Amidst the occurrence of a battle happening somewhere.
The Artist was resting, occupying the prepared reception room.
The Artist’s legs were comfortably stretched out, resting on the well-crafted chair of the reception room, and the body leaned back into a chair cushioned with soft leather and fur.
In such a relaxed posture, the Artist indulged in grape wine.
Perhaps not their own possession, yet they savored it from an ornate brass goblet, savoring its aroma in their mouth.
There was no awkwardness in the elder’s leisure as if accustomed to such indulgence.
As if this space had always been theirs, reacting as though it had always been this way.
One might have been perplexed by such an air of the Artist, but Valerie, sharing the same space, remained calm.
She simply held the large goblet offered by the Artist with both hands and quietly sipped.
Olpasbet had been walked to, trampling and pressing countless things beneath clean feet, and the woman idly wiggled her toes, caressing the carpet for a long time before lifting her eyes at the felt gaze.
The crimson irises were dim even under the flickering candlelight.
“How does it taste?”
The Artist asked while staring into that darkness, glossy yet indiscernible in origin. As the darkness disappeared behind eyelids, the head nodded.
Valerie smiled, answering without any trace of intoxication.
“I like wine.”
“Is that so?”
Sipping again, tilting the hand that cradled the goblet, the woman took another sip without changing expression or demeanor. Her words lacked much persuasion.
“What else do you like?”
“Coffee, perhaps?”
“Coffee?” The Artist wore a puzzled look, but Valerie just smiled it off.
So the Artist quickly dismissed it as something foreign they didn’t know and chuckled while tipping the goblet.
The beverage sloshing in the brass goblet was undoubtedly of premium quality.
A premium quality that evoked old memories for the Artist through its scent.
Thus, the Artist soon lost interest in Valerie and, using the other hand, began examining a sculpture stolen from the study. The wine sipped occasionally was merely a bonus.
This sculpture seemed carved from melted white steel, bearing some ominous form despite having an uncontainable purity nestled within.
It reminded someone of a certain color, and after pondering something deeply, the Artist opened their mouth with a smile.
“Regrettable.”
At Valerie’s gaze turning towards them, the Artist clutched the sculpture.
“Do you know about Ereta?”
Valerie didn’t answer, but the Artist continued as if narrating to themselves.
“Ereta has three titles, right? Saint of Slaughter, Veteran of Blunt Weapons, Daughter of Spiders. Which one do you think is the most true title?”
Still, a fragmented silence flowed, but the Artist went on unperturbed.
“The Saint of Slaughter doesn’t apply now that she’s lost her power. She can’t slaughter anymore, nor is she a saint.”
It was true. Now abandoned by the deity, she wasn’t a saint. As for slaughter, that may depend on perspective.
“The Veteran of Blunt Weapons—while warriors of the Supreme Divinity or martial monks might not agree with me, I still think this title is absurd.”
“Why?”
“Because what passed as skill was merely brute force attracting divine attention, and I don’t consider that pure skill. Ultimately, now that I’ve lost my strength, isn’t it just clumsy technique?”
Valerie tilted her head and asked.
“So, the Daughter of Spiders?”
The Artist smirked. Instead of answering, they said something entirely different as if it explained the reason.
“What do you think Ereta is?”
Valerie didn’t answer. The silence persisted. The Artist sipped the wine and looked down at the goblet.
“Ereta is a hybrid. But a hybrid without the usual physical traits hybrids tend to have.”
Valerie didn’t respond to this muttering.
“How did it come to be, do you think?”
Just Valerie smiling. The Artist spoke knowing full well that it was the smug grin of someone who already knew everything.
“Ereta was made to become that way from the start.”
Saying this, the Artist tilted the goblet and reclined their head. The wine poured into their mouth disappeared into the stomach without causing any intoxication due to their body’s complete immunity to poison.
Holding the now-empty goblet, the Artist leaned heavily into the chair.
“A vessel capable of containing divinity, perfectly adapted to Geladridion while still being able to fully accept it. That’s Ereta.”
