Chapter 335 - The Scheming God’s Apostle VI

Claire assumed her true form as she flew towards the boss room's entrance. The discount panda had briefly tried chasing after her, but he gave up soon after he began the pursuit. It was impossible for him to keep up when she was a hundred times faster. Paying him no mind, Claire continued to fly through the dungeon. She didn’t stop until she reached the boss chamber, where she took a moment to focus her mind on the world around her, taking in everything she could through her big, fluffy ears.

It didn't seem like the raccoon was lying about the assassins. She could hear several heartbeats coming from within the room, but she couldn't quite determine how many there were. The only one she could clearly identify was the man standing right beside the entrance.

Flexing her talons, she charged the wall. The boss room was the only stone construction in the otherwise wooden environment, but her jagged claws effortlessly tore it down and split the hidden centaur in half.

For a non-Cadrian warrior, it would have been a fatal blow, but the man stitched himself back together, drew his centaur-sized daggers, and plunged them towards her wrist. His arms glowed red, his blades turned blue, white, and black as his bulging muscles inflated to thrice their previous size. It was a powerful attack, but her lizard shattered his chest before he could see it confirmed. The blunt object was swung with such force that it obliterated over half of his torso’s mass. Everything above the stomach and below the neck was gone.

The tip of his tail aside, the Boris was unmodified. There was a large ring where his body should have ended, the perfect grip for his mistress to wrap her own tail around.

Claire brought her claws down on the centaur again and kicked him into a wall as she scanned the octagonal chamber, where she found four additional assassins and a dead wooden bull.

By all means, they should have long jumped on the opportunity to take her head—she had left herself wide open during the first centaur’s fall—but her bait was left unclaimed. Claire narrowed her eyes. Their lack of action went unexplained until she scrutinized their uniforms. Her spirits fell. They were not her father’s minions, just inferior incompetents.

Irritation bubbled through her mind, but fighting it back, she narrowed her eyes and looked them over. Two centaurs, one lamia, one thorae. All pathetically weak.

It was only as the dust settled that they finally got to attacking. The half-human buck chucked a massive spear, the donkey started casting a spell, and the bug-ogre rushed her with his scimitar mid-draw. The lamia was right behind him, rapidly closing the distance with a blade as long as her body.

All of their attacks were perfectly timed to land one after another. The best way to evade each blow was to step right into the next, but Claire was unconcerned. She slithered straight towards the incoming spear and spun her body out of the way. The thorae reached her next, but another Boris appeared between her teeth and warded off his blow. Her weapon met the lamia’s after tracing its way across her friend’s, but unlike his sword, hers failed to survive the encounter. The metal lizard opened his jaws, clamped them around the blade, and snapped it right in half.

Only the mage’s attack remained, but a vector displaced his wrists as he unleashed his spell. The lightning bolt flew into the lamia’s back instead and zapped her through her silken armour. Blood leaked from her eyes as her body was burnt and broken, destroyed from the inside as the violent energy ripped through.

Claire attacked her again before she could recover. Swiping up with her claws, she carved several marks deep into her flesh. Ice sprouted from the snake’s wounds and crawled all over her body. She screamed as the magic took hold, fearful of its ultimate effect—the bloody explosion to which it built up—but the sweet release of death took her hand before the spell could run its course. It came in the form of a foot, a massive, hooved foot. Claire kicked her in the face whilst dashing towards their backliner, completely crushing her skull and splattering her brains all over the chamber’s walls.

Her target, the mage, threw up both his hands and formed a barrier between them. It was a powerful shield made up of six different layers of lightning. Not even a highly refined metal could pierce through it unscathed. And yet, the snake-moose charged right past. It was simply a matter of compatibility—bad luck on the caster’s part. The lightning resistance she had acquired during her second ascension had persisted through to her third; his wall amounted to little beyond a faint, uncomfortable tingle.

While she was unscathed, he was stuck screaming. Boris transformed into a saw and pushed his blade back and forth. Not flesh nor bone could resist him; he tore right through the mage and forced his body apart. His victim tried his best to regenerate, but with his master’s powers, the lizard stole his health far faster than he could recover and condemned him to an early grave.

