Surviving the Evil Gods

〈 Episode 2 〉 Encounter

***

It was a very dark night, shrouded in a thick shadow that seemed to seep into the skin.

The forest, under a waning crescent moon, carried the crisp, distinct scent of air just before rainfall.

In that forest, heavy with humidity and darkness, a noise echoed.

Shhhk, shhhk.

The sound of a well-honed whetstone grinding against a blade. With each stroke, the sound grew sharper and clearer.

At the center of the noise was a campfire.

Smoke curled upward from the flickering fire, and seated on a fallen tree trunk before it was a man, his hands moving busily.

He was sharpening a blade when he grabbed a leather pouch filled with water and poured it over the blade, wiping it clean.

Tiny metal fragments scraped off the blade spilled onto the ground.

The man’s face, as he sharpened and cleaned the blade, carried a faint air of contemplation.

He had been hired as a mercenary for a battle on a plain called Nechagni.

The pay had been decent, and he had even claimed some spoils, but it brought him no joy.

After all, it required killing people, an act he could never truly grow accustomed to, no matter how vaguely he understood it in his mind.

But, to survive, there was no other choice.

And so, he held the finely polished blade once more, lifting it to inspect it. It was part of his recent spoils.

The blade gleamed ominously, catching the faint moonlight reflected in his teal eyes.

Aslan stared at the blade’s eerie shine before lowering it.

Crunch.

That was when he heard it.

The sound of a dry branch snapping underfoot.

Aslan’s expression hardened as he turned his head toward the direction of the sound.

Beyond the glow of the fire, under the shadow of the trees, something was approaching.

From the darkness came the heavy sound of something being drawn, the tension of a bowstring being pulled, and the click of a crossbow being aimed.

Those ominous noises echoed sporadically through the forest, prompting Aslan to tighten his grip on the longsword he had been about to set down.

He had a guess as to who they were and why they had come.

Of course, such matters were irrelevant, yet Aslan felt compelled to ask.

He grabbed a full leather pouch leaning against the log and stood up.

At the same time, he picked up a crude round shield lying at his feet, quickly strapping its handle to his arm.

The moment he moved, more than twenty presences began shifting beyond the shadows of the trees.

The sound of hurried footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the scrape of leather against leather, and the metallic clinks of weapons resounded.

The noises of crossbows being aimed, spears being gripped, and longswords being drawn came from all directions. A cacophony of sounds emerged, each signaling an imminent attack.

The fact that they no longer bothered to conceal themselves, making such noise, clearly indicated their confidence, they believed they could deal with him even if discovered.

Aslan swept his gaze over the darkness from which the sounds emerged and spoke.

“…What are you here for?”

Aslan’s weary and hoarse voice resonated through the forest.

His tired tone and shabby light armor drew a response laced with mockery.

Four low chuckles followed by a single reply came from nearly straight ahead. Aslan noted the direction and loosely held the leather pouch in his hand.

“You already know, don’t you? The War God put a bounty on your head. A hefty one at that. If we bring you in, the leader gets made a priest.”

Hearing the expected reason, Aslan let out a sigh.

“There are more than twenty of us. We’ve got a mage, too. It’s not like we’re going to eat you alive. If you come quietly…”

Instead of responding, Aslan swung his left hand.

The leather pouch left his grasp in an arc, flying precisely into the shadows. The mercenary, startled at Aslan’s accurate throw, swung his axe at the incoming pouch.

Thunk!

The sound of something bursting echoed as the pouch exploded, releasing its contents.

There was no need to confirm that the mercenary, who struck it with his axe, was now soaked in the liquid from the pouch.

A foul stench quickly assaulted the air, stabbing into their nostrils. The mercenary, now drenched in the rancid, sticky mixture, spat curses as his stomach churned.

“What the hell is this…”

Before he could realize the liquid was a mixture of resin and oil, Aslan pointed a finger at him.

“Ignite.”

With a snap, something shot out from Aslan’s fingertip and struck the oil-soaked mercenary.

It was a spark.

By itself, the spark could cause little more than a localized burn. But it was more than enough to ignite the oil.