At Valerie’s faint presence that could vanish with a glance, the Artist kept their eyes on her and spoke.
“Among the three evils and various exalted ones, each tried different methods to step into Geladridion. The Supreme Divinity hoped for human technology capable of altering the world’s laws… The mother who bore herself sought to crush the world with her weight. The Immovable One merely sought to find a way by swimming around.”
Straightening up after leaning back, the Artist inclined forward. Despite leaning, the tall frame of the Artist retained clear lines.
The robust and trained body of an elder who fought as a high priest for a long time.
Leaning forward, the Artist spoke to Valerie.
“Of the three evils, the spider devised a particularly unique method. Pouring all its divinity into a vessel that had long adapted to receiving its divinity within Geladridion.”
Valerie sipped her goblet, and the Artist grinned.
“That vessel is Ereta, created by the spider itself.”
Setting down the goblet, Valerie appeared genuinely interested. The Artist, seeing this expression while knowing it was fake, continued speaking.
“Twenty lesser divinities were sacrificed. And over a long period, the child was created using the spider’s own divinity as the matrix. Once completed, it was nurtured with abundant divinity. Truly the daughter of spiders, wouldn’t you say?”
This completion happened around twenty years ago. Listening to the Artist, Valerie silently agreed.
“In the end, the completed Ereta was a failure. Despite the effort, the vessel was too small for the spider’s essence to transfer.”
Thus, naturally, they tried to make use of it somehow.
The Artist suddenly recalled the moment Ereta was born.
A sight akin to the birth of a demigod. That moment.
A spider creating life instead of fire, birthing something amidst the complex weaving of flames and destruction.
A body made of flesh and bones from lesser divinities.
Already practically a priest from birth, yet since it was solely made from Geladridion, Ereta was essentially human.
The Artist, who had given up, started anew with this new life in both hands.
Recalling this, the Artist stared at the emptied brass goblet and smirked.
Creak!
Then crushed the brass goblet and dropped it to the floor. The dried-out metal rolled like a ball across the carpet, leaving a dark stain.
“Well, anyway. Thanks to that, Ereta could be a high priest without changing forms like Blaz or me. Naturally, as a vessel for divinity.”
Standing up with aimless steps, the Artist wandered. The spacious reception room was filled with things broken and carved by them.
“How she became human, I don’t know. Probably won’t tell either. I once thought of finding out, though.”
The wandering steps stopped, and the Artist sat on the tallest chair. Leaning their sparsely-haired head against the backrest and closing their eyes, Valerie spoke.
“What would you do if you found her?”
Such a pointless question for someone claiming omniscience. The Artist slightly laughed.
“Would I eat her up or something? Unlike my friend Blaz, I don’t go for raw human flesh…”
The response trailed off. Opening his eyes, the Artist met Valerie’s steady gaze.
The darkness swirling in her eyes consumed the surrounding light.
Smirking bitterly, the Artist quickly turned that bitterness into ferocity, raising the corners of their lips.
“Not so?”
Valerie asked.
“Didn’t you want to eat her?”
Her voice was cheerful, gentle, like the deep darkness of the night.
“An artwork made by carving lesser divinities and pouring power into it. Didn’t you want to eat her?”
The Artist didn’t reply, but Valerie closed her half-open eyes further and smiled. The curves of her eyes and the corner of her mouth drawing arcs. The deepening smile was eerie.
“High priests are bound to be influenced by their deities, right? The Poison-Spitting Dragon, or rather… the deity of the End rooted in hunger. It must be hard for you to escape that influence, right?”
With this statement, she negated all the excuses the Artist had laid out and rested her chin on her hand.
The Artist had no intention of denying or hiding anything.
The woman gently asked.
“So, what do you intend to do?”
The Artist laughed.
That laugh was a sufficient answer.
“Huff!”
A foot covered in red scales shot out, and the bodies struck by the massive foot larger than their face flew helplessly and tumbled across the floor.
Watching those flying people, Aslan casually shook his hand.