It was a blatant taunt, a spice laced with the man’s dying breath. A less disciplined party would no doubt have taken the bait, but the three remaining assassins took the chance to regroup instead. They kept their guards up and their weapons high as they inched their way towards the door.

They sprinted after a moment’s delay, but a frozen lattice prevented their escape. It covered more than just the frozen doorway. All four walls, the floor, and the ceiling were encased in Claire’s icy web. The magic was not without a significant cost, but she gritted her teeth and endured.

Transforming Boris into a scythe, she delivered a sweeping swing as they struggled against the unbreakable ice. The thorae threw up his guard. His sword held true even as the lizard’s tip bore into its blade, but the same could not be said for his stance. Beaten in raw strength, he was thrown into the nearest pillar, where he made a massive crater befitting his four-meter frame.

The centaurs were not quite as lucky. The warrior that had so foolishly gambled on throwing his spear was still without a weapon. His ally, the man with the massive arms, was likewise missing his daggers. Still, he stepped forward to catch the scythe by the shaft, only for it to become a greatsword the moment he locked in his position. The snath-turned-blade cleaved right through his flesh and split him in two. The spearman tried ducking the blow, but without the speed to follow through, he only shifted the impact from his chest to the base of his neck.

Claire breathed a sigh as she watched the horse-men struggle to put themselves back together. She almost wanted to walk away without finishing them, if not for all the risks and wasted experience that such an action surely entailed.

“You’re supposed to be Cadrian.” She spoke as she swung her claymore. “Why are you so weak?” Another swing. And then a second and a third and a fourth.

Their attackers were some of the most pathetic warriors she had ever seen. It was hardly a matter of perception. She was no longer comparing them to the elites that her father hand-raised nor the heroic gladiators that sought fame and glory, but the so-called knights under the western nobles’ employ. The ragtag soldiers were already weak, often weaker than the adventurers and vagabonds that wandered the lands. There were even times when mere bandits would give them trouble. And yet, the supposed assassins were even weaker. They were so pathetic that she could have easily overwhelmed them two, maybe three-hundred levels ago. It was like someone had scraped the muck off the bottom of the barrel and ordered it in their direction. Teamwork was the only skill they had.

She was so disappointed by the training dummies that she felt the urge, the need, to deny their existence. And with her blade, she did just that. Again and again, she swung the weapon. Until their health was reduced to zero.

Only then did she step over their bodies and turn her blade on the last survivor.

He was no better than the rest of his ragtag crew. The only reason he lived at all was because his weapon was of a higher grade. Whatever the case, an interrogation was in order. An average Cadrian spy would surely stay firm in the face of torture, but she suspected it wouldn’t be long before she learned the name of the thorae’s master.

Claire was about to grab him when the space between them was rent apart. There was a sudden flood of raw energy, a burst of power that felt like it would char her flesh right off her frozen bones.

Her shard screamed. The divinity bottled up within it swirled with all the violence of a raging storm, threatening to burst free in defiance of his power.

It was exactly what she had felt when the cuttlefish had entered the shop, when the spider had tried to ambush her, and when the cat had spirited her away.

The undeniable, suffocating presence of an almighty god.

Unmaking the flesh of those she had slain, the deity borrowed their components to form itself a body. Its shape was loosely humanoid. Two long legs, a chiselled midsection, a pair of fluffy, muscular arms, and a fiery, golden mane. He was a two-legged lion whose ancient tattoos shone in a brilliant blood red—the man known to the world at large as the god of the hunt.

Her hands shook.

Kael'ahruus was one of the oldest gods. He had been accruing his divinity since the first sentients began consuming each other for power. He was one of the most powerful beings to have ever existed. And unlike most of the other gods whose presences she had graced, he was entirely hostile. He wasn't even looking at her. And yet, she could feel his thirst, his hunger, his desire to grip her between his jaws and tear her to pieces. But even with bloodlust pouring from every fibre of his body, he kept his focus on the fallen ogre.

