The atmosphere in the cavern turned tense. Torun held his breath, a surge of mortal terror rushing over him—he suddenly sensed just how dire his situation had become.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Back then, we were manipulated by Ines, blinded by hatred, and made reckless decisions… I beg your forgiveness. I'll spend the rest of my life atoning..."
Charles looked at him gently. "I'm sure, with the breadth of Bruno's heart, he would forgive you."
"As for me—it's my job to send you to meet him."
With that, he slowly extended his left hand, placing it on Torun's body. In a flash, a ghastly pale female specter with wild hair appeared—Agatha the Ghost, jaws open wide, clamped down on Torun's wound.
What little vitality he had left began to drain away in a frenzy. Torun's eyes bulged as he stared at Charles, roaring in fury:
"No—you can't do this! Charles, you're an envoy of Justice! You can't let rage and vengeance cloud your mind!"
Charles gazed at him softly. "I'm not blinded by anything, dear Torun, my brother. I won't take it out on the rest of your kin—I'm only killing you."
"But without me holding things together, my tribe will fall apart!" Torun shouted in desperation, "My brothers—those shortsighted fools—will tear each other apart over the chief's seat and ruin the crusade against the demons!"
Charles gave a gentle chuckle. "No shortsightedness could ever top the stupidity of destroying Rockseeker's Outpost, right?"
"As for your tribe's infighting... Well, after you die, our grudge is over. We'll be done. That's it."
Torun wanted to protest further, but Charles's right hand covered his eyes. "Rest now, Torun. You fell in battle against the Abyssal Lord Montport—died a hero as you tried to slay evil and protect your people."
"Your clan will remember your deeds, sing your name in their ballads, enshrine your spirit. You'll become a hero in the history of your tribe."
"...If it even survives much longer."
In the darkness, Torun felt as if an iron vice closed around his throat.
He struggled, but his body gave no strength—he grew weaker, more breathless, until at last, no sound came from his lips. Drowning in endless terror and despair, he slid into the abyss of death.
The chief heir of the Highmountain tribes, one of the leaders of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers, and a war criminal who destroyed Rockseeker's Outpost—Torun Highmountain—was dead.
Charles removed his hand. The glow of the ring faded, but through the pact, he could sense Agatha's satisfaction as she feasted on Torun's dying vitality.
He stroked the ring, feeling the heaviness in his chest vanish, his whole body awash in relief.
So this is what it feels like to let go, he thought.
Suddenly, he sensed movement—turning, he saw a soft glow, and the familiar silhouette of Theresa appeared behind him, her expression at ease for the first time in a while.
She looked more haggard than usual—burn marks on her face, her hands, her robes—a rare sight for the usually unperturbed Chief Nun.
Charles's heart ached. Stepping forward, he wrapped an arm around her. "Are you alright, my dear?"
Theresa hugged him back, saw his dusty, battered state, and murmured with deep guilt, "I'm fine—these demons were far too slow to really hurt me."
"But you, Master, I heard outside that Montport blew himself up right in your face, just to drag you down with him?"
Charles smiled faintly. "Nothing like that. He tried to kill me, but I purified him. I don't even know why he exploded suddenly."
"But it wasn't that strong—it barely hurt me. I'm almost recovered now."
He gave a reassuring pat to his Bag of Holding at her hip, indicating the spellbooks inside that had saved his life.
Still, Theresa's face was full of self-reproach. "It's my fault, Master. In such a crucial battle, I couldn't help you at all..."
Charles slumped into her embrace, resting his face against her full chest, clinging to her warmth even as he gently comforted her heart.
"It's not your fault, Theresa. Really, it isn't."
"We never even planned to face an Abyssal Lord. All we meant to do was bag a few demons, earn some prestige, make some allies, maybe promote the blue dragons a little—that was our entire 'mountain expedition.'"
He sighed. "But then Montport rushed straight at us—and teleported behind to cut off our retreat. It was an accident, not your fault, not mine, not anyone's."
Theresa held him tighter, her guilt a little eased. Then, catching sight of Torun's corpse, she raised an eyebrow: "Master, you killed him?"
Charles jerked upright, startled. "Was it that obvious? Was it written all over my face?"
Theresa laughed softly. "No. But Master, you've always said you wanted to, and here his corpse is, so I took a guess."
Charles looked down at the body, shuddering. "Should we dispose of the corpse? But the more I... ugh, the more I mess with it, the more traces I'll leave…"
Theresa hugged him closer. "Master, it isn't safe here—the whole cave could collapse any minute. Should I teleport us out now?"
Charles looked up at the ceiling, then down at Torun's body, and slowly shook his head.
"No, not yet," he said. "Let's wait a bit longer. When he's truly dead for good, then we'll head up."
...
On the surface, a crowd was nervously waiting.
Anno, weak and trembling, huddled in Sophia's arms. She'd shed her plate armor—now just the underclothes and a cloak over her, still suffering from the aftereffects of Haste.
But even so, she kept looking toward the deep pit, eyes full of irrepressible anxiety.
Sophia gently patted her back, murmuring comforts over and over. She wasn't too worried—Theresa had gone down already, and through the pact, she could sense Charles was basically fine.
Ilarode and Adele—the two druids—took turns casting Transmute Rock, carefully excavating the cavern so as not to trigger a second collapse.
Most of the frontline warriors had fallen back now, no longer needed in combat. With Montport dead, and all the balors and goristros slain, the remaining demons turned on each other, baring their fangs and tearing into their loathed rivals.
With the front collapsing into chaos, the pressure was finally off. Weary, battered, and bloodied, the survivors retreated toward safety.
Of course, it wasn't truly safe here. Once they'd recovered a bit, everyone knew they'd need to pick up and run again as quickly as possible.
Meanwhile, Nidalee and Willo moved among the wounded, tending their injuries. On paper, Willo was the more talented spellcaster—but during the healing, the Satyr Matriarch noticed that Nidalee's Goodberries were bursting with energy; each one healed like a full-fledged Cure Wounds.
She couldn't hide her surprise. After this was all over, she was determined to ask Nidalee about just what kind of power she was wielding now.
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