The people filling the warehouse, wielding daggers made from broken pickaxes, were already lying on the ground.
Most had fallen after being beaten, albeit for varying reasons.
Subduing them wasn’t difficult at all.
Indeed, considering the entire party consisted of veterans or those close to it, it was only natural.
Even Tiamat, known as the Master Archer but also skilled in combat, possessed the prowess of a top-tier warrior. Thus, prisoners armed with mere daggers stood no chance against the amplified strength channeled through Ereta’s mana tattoos, Lumel’s punches, Phey’s kicks, and Tiamat’s traditional martial arts.
There was no need for Aslan or Angie to actively participate.
When the groans of those crawling on the floor filled the warehouse, Aslan sighed.
“There was no real need to fight this much.”
They had merely hoped for dialogue, yet the others rushed at them with daggers. Just to silence them.
They attacked even after hearing that they had come to assist with the rebellion.
Now that the dust settled, Aslan sighed irritably, realizing there was no room for conversation. The fallen prisoners trembled enough to feel the irritation.
“Hey, you kids should listen when we’re talking… becoming obedient only after getting beaten, really…”
“Maybe they were putting everything on the line. After all, strangers suddenly appearing and offering help during such times—it makes sense they wouldn’t trust us. I understand.”
“Yeah, even Phey probably wouldn’t trust someone strange offering help.”
While this exchange between Tiamat, Lumel, and Phey unfolded, Aslan nodded, imagining how turbulent their rebellion preparations must have been.
This distrust and aggression revealed the betrayals and obstacles they likely faced during their planning.
Regardless, it was clear that the previous approach to persuasion wouldn’t work. So Aslan looked up.
“Catherine.”
Muttering this name unexpectedly, shadows quivered faintly before someone fell through the wooden framework of the warehouse.
The woman with scars on her face and animal ears where hers should be—Catherine.
Landing lightly, she brushed her hair back with a disgruntled expression as she glared at Aslan. As expected, Maria had assigned Catherine to him.
If so, there was no need to explain every detail. Aslan spoke.
“I’ve decided to change plans to join the rebellion. Please relay everything to Lady Maria.”
Everything.
Although Catherine might not excel in basic combat skills, her abilities as a spy were considerable. Indeed, understanding the situation completely, she asked without hesitation.
“When will we execute?”
Execution date. Observing the Northern Empire prisoners sprawled on the floor, Aslan believed the preparation time for the rebellion could be significantly shortened now.
It was as simple as adding the final touch.
Thus, executing immediately after the Artist leaves would suffice. Aslan confidently declared.
“The execution will be when the city guards are busy. When most of them leave the city to guard the mine entrance.”
Without responding, Catherine disappeared.
Waist adorned with an axe, clad in elaborate clothing topped with a breastplate, and sporting a neatly trimmed scruffy beard, the man exuded the image of a greedy warrior.
He was the master of this city, often referred to as Lord Olpasbet more frequently than by his actual name, a title he enjoyed.
After all, when called thus, it usually meant he was about to indulge his greed.
But today was unusually different.
Exhausted, he stared outside from his office window, watching the crowd disappear toward the mine far away.
The man who claimed to be an Artist and a high priest of the deity of the End—one of the Three Evils still known as the Poison-Spitting Dragon.
Entertaining and bidding farewell to him wasn’t an easy task.
How many things were broken, how much food was wasted, and how many prisoners were used to satisfy his vile desires?
Heaving a sigh, he thought he’d have to exercise restraint for a while. To compensate for the current losses, he’d at least need to tighten his belt.
“At least, I’ve set aside unnecessary matters for now.”
It could be considered fortunate in misfortune. Perhaps due to his orders to guard the mine, the guards visible beyond the window were moving busily.
Just as the baron, who had been observing the window for quite some time, noticed something peculiar about this bustle,
“Lord! Lord!”
Suddenly, the door to the office burst open.
“A rebellion! A rebellion has erupted!”
The guard rushing in shouted. Simultaneously, the baron’s face contorted.
