In the valley, within a makeshift dungeon, waves of agonized screams echoed.
“Ah—! You animals! I… ah—!”
A man bound to a stone pillar was trembling violently, his right arm twisted at a grotesque angle—clearly just broken by force.
Countless small wounds covered his body, bleeding continuously.
Aurora stood before him, her fingertips toying with a knife as thin as a willow leaf.
Her face wore an expression of near-ecstasy, as if admiring a work of art in progress.
“Louder,” she whispered softly. The blade gently pressed against the man’s cheek, cutting slowly. “Weren’t you so capable before? Not only resisting the poison but counterattacking me—that really hurt, you know.”
Aurora touched the fresh scar on her neck, her movements of flaying flesh becoming even more meticulous, afraid of accidentally killing the man before her.
In the adjacent room, several other bound sacrifices trembled in fear, hearing the wails from next door.
This too was part of Aurora’s enjoyment.
“Aurora.” A dissatisfied voice came from behind. Aurora’s pleased expression instantly collapsed.
“The Lord says: grant souls peace, not fear. What are you doing?”
Charon, priest of the Hand of Passage, stepped between the tortured man and Aurora, separating them.
He took a healing potion from his robes and poured it over the man’s numerous fine wounds.
Aurora behind him clicked her tongue: “Wasting a potion on someone about to die anyway? We’re really rolling in wealth!”
In truth, they weren’t wealthy at all—quite the opposite, rather strapped.
The reason these dozen-plus people were still alive was that the ritual array materials had run out. They were scrambling to gather materials for the final round of sacrifice rituals.
After using the healing potion, Charon turned around, staring at Aurora with warning: “You’d better restrain that disgusting hobby of yours. This is the Hand of Passage, not your previous bandit gang!”
Aurora said nothing, but from her flippant smile, it wasn’t hard to see she hadn’t taken these words to heart.
After Charon left the basement, he found Serar in the temporary camp, assigning collection tasks for gathering various materials.
Serar was tall, his armor a mix of worn metal and dull leather. Beneath his helmet was pitch darkness—his true appearance invisible.
“Lord Serar.” Charon’s voice was steady, but listening carefully, one could hear a trace of indignation. “That bandit… Aurora, she’s not practicing the Goddess’s teachings at all! She enjoys torture, takes pleasure in pain! This completely contradicts the maxim ‘Grant the dying peace, give the lost a home’! The Goddess’s hall requires pure sacrifice, peaceful return—not this blasphemous slaughter!”
Serar first waved his hand, having the believers proceed with the tasks he’d assigned.
Only then did he turn to Charon: “Charon, devout guide of the Goddess, you see very clearly. Her actions do indeed contradict the Goddess’s ideals. The Goddess cherishes the soul’s essence, not its meaningless screams before departure.”
“Then why still permit her existence? Why let her defile the sacred ritual?” Charon stepped forward, his voice growing more agitated.
“Because scales need weights, Charon. In the Goddess’s last oracle, we need to conduct more sacrifices. This chaotic situation is the perfect opportunity. But after so many years of dormancy, our manpower isn’t sufficient. Rituals need constructing, sacrifices need acquiring, protection needs strength.” His voice was cold, carrying a pragmatic tone. “Aurora, and those like her drawn by power or desire, can make our operations smoother and help us reach our goal faster.”
“But this is exploitation! Using blasphemous acts to achieve sacred purposes!” Charon retorted, unable to accept such compromise.
“‘Temporary tools,'” Serar corrected. “The Goddess perceives all—she knows the purity of lambs and also the greed of wolves. On the long road toward final purification, sometimes we must borrow wolves’ fangs to clear thorns, but this doesn’t mean we approve of wolves’ nature.”
“Maintain your purity, Charon. Your steadfastness is the foundation of the church’s continued existence. As for Aurora and her kind… when the number of sacrifices meets requirements, tools that have deviated from doctrine will naturally be purified.”
