Chapter 21 : Splitting Up

Ten minutes earlier.

Angus moved like mist along the eastern wall of the Fell God’s temple.

The obsidian surface gleamed cold under moonlight, smooth as polished metal, reflecting his blurred silhouette.

Compared to the Rotwood Forest, this place seemed… too normal.

No piles of bones.
No deadly traps at the entrance.
Even the foul, sticky mucus vanished beyond the fortress’s boundary.

If he hadn’t known a Fell God lived here, he’d have mistaken it for an abandoned ruin on the outskirts of civilization.

Still, hesitation gnawed at him.

He’d heard the rumors.

Even the Sword Saint Agnes might have fallen here.

If she couldn’t win—what chance did he have?

But he had his pride: stealth and speed.

He wouldn’t last in a fight.

But escape?

He had absolute confidence.

Even if the Fell God herself chased him—he’d outpace her.

And just in case—

He’d spent all his savings on a teleportation scroll.

If cornered, he could vanish.

Even a god couldn’t catch up to instantaneous travel.

With that ace, his courage surged.

Just get in.
Find clues.
Get out.

Like any other job.

Pressed against the wall, he slowed his breath to a whisper—no sound, no movement.

The main gate was destroyed—likely from Agnes’s battle—but both the entrance and the breach in the wall were blocked by an invisible barrier.

Lily wasn’t here.

A mage might bypass it.

But breaking it could alert the Fell God.

Better not risk it.

He looked up.

A cracked stained-glass window on the second floor—small, but just big enough.

He climbed.

Slipped through.

Landed without stirring a single speck of dust.

The room was thick with grime.

Cobwebs clung to the ceiling.

No one had cleaned here in years.

Good.

Even if the Fell God hadn’t visited this room in ages, Angus melted into the shadows, moving like a ghost toward the door.

He gripped the handle.

The lock was rusted.

A faint creak echoed.

He froze.

Pressed against the wood—listened.

Silence.

He turned the handle—slowly—minimizing noise—

And opened the door.

Beyond lay a dim corridor.

Plaster reliefs cracked. Broken angel wings jutted from dusty carpets.

Candles long burned out—only hardened wax remained.

Perfect for hiding.

But the emptiness told him: nothing here.

No traces.

No signs of Agnes.

He searched for a staircase to the first floor.

Unaware, above him—

The ceiling was covered in vines.

Dark green leaves blended into the shadows.

But behind each leaf—

An eyeball.

Watching.

Silent.

Angus moved down the hall, avoiding moonlight from the windows.

At the end, he slipped down a spiral staircase.

Black iron rails gleamed cold.

At the bottom, he noticed deep gouges on the railing—

Fresh.

Less than a week old.

It matched the timeline of Agnes’s assault.

Got it.

The throne hall beyond made his pupils shrink.

Five of twelve support pillars were severed, their cuts unnaturally smooth—sliced by something impossibly sharp.

Sword slashes carved deep into the walls. Half a foot deep.

The throne was gone—only a twisted metal base remained.

Cracks in the floor were filled with melted crystal shards.

“…So this was the battlefield.”

The destruction spoke of fierce combat.

But the scene had been cleaned.

No bodies.

No blood.

No way to complete the commission.

He searched anyway—hoping for anything.

Then—luck.

On a wall etched with runes, he found a bloodstained piece of armor.

An iris crest glowed faintly red under the dim light. The dried blood had seeped into the metal’s veins.

“That pattern… I’ve seen it before.”

He remembered—Agnes’s armor, before the mission.

Same crest.

Only she would have this.

So she had fought here.

And lost.

But was she dead?

No fresh remains nearby.

Maybe… she was alive.

Captured.

Imprisoned.

If so—the dungeon.

He could try to find her.

Maybe even rescue her.

Save the Empire’s greatest warrior?

The reward would skyrocket.

And Agnes would owe him.

A favor from the Sword Saint—priceless.

His heart raced.

He had to find the prison.

And so far—no sign of the Fell God.

Had she not noticed him?

Hah.

The legendary Fell God… not so invincible.

His stealth was perfect.

Too perfect.

His confidence swelled.

He carefully tucked the armor fragment into his pocket.

Turned to leave—

Then—

A whistle in the air.

Too late.

Something pierced him.

He turned—desperate.

But the hall was empty.

“No… I still have—”

He reached for the teleportation scroll.

Just pull it out—

But as he grasped it—

The world spun.

Weightlessness.

Then—

He saw his headless body dangling in the air.

His right hand still clutched the half-pulled scroll.

He died without ever seeing her face.