The vision was dim. Even with her eyes open, it remained so.
As soon as Angie opened her eyes, she realized she couldn’t see anything and instinctively began to search her memory.
The memories that surfaced were hazy at best. However, there were a few pieces of information she could confirm.
Angie had entered the Abyss, and after Richard disappeared, she lost consciousness.
With enough information to make some guesses, the woman rolled her eyes while still lying down.
All she could see was a dim space. It was an arid and bizarre place where distances were almost incomprehensible.
Only after taking in this strangeness visually did Angie finally grasp her situation.
For some reason, she had vanished like Richard.
At least, by Aslan’s standards, that would have been the case.
From Angie’s perspective, it felt like she had been blown somewhere.
And once the situation became clear, the task before the woman became apparent.
Finding a way out of this dark space seemed uncertain, but Angie had to go to Aslan.
Angie was Aslan’s companion, and Aslan would surely need her help too.
Just as Angie was about to rise, a voice interrupted.
“Wait!”
A shrill voice. Familiar. A flash of white hair interjected as Angie started to get up.
Unconsciously throwing a punch, Angie stopped mid-motion, causing something to collapse on top of her.
Simultaneously, a thunderous sound echoed.
KWAH-AH-AH-ANG!
It sounded like Angie’s punch. The force tore through the air with a sound akin to thunder.
When the sound faded, something scattered.
KWAAJ-JI-JIK!
What scattered resembled bricks.
These bricks fell near Angie’s head.
Glancing around, Angie realized she was next to a partially collapsed wall.
Moreover, she noticed Ereta lying on her stomach.
Feeling the slight weight pressing on her, Angie furrowed her brow but then noticed several oddities.
First, Ereta’s body was soaked in blood.
Second, upon checking her surroundings without getting up, Angie saw that the area looked like ruins made of shadows.
Lastly, there was a strange sense of familiarity. Overlaid on this familiarity were unmistakable signs of artificial destruction, as if something had flown in at high speed, pierced through, and shattered.
When Angie pieced all this together, she finally examined Ereta’s condition more closely.
There was a hole in Ereta’s body.
An injury that would’ve killed an ordinary person.
A severe wound that only Ereta could survive from. Recognizing this, Ereta muttered with a dull expression.
“You’re awake now? I wasn’t sure if you were just pretending to sleep.”
Though she said this, Ereta didn’t truly believe it because she continued speaking before Angie could respond.
“I’ll give you a quick explanation—stay still and listen. Don’t move unnecessarily.”
“What…?”
“We’re currently with an archer who shoots as well as Tiamat.”
Upon hearing the word “archer” and seeing the destruction around her, Angie’s gaze shifted, prompting Ereta to pull something out.
It was something much smaller than even a hand crossbow bolt.
“This archer shoots arrows so small. With these tiny arrows, this archer can break through walls to attack.”
“Hold on, I’m confused—are this archer our enemy? Or did you do something…”
Angie’s confused question didn’t warrant a response, and Ereta continued with the same flat expression.
“While you were asleep, I explored the area. These injuries are from that time. We haven’t met them yet, but given this, they must be our enemy. Besides, who living in a place like this would be normal?”
That was reasonable. When Angie closed her mouth, Ereta added,
“It’s just us here. Not only Aslan but Richard, Phey, and Tiamat are nowhere to be seen. Neither is anyone else. Still, we’ve figured out one thing for sure.”
Something certain. Speaking while still lying down, Angie listened as Ereta leaned over her, feigning fear as she swallowed.
“That archer is a high-ranking priest. And we two need to capture that high-ranking priest.”
Upon hearing the addition, Angie’s eyes widened.
“Maybe the others are in similar situations.”
While it was unknown, Angie could feel it the moment she heard those words.
Right behind her head, beyond the wall, very far away.
She could sense an incredibly powerful divine power.
The high-ranking priest was targeting Angie and Ereta.
*
Approaching Possessors.
As Aslan watched them, he kept his guard up while alternately loosening or gripping the swords in both hands.
The approaching priests.
They had no faces. More precisely, their features lacked sufficient shading to form any recognizable facial details.
All they had was darkness and shadow.
Their faces, limbs, and bodies were formed entirely from this, making them enemies fittingly described as the army of darkness.
Aslan exhaled slowly while watching them.
Still, on the left side of his vision, a list of possessed individuals scrolled like obituaries.
It was an unpleasant feeling.
It was also a life-or-death crisis.
The number of enemies rushing toward him was countless.
Moreover, his companions were gone. They had likely been blown away by the Dark Ram’s trick.
On the other hand, the enemies before him were numerous and massive, leaving him feeling utterly helpless.
In this situation, facing all these enemies alone left him disheartened.
The situation was dire. But Aslan did not despair.
Because kneeling without resistance was not something Aslan would do.
Failing without putting up a fight was not Aslan’s style. Thus, Aslan poured his focus into discipline and purity.
Even though the system interface covered his entire left eye, the enemies were countless, and the situation was bleak, Aslan instead twisted his lips into a wry smile.
Because he had never faced a situation that wasn’t a hardship.
Instead, recalling his death brought calmness to Aslan.
Aslan had fought while dying and swung his sword even after death, ultimately achieving victory.
Though it might not have been pleasant, it was still a victory.
Recalling that clear victory, Aslan turned his body to face the possessors.
Calmly, he observed the enemies.
While observing, Aslan realized something.
There was no high-ranking priest present.
Or rather, none appeared in the system as a high-ranking priest.
The highest-ranking priests listed in the system were completely absent.
So…
“Are they all at the level of regular priests?”
A brief mutter. Aslan immediately closed his eyes, reopened them, and murmured again.
“Acceleration.”
With that word, mana surged from his tattoos, wrapping around his entire body.
Mana flowed through his veins, reaching his heart, activating his entire body in sync with its beating.
With no options available, Aslan did what he had always done: fight.
Immediately, the priests charged.
Facing them, Aslan ran forward as well.
As they drew closer, these were beings from different worlds, each racing toward their own end.
Now, they had become playthings of the Abyss, but once, they had been proud.
There was no difference between them and Aslan.
Had Aslan been less fortunate, he might have ended up on the same path.
Thus, Aslan gripped his sword without hatred toward them and stood firm.
The first thing extending toward Aslan was an iron fist—a possessor made of steel.
He thrust two iron fists in a boxing stance. As the consecutive punches approached, Aslan swung his purity at them.
CHER-JERIC!
The fist split apart. Despite being slashed along with the arm, the possessor hesitated not and pulled back the other fist.
Before it could extend again, Aslan moved.
As Aslan’s trajectory overlapped with the possessor’s and separated, his transformed mace broke through the skull and withdrew.
Swinging around, Aslan completed his rotation. At the point where his movement ceased, bullets erupted from behind him.
Countless rounds. Each one potent enough to kill a person.
Aslan blocked them with his shield, converted from discipline.
KA-GA-GA-KANG!
Sparks flew off the shield. Though shaken by the impact, Aslan steadied himself the moment the gunfire ceased, transforming his discipline into a spear braced against the ground.
KANG!
This steadied his balance, and Aslan adjusted his posture, aiming his weapon at the approaching enemies.
Among them was the cyborg who had fired