But Charon wasn’t convinced. Facing his superior’s explanation, he unhesitatingly pointed out the fallacy: “Lord Serar, great blessed one. Have you considered that your compromise also deviates from doctrine?”
Serar fell briefly silent: “Now even the High Priestess has begun acting. We must do our utmost to complete the oracle—we cannot become a hindrance.”
Charon wanted to say more but suddenly turned his head: “An outsider is approaching… no wait, this fluctuation is…?”
Serar stepped forward. Two ghostly blue flames lit beneath his helmet, and he immediately spotted Number Ten who had just run to a distant treetop to observe them.
His longsword swung. An invisible wave crossed half the valley in an instant, reaching Number Ten.
Number Ten desperately dodged, barely avoiding being split in two, but lost two tentacles.
This commotion alerted some nearby believers, who all gave chase.
“That’s… a Puchi?” Too far away, Charon wasn’t certain.
“What happened?” Serar asked a believer who had just reached him.
This was the scout Number Ten had followed all the way. He now realized he’d been tracked and hurriedly explained the situation:
“A proper kingdom force just passed through Scarecrow Abyss. The leader has pink hair and pink eyes—likely the kingdom’s current war hero, Duke Alama’s daughter Inanna.”
Soon after, another believer ran over: “Lord Serar… this subordinate is incompetent. That Puchi killed two of us and broke through the encirclement.”
Serar didn’t reproach the believer before him. After brief deliberation, he made his decision: “Abandon this camp. Withdraw to Rocky Ridge stronghold.”
Every bit of the church’s current strength was precious. Serar didn’t want to waste it on meaningless matters.
In fact, even if they were much stronger, they would never proactively provoke an existence like Inanna St. Clair.
To the Goddess, Inanna’s soul was no more important than a rural villager’s soul.
But provoking Inanna meant provoking the Mushroom Tribe, Duke Alama, the kingdom… equivalent to endless trouble.
Avoiding confrontation was naturally the best choice.
“What about the remaining sacrifices?” Charon asked.
“Materials aren’t yet complete—no time to hold a proper ritual.” Serar turned toward him, his armor making soft friction sounds with the movement. “Leave them where they are. Let them be rescued or escape on their own.”
“What a pity.” But Charon had no better option either.
It was only a temporarily established camp—there weren’t many important items to begin with.
Under Serar’s concise and effective commands, over a hundred black-robed believers swiftly and orderly packed necessary items and withdrew along pre-planned hidden paths into the mountain forest.
However, one figure moved against the flow, quietly breaking away from the group.
Aurora glanced at the departing group’s direction, then turned and ran back to the basement.
Her enjoyment always demanded completion from start to finish.
Since that man was no longer a sacrifice needed for the ritual, she would send him on his way in her own manner.
Only pity the time was tight—she couldn’t leisurely savor his dying wails and struggles as usual.
In the basement’s dim light, the man saw Aurora’s return and seemed to understand his fate.
He didn’t cry. Instead, he spat a mouthful of bloody saliva straight toward Aurora’s face.
Aurora easily tilted her head to dodge, her steps unbroken.
That willow-leaf-thin knife reappeared between her fingers, glinting coldly. She walked before the man, the blade casually pressing against his neck’s pulse, feeling life’s faint throb beneath the skin.
“Finally, nothing left to say?” she asked with interest, anticipating desperate curses or laughable pleas.
The man raised his blood-smeared face, his eyes burning with pure hatred: “You goddamn bastards! Isn’t there supposed to be an afterlife? Fine! Next life I’ll watch you animals, and kill you one by one!”
Aurora shrugged noncommittally—the man clearly didn’t know she didn’t worship the Death God at all.
The small knife swung down.
However, the expected dull sound of blade cutting through flesh didn’t come.
Instead—a crisp “ding!”
She felt her hand lighten. Looking down, only a bare hilt remained.
Pu-chi—
A strange sound came from behind Aurora…
(End of Chapter)