“How pitiful.” His voice was deep, but his words were poorly enunciated. They were strung together in a low, guttural groan that could have been easily mistaken for a growl. “You overestimated your prowess and let your prey turn the tables.”

The thoraen warrior slowly raised his head and revealed a set of clouded eyes. His consciousness was barely present. Being struck against the concrete had shaken his brain and stolen his ability to think. He wouldn’t have had any trouble getting back on his feet had he been one of her father’s elites. But he was not. The ordinary citizen could do none of the things that his countrymen so easily accomplished. It took everything he had just to keep his mind afloat.

He parted his lips and worked his throat, but no words emerged from within it.

“Don’t worry,” said the god. “I would never abandon one of my own. I’ll lend you my power. It’ll be just a tiny piece. But it’s enough for you to defeat your crippled quarry.”

Again, the ogre opened his mouth, and again no sound emerged. But the god nodded nonetheless and raised his clawed paws.

Claire did not simply stand around and wait for the man to fix her foe. She knew that the best choice was to run away.

And yet, she found her body propelled towards the threat. She ordered her arms, her legs, and her wings to stop. But nothing listened. She couldn’t prevent herself from springing forward at top speed and driving her lizard-turned-axe straight into the deity’s flank.

No blood was drawn.

Boris’ edge slid right off his pelt, leaving not even the slightest scratch in his otherwise perfect fur. Even the lion’s gear was undamaged. The seemingly fragile linen shirt that adorned his upper body was every bit as unharmed as its wearer.

He didn’t even seem to notice. He only continued to speak to the half-dead ogre without paying even the slightest bit of attention to the violent assault.

She regained control of her body once the attack was complete, only to strike another blow. Driving her feet through the dungeon’s floor and securing her position, she spun her tail with her lizard turned into a thousand-pound blade. His abilities further bolstered the attack’s output. Boris raised his mass to the absolute highest value he could whilst sharpening his razor into a paper-fine edge. But it slid right off the lion’s body. Again.

There was only one thing that changed. The god had gone from completely unbothered to moderately surprised. He raised a brow and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his lips slowly twisting into a smile as she drained his health, his magic, and even his divinity.

He flicked his tail after a brief moment of contemplation. The fuzzy whip moved so quickly she could barely tell it touched her blade. It was just a glancing blow. But she was blown away.

By the time she steadied herself and rose to her feet, the lion was already gone. In his place stood the warrior that she should have defeated, albeit with none of the wounds she had inflicted on his form. His muscles changed, condensing into a cluster that was not quite as thick but nearly twice as dense. His once lime-green skin had turned a darker shade and the black bands that had stretched across his bee-like abdomen appeared on his arms and legs as well. There were three on each wrist and three on each ankle, along with a tattoo shaped like a lion’s face etched right into his chest. His eyes shone with a golden light—the very same glow that filled her own when her divine powers were drawn, just a thousand times as stable. His hair grew out; his standard military cut was replaced by a flowing mane dyed in a rich honey blonde.

It was not quite an ascension, but his race had clearly changed, and so too did each of his numbers.

When he dashed, it was at thrice the speed that she expected. And yet, his performance was still lacklustre. Matching his swing with one of her own, she knocked his weapon out of his hands and buried her blade in his flesh. He tried to fight back, but she crushed him beneath one of her talons and drained his health away.

It should have been his end. He couldn’t move and not even Pollux could outpace her theft.

But then the god’s presence returned, followed shortly by her victim’s disappearance. She groaned as she looked around the room. Much to her chagrin, her foe was gone with no hint of a log to prove his demise.

Claire bit her lower lip. She was so annoyed that she likely would have smashed the floor had she not spotted a peculiar detail. Her doorway-destroying shenanigans had covered the room in a layer of dust. And the fighters had all disturbed it. Clear prints marked all of the places where each had touched the ground.

All of the places but one.

The spot where the god had stood remained completely unmarked.