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Chapter 21: Is It Wrong to Draw Lewd Books of Alfia?
The sky over Orario was a bruised purple, choked by the rising smoke of a city under siege. The Dark Faction's uprising had turned the Labyrinth City into a meat grinder, where even high-level adventurers found themselves staring down the reaper in every shadowed alleyway. Yet, in the midst of this symphony of steel and screams, a different kind of explosion occurred—one that didn't shatter stone, but obliterated dignity.
The "bomb" in question was a modest stack of paper, bound together under the inflammatory title: The Hera Familia Woman ~You're Gonna Be a Daddy~.
Witnesses spoke of a blur of grey—a woman moving with the fluid grace of a high-level rogue—weaving through the chaos. She wasn't throwing daggers or fireballs; she was handing out literature. Male adventurers, bewildered shopkeepers, and even a few wide-eyed gods found the scandalous material thrust into their hands for the low price of absolutely nothing. Once the initial shock gave way to viral demand, the mysterious merchant shifted her strategy, selling the remaining copies for a "reasonable" premium to the desperate and the curious.
It was only a matter of time before a copy found its way to the twilight manor of the Loki Familia.
"I gotta hand it to 'em. Whoever's behind this has got balls of pure adamantite to pull somethin' this nasty," Loki remarked, her eyes narrowed as she leaned over the mahogany desk.
"It's certainly... effective," Finn Deimne replied, his face a mask of professional stoicism that barely hid his inner fatigue. "The Dark Faction's coordination has plummeted. It's hard to maintain a terrifying presence when your commanding officers are the subject of the city's most popular smut. It's caused some friction in our own ranks, but the strategic benefit is undeniable".
Loki let out a sharp cackle. "Sure, sure. Strategery and all that. But look at this cover, Finn! Is this really somethin' we're allowed to enjoy while the world's burnin'?".
The book lay between them like a cursed artifact. The cover art was agonizingly high-quality, depicting the legendary "Silent" Alfia in scandalous black lace, her hand curled into the collar of a flushed and flustered Zard. The composition made her look less like a world-ending threat and more like a rural delinquent claiming her prize.
To think that monster is being treated like this, Finn thought, a cold sweat pricking his brow. For those who had faced the Hera Familia in their prime, the book was a surreal nightmare. Loki had described the sensation as being similar to a bizarre entity named Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo crashing a funeral, a reference that left Finn more confused than the book itself.
"Seriously, Loki, don't tell me you're actually reading for the plot," Finn sighed.
"Plot? Heck no! But look at the draftsmanship!" Loki flipped a page, her grin widening. "The part where Alfia sneaks into Zard's room while he's catchin' z's? Pure gold. And the way they caught the curve of her... ohoho, uhehuehue...".
Finn offered a sharp, disapproving glare, though his mind was already racing. His thumb—the one that had guided him through countless life-and-death decisions—was throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache. This isn't just a joke, he realized. Whoever did this has invited a storm that might just flatten us all.
The door creaked open, and Gareth Gelfrath hobbled in, his frame heavily bandaged but his spirit as stubborn as ever.
"The city's on fire, and ye two are huddled over a picture book like a pair of schoolboys," Gareth grumbled, his voice a low rumble of gravel.
"Gareth... apologies for the less-than-heroic welcome," Finn said, standing to assist the veteran.
"Pah, I've had worse. But what's got Loki gigglin' like a damn hyena?" Gareth's eyes drifted to the desk, landing on the cover. He went silent, the sort of silence that usually preceded a cave-in. He picked it up with a meaty hand, flipped through three pages, and let out a sigh so heavy it felt like it lowered the room's temperature. "Whoever drew this... do they want to die? Or are they just tired of breathin'?".
"That's the question of the hour," Finn said. "The Dark Faction is losing their minds. Alfia's pride is legendary, and right now, she's being mocked by every tavern-goer in Orario. They're spending more time burning books and hunting the artist than they are fighting us".
Gareth grunted, setting the book down. "It's a mockery, aye. But I might have a lead for ye".
Finn's posture straightened instantly. "Go on".
Gareth recounted the encounter he'd had a few days prior—the grey-haired woman who had led Alfia on a high-speed chase through the ruins. He described her speed, noting that even his seasoned eyes had trouble tracking her movements. But it was her attitude that stuck with him—the way she'd hurled a final, biting insult at the "Silent" before vanishing into the smoke.
