Carol nodded slightly, struggling to understand: "Oh… oh, I see now."
In recent days of her studies, she had learned far more about magic and the Adventurer class system, so she could now follow the terminology Theresa used.
Charles, however, sighed, an apologetic look on his face. "Sorry, Carol, as a priest my ability is limited—for now, there are only two domains available for you to choose."
"The first is the Life Domain, focused on the treatment of the wounded; the second is the Storm Domain Pastor, wielding the power to control lightning and thunder."
Carol reflexively wanted to say Life Domain, but glancing at the complicated expression on Theresa's face, she swallowed the words: "What does eldest sister hope I'll choose?"
Theresa sighed. "Of course, I want to respect your individual will. But the demons are spreading evil—their rampage has even destroyed our own home."
"Right now, we need great strength to wipe out these filthy scourges. The monastery needs more Storm Domain pastors."
Carol's expression became solemn at once. "I understand!"
With that, she turned to Charles. "Priest, I choose the Storm Domain pastor!"
Charles sighed, knowing this was not truly her heart's desire. "It's all right. There will be opportunities to change classes in the future."
"Well then, come with me. After undergoing the baptism of lightning and thunder, you will become a Storm Domain pastor!"
...
Deep in the mountain highlands, in a village of the Mountain People.
Recently, a minor snowfall had left the ground still coated in white, reflecting the sun's rays.
In such a season, things ought to be beautiful—but right now, the village had been transformed into an earthly hell.
Demons were rampaging here, killing and devouring.
Walls of fire roared over wooden houses, straw, and stacks of firewood. Thick smoke billowed to the sky, heat mixing with the scent of burning grass and timber.
The helpless villagers screamed as they fled. Terrified children sobbed in their parents' arms, but every path was blocked by terrifying demons—there was nowhere to escape.
Mountain People, men and women alike, bravely lifted pitchforks, spears, and every sort of weapon, charging at the demons—yet they could barely hold the lines at all.
After all, ordinary weapons could hardly pierce even the hide of the weakest dretch!
But a demon's claws could easily tear open animal hide armor, rip through chest and flesh, and let hot, crimson blood dye the pure snow red.
The Mountain People gritted their teeth and fought, praying silently that their families might escape. They would gladly give their lives to save them.
But soon, the ground beneath their feet began to tremble terribly, as if a thousand cavalry thundered through the mountains.
The remaining defenders looked up, only to see a sight that snuffed out every last hope in their hearts—leaving only deepest despair.
It was a monster, its upper body that of a fiend, its lower body like a massive hippopotamus. In its grip was a horrific weapon—a twin-bladed polearm over six meters long—charging straight toward them.
There was no doubt: this was the mastermind behind the massacre, Abyssal Lord Montport!
And in his hands was his most prized weapon, forged from infernal cold iron, that monstrous twin-bladed polearm.
The shaft alone was over two meters long, like a lance—the ends were capped by huge sword hilts, each nearly two meters wide.
The front half of each hilt was a keen blade, while the rear half was fashioned with cruel serrations.
Grooves were carved down the midline of each blade to drain blood as it stabbed through the foe, ensuring the weapon drank deeply of hot, fresh crimson.
Montport brandished this hellish weapon, charging headlong. The villagers, knowing they could not withstand him, rushed aside. The terrible polearm swept out, instantly cutting through bodies, ending countless lives.
Whether clad in animal hides or chainmail, a Mountain Person's armor was cleaved in half—or into a puddle of minced flesh—by that infernal blade.
And all their spilled blood was absorbed by the sword, collecting in the channel at its center, glimmering with a baleful red radiance that only made the weapon more powerful and evil.
"Hahahaha—hahahaha—!"
He swallowed the souls of the slain, feeling himself and his weapon growing ever stronger. Montport's throat boomed with wild laughter.
His massive, hoofed limbs thundered onward as he crashed through the shattered village, smashing buildings and mercilessly cutting down every villager in sight with his weight and weapon.
None could stand against him.
This was a feast of slaughter. In truth, his killing spree had lasted for many days; none could say now which destroyed village or victim this was, only that it would not be the last.
In all this time, he had faced virtually no real resistance, not met a true foe. The thousand-mile plateau seemed to be his private field of souls: a weak, unguarded world, ripe for harvest by a demon lord.
And that was little wonder. Previously, with the succubus Ines providing intelligence, this cunning demon lord had ordered the Chthonians to raid the headquarters of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers, inflicting countless casualties.
Even though most of his Chthonian minions died in the process, that mattered little: his strategic goal had already been achieved.
For the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers—formed of five major tribes and dozens of small clans—was the strongest armed force in these mountains.
With their headquarters destroyed, the Alliance's command was paralyzed. The Mountain People had lost their leaders; among these wild heights, no force remained to resist him.
After that, he awakened Shudde M'ell and sent it to attack Liberl Port, ensuring that even those few in the city who could defeat or banish him would have no time left for anything else.
And so, across these vast plateau mountains—nearly a million square kilometers—and even in Liberl Port, the city of world talents, no one was able to send even a single force to eliminate him. He reigned unchallenged.
This day, the doom of this village was certain. With it, every name, history, and vestige of its lineage—its fleeting glory, its memory—would be cast from the world forever.
When every last villager was dead, Montport ordered his cultists to gather the corpses into a heap and build a towering mass grave.
They would use these bodies as offerings, to open a passage to the Infinite Layers of the Abyss, unleashing yet more demons upon the material world and strengthening their infernal legions.
The cultists, robed in black, began their rites. They circled the mound, chanting foul blasphemies until the corpses burned with eerie green flames that gathered in the sky, striving to open a gaping portal to the abyss.
Montport himself watched the process with little interest, his gaze falling on his twin-bladed sword, brow furrowed in thought.
Ordinary blood, it had devoured its fill…
Now, he would need something special to let it evolve further…
His eyes flickered as his mind raced wildly. His ambitions were vast. Though now only a minor demon lord, he had grand dreams: he longed to forge his weapon into a true artifact of evil, and with it, to rise in power until he could rival even the likes of Orcus—one of the demon lords of legend.
Perhaps, one day, he might even challenge the gods.
That was his hope. Yet to forge an artifact was terribly difficult; all these murders were only the first step.
Deep in thought and plans for what would come next, suddenly a scream from a demon behind him snapped him out of his plotting.
The massive Abyssal Lord turned slowly to see six apparently ordinary adventurers striding towards him.
Along the way, not a single fiend—no matter how mighty, from dretches to mighty hezrou—could slow them in the slightest. They passed through the horde as if through an empty field.
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