remain here. Do nothing. I will summon the other High Priests. And notify Astrologer immediately."
Without waiting for a reply, the priest turned and swept from the sanctum, his heavy robes whispering over the stone floor.