"She's our culprit," Finn concluded. "And if she has grey hair... Gareth, do you think there's a family connection? A sister, perhaps?".
"Doubt it," Gareth replied firmly. "I only saw her for a heartbeat, but the features weren't right. Different face, different vibe. Grey hair's rare, but it ain't a blood test".
Finn nodded, mentally crossing Alfia's known relatives off his suspect list.
"So," Loki chimed in, leaning forward with a predatory glint in her eyes. "This mystery girl... was she cuter than Alfia?".
"...Loki," Finn groaned.
"Well, at that level of beauty, I reckon it's just down to what kind of poison ye prefer," Gareth answered with startling sincerity.
Finn surrendered to the absurdity with a final sigh. He gathered the details Gareth provided to brief the rest of the Familia, making a mental note to keep the "sacred scripture" away from Riveria. It was too late, however; when the High Elf eventually saw the contents later that evening, her face drained of all color before she collapsed into a dead faint.
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Across the city, in a much more lavishly decorated (and currently hidden) office, Lord Hermes was having the time of his life.
"This! This is the peak of mortal achievement!" Hermes roared, waving the doujinshi in the air like a holy relic. "It captures the sheer, unbridled chaos of the Hera Familia perfectly! It's not just smut, Asfi—it's a character study!".
Asfi Al Andromeda stood by the window, her hand pressed firmly against her temple as if trying to physically contain a migraine. "Lord Hermes, please. This is a diplomatic disaster. If Alfia finds out we have a copy—".
"She'll what? Kill me? She's already trying to do that!" Hermes laughed, pointing at a particularly scandalous panel where Alfia discarded a certain piece of protection with a sadistic smirk. "Look at Zard's face! That's the face of a man who's realized his fate is sealed! It's art! It's the Mabinogion of our era!".
"I don't want to understand you anymore," Asfi whispered, her eyes watery with the weight of her life choices. "I really don't".
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Deep within the Dark Faction's stronghold, the atmosphere was not one of artistic appreciation. It was one of pure, unadulterated terror.
BOOM.
A shockwave of soundless pressure slammed Zard into the stone wall, the impact cracking the masonry behind him. He slid to the floor, coughing up a mixture of blood and dust.
"Wait! Alfia! Just... listen...!" Zard wheezed, holding up a trembling hand.
"Die quickly. Gospel," Alfia hissed.
Another invisible hammer struck, pinning Zard to the ground. Alfia stood over him, her silver hair shimmering with the overflow of her mana. She wasn't blushing. She wasn't embarrassed. She was a goddess of slaughter who had been told her dignity was a joke, and she was taking it out on the only person sturdy enough to survive her.
Zard closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to the book that had ruined his life. He could still see the words burned into his retinas: 'You're the one becoming a daddy!!!'.
That artist... Zard thought, his consciousness flickering. They aren't a person. They're a demon sent from the deepest floor of the Dungeon specifically to torment me.
Every time he walked through the halls, the rank-and-file members of Evilus—hardened killers and fanatics—looked at him with genuine, heartbreaking pity. Vito, the faceless assassin, had actually patted his shoulder in silence. Valletta had offered him "words of encouragement" that made him want to commit seppuku on the spot.
"Yo, I'm back. Is the punching bag still breathing?".
Erebus strolled into the room, a tray of tea in his hands and a smirk that suggested he had spent the last hour laughing until his lungs hurt.
"If he died from this, the poison would have claimed him years ago," Alfia snapped, finally lowering her hand.
"I'm... not a... stress ball..." Zard grunted, hauling himself up with agonizing effort.
Alfia ignored him entirely, her eyes—usually closed to contain her power—snapping open to glare at the god of the Underworld. "Erebus. Tell me you have found her. The one who made that... filth".
"Oh, my kids are quite efficient when they aren't busy being traumatized," Erebus said, his tone turning slightly more serious. "A woman. Grey hair. Stunningly beautiful—enough to make you wonder why she's wasting her life drawing smut in a war zone. She slipped past Vito, but the description is unmistakable".
The air in the room grew heavy, the oxygen seemingly sucked out by the sheer intensity of Alfia's presence.
"I see," Alfia whispered. A slow, terrifying smile spread across her lips—the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes, but promised a slow and meticulous end. "So she actually did it. She has some nerve".
Zard and Erebus shared a single, brief look. Without a word, they both lowered their heads in a silent prayer for the artist, knowing that all the gods in Heaven couldn't save her from what was coming next.
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