The spark became a flame, and the mercenary was engulfed. A sudden column of fire erupted, pushing the air with a blast, causing nearby leaves to rustle and fall.

The mercenaries aiming their crossbows faltered at the sight of their comrade bursting into flames, their aim wavering.

Before they could recover, Aslan moved. He kicked over the pot hanging above the campfire, dousing the fire and plunging the area into darkness.

“Fire! Fire!”

Thwack!

Late crossbow shots echoed, but no screams followed. They had missed.

While the crossbowmen hastily reloaded, the mercenaries realized their predicament.

Under the faint light of the crescent moon, unable to illuminate the forest, their flaming comrade had betrayed their positions. Meanwhile, Aslan had vanished into the shadows.

And then came the whispers of infamy.

The Master of Combat.

Sensing their morale faltering, one of the mercenaries tried to rally them, calling out.

“Raise your shie—”

The mercenary’s voice was cut short as his head was severed, his body collapsing to the ground moments later.

Standing beside the corpse was Aslan, his teal eyes cold as he surveyed the remaining mercenaries.

The burning mercenary finally succumbed, and the forest fell into total darkness once more.

The remaining mercenaries stared into the darkness with bewildered expressions.

A group.

A group inevitably needs to communicate, to open their mouths to coordinate.

The moment someone spoke to issue orders, Aslan moved.

As the next in rank opened his mouth to give commands, Aslan leapt forward and thrust his sword. The blade pierced the mercenary’s throat, ripping through flesh with precision akin to a lion tearing into its prey.

With a sickening squelch, blood sprayed as Aslan withdrew his sword and stepped back.

He swung his blade mid-retreat, slicing another mercenary’s chest open. The man crumpled to the ground. Even as Aslan continued to dispatch them, the remaining mercenaries hesitated to act.

They had forgone heavy armor for their ambush, leaving them vulnerable.

Their padded armor was no match for the blows of a master swordsman.

And attacking recklessly risked harming their comrades, which would only descend into chaos. Seasoned mercenaries, accustomed to guerrilla warfare, understood this and swallowed their fear.

But Aslan, he could kill with precision even in chaos. His sharpened sword struck true, leaving no wasted effort.

That knowledge fed their hesitation, and hesitation created openings. Even brief openings were enough.

Aslan lunged again, his blade finding its mark in a mercenary’s chest. The man gurgled as his heart was pierced, collapsing to the ground.

As their numbers dwindled, the mage among the mercenaries bit his lip.

When their comrade had first caught fire, the mage had thought to use the flames as illumination. But Aslan had turned the light against them, killing under its glow before snuffing it out entirely.

There was no choice now. The advantage of ambush and anonymity was already lost. Doing nothing would guarantee their deaths.

The mage raised his hands, drawing upon his mana and casting it upward.

A glowing white orb illuminated the air, revealing the forest in stark detail.

In the pale light, the reduced numbers of the mercenaries became clear. Of the original twenty, only five, including the mage, remained. The rest lay slain across the forest floor.

Aslan charged toward the remaining five.

“Ignite.”

As Aslan charged forward, he pointed a finger at the mage and murmured.

A spark of light shot from his fingertip, glowing briefly before embedding itself in the mage’s eyes, which had been wide open due to the darkness.

The mage’s scream rang out, joined by the enraged shouts of the mercenaries.

“Damn it! Kill him! Kill him!”

“You bastard!”

While the mage clutched at his face and bent over, Aslan and the remaining four mercenaries clashed.

Aslan glanced at the mercenaries rushing toward him and hurled his shield.

Clang!

“Gah!”

One mercenary frantically lowered his axe to block the flying shield, but before the shield even hit the ground, Aslan was upon him, sword swinging.

Sslash!

The blade swept cleanly across the mercenary’s neck, drawing a spray of blood. The mercenary staggered, clutching his throat.

Aslan stomped on the mercenary’s foot and shoved him backward with his shoulder.

The mercenary trailing close behind let out a startled gasp as his dying comrade was pushed toward him.

When the second mercenary caught the falling body, Aslan’s sword came down from above, splitting his skull.

Thwack!

Before anyone could draw another breath, two were dead. The mercenary with a spear paused as he saw the corpses blocking his path.

But hesitation cost him, and Aslan’s blade pierced through the sockets of his eyes before he could even resist.

As the warm blood dripped to the ground, the last mercenary realized that unless he ignored the corpses and attacked, he would die.

Yet Aslan was faster. He kicked one of the bodies, sending it tumbling onto the approaching mercenary.

When the corpse collapsed on top of him, the mercenary’s limbs trembled uncontrollably as he dropped his sword and fell to the ground.

“D-Damn it! Damn it!”

Thud!

Aslan’s sword plunged into the mercenary’s head, turning him into yet another lifeless body. Four corpses now lay at his feet.

The mage, who had been clutching his eyes, managed to lift his head.

Blood streamed from the corners of his eyes as he gasped for breath.

It had been a force of twenty. While they hadn’t worn heavy armor for the ambush, their weapons had been well-prepared, and they had brought plenty of crossbows.

And yet, every single one of them was now dead. The mage, trembling with disbelief, reached for the flail at his waist.

Despite having killed twenty, Aslan remained unscathed.

There were scratches on his armor and shield, but not a single wound marred his body. He merely paused to catch his breath, showing no sign of exhaustion.

To the mage, this was utterly despairing.

He gripped the flail tightly, his hands trembling.

As an apprentice mage who had only mastered the basics of the Manifestation school of magic, fighting a veteran warrior without armor was a hopeless endeavor.

But there was no other choice. The mage raised his flail and charged forward.

The Manifestation school specialized in spreading various elements and phenomena into the world to realize magic.

Though the mage’s abilities were limited, they had often been useful in close combat situations.

He hoped it would be the same this time. Holding onto that last sliver of hope, the mage extended his hand.

From his low stance, his outstretched hand gathered and reflected the surrounding light, glowing brilliantly.

A simple spell requiring neither incantation nor runes, Flash, burst from his palm.

Flash!

The flash burst forth from the mage’s palm, cutting through the night as it exploded. Gripping his flail tightly, the mage turned his body, imagining victory in his mind.

A flash was light released the moment the will to manifest it was formed.

If someone stared directly at it, they could go blind. There was no way anyone could react to a flash that detonated so close to their face.

If his opponent was blinded, the flail would land without fail. With that certainty, the mage swung his flail with all his might. The steel weapon, brimming with killing intent, whistled sharply as it cut through the air.

Whoosh.

But it didn’t connect. Aslan stepped back effortlessly, dodging the attack.

The smile that had formed on the mage’s face cracked, and with his single remaining eye, he looked forward.

Aslan stood there, draped in a tattered cloak and light armor, holding a worn longsword.

The man’s eyes were closed, his sword raised high above him.

Even the inexperienced mage could sense the faint aura of magic leaking from Aslan’s closed eyes, a clear sign of its presence.

‘A sensory vision spell…?!’

The mercenaries and the mage had crossed the forest wearing only light armor to stage a night raid on Aslan’s camp.

The distance they had traveled wasn’t short, so it was inevitable that they were drenched in sweat. There was no way to completely conceal their scent.

‘But… since when?’

When they surrounded him for the ambush, Aslan’s eyes had been open.

If he had used magic, the incantation or gestures would have been noticeable.

Unless… unless he had predicted their arrival and cast the spell long before they surrounded him.

‘From the very beginning… he expected us…’

The mage’s thoughts stopped there. The raised blade came down.

Thwack!

A downward slash aimed at the crown of his head. The strike split the mage’s skull in two.

The mage’s body trembled violently before going limp. Aslan shoved the limp body off his sword, letting it collapse to the ground.

Thud.

When the mage died, the light he had conjured began to fade.

As the creeping darkness returned like a rising tide, Aslan picked up the mage’s flail and secured it at his waist, his expression troubled.

He had planned to stay in the forest for the night before moving on, but that was no longer an option.

“Sounds from over there…”

In the distance, the sound of the mercenaries’ main force moving reached his ears. Aslan glanced toward the source of the noise, quickly scavenged a few weapons from the corpses, and left the area.

To survive.

***