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Torn God: Watcher of Deep Places (Web Novel) - Book 5: Chapter 9 Curtains Closing [Part 1]
Book 5: Chapter 9 Curtains Closing [Part 1]
This chapter is updated by JustRead.pl
There are balances in this world that must never be disturbed. Sins that must never be committed. The greatest sin birthed by Al-Lazar is the Abomination—a Sleeper, cursed against all odds, tainted by the forbidden Song of Mana.- The Warnings of Al’Jabbadi the Duwat of Ardent Sands.
You have slain a human 30 experience gained.
The cleric fell with a guttural choke, his lifeblood pooling at my feet like fresh spilled ink. The god he had worshipped was unknown to me, but his death filled me with more experience than I expected. The weapon in my grasp thrummed with dark hunger, craving more souls to satiate a lust that mirrored my own shadowed desires.
The other adventurers stared, confusion and fear flickering in their eyes, the howling wind snatching away any words I might have offered in explanation. Canis stood tall, his arm outstretched as he pointed at Zariyah the Djinn and me, rallying his men with shouts lost to the tempest.
Blame hung heavy in the air, misplaced yet unshakable. The skirmish devolved into chaos; a brutal three-way melee of man against demigod against a creature born of storm and sand. An outsider might see only madness, but beneath the fury, I felt a resonance with Zariyah that flowed both ways. Even in her elemental rage, some vestige of recognition lingered in her eyes. Perhaps she sensed that my animosity for the adventurers burned hot.
It was a fragile understanding. I would not trust her at my back, but at least her wrath was not directed at me, at the moment. Encased in armor heavy like my own, though lacking its finer craftsmanship, figures charged toward me then. Men or perhaps hulking women, it mattered little. Their ensorcelled bronze weapons, etched with arcane runes, bit into my Mimic Shield, tearing gashes that made it wail in agony only I could hear.
I felt no sympathy for its suffering; the shield had served its purpose, its automatic defense allowing me to unleash Greater Drain. The spell's intoxicating rush flooded my veins, more potent than the richest wine, igniting a savage exhilaration deep within.
But fortune, as ever, is a fickle mistress. A mage behind them shifted his focus, perhaps sensing the dark tendrils of my magic. He summoned orbs of swirling purple energy that keened louder than the wind, homing in on me no matter how I tried to dodge. The magic was an echo of a spell Tally had used so many years ago. The orbs struck true, bypassing my armor as if it were but a shadow.
Each impact sapped a sliver of my strength—not enough to fell me, but enough to distract and grant the armored brutes openings to strike. Their weapons swung with vicious intent, seeking any weakness.
Yet, cloaked in the golden light of Holy Aura and fueled by Greater Drain, their efforts were in vain. My Health and Stamina remained near unshaken, while theirs waned with each desperate assault. Slowly, I could see exhaustion etching lines on their faces as we danced the dance.
But battles are seldom fought with honor or fairness. The two warriors and the mage withdrew, replaced by fresh foes: a Beastkin wielding a longspear, his boiled leather armor splattered with dried blood, and a dwarf hefting a round shield and a wicked warpick. They pressed me hard, providing cover for the others to retreat and regroup. Gold-ranked adventurers—all the more troublesome. Individually, they were manageable; together, they tested even my limits.
Amid parries and thrusts, I glimpsed through the slit of my helm the trio downing potions, wounds knitting, vigor returning. The tiresome cycle would begin anew.
My Mimic Shield faltered, its life essence drained under the ceaseless barrage. Its Health dipped perilously low. I dismissed it with a curt command, and it disappeared, vine-like threads sinking into my forearm. I gripped my polearm with both hands. If the Mimic’s defense would no longer serve me, then raw, unbridled force would.
The Beastkin's spear grazed my vambrace, sparks flaring, but failing to even score the metal. I retaliated swiftly, driving the butt of my polearm into his knee with the bone-shattering power of an Improved Power Strike. His scream pierced the chaotic din as he collapsed to the stone floor. I moved to deliver the final blow, but more of those damned purple orbs slammed into me, again, not enough to wound deeply, but sufficient to stagger me. The dwarf seized the moment, his warpick skittering across my thigh cuisse. A warrior of the Gold rank, he had been aiming for the back of my legs, which were covered only by chainmail. The clever runt had known where to strike.
It was then that I felt the first touch of traitorous doubt intrude, clouding the arc of my weapon with hesitancy. I was no longer sure which side would win in a simple contest of attrition.
However, that doubt quickly vanished when I saw the mage who had been assaulting me with balls of magical heat disappear as if, ironically, by magic. Zariyah had taken advantage of my distraction and blasted him with a blade of wind, turning him into a fine mist.
Smiling, I remembered the ace up my sleeve; my Asura gauge was slowly but surely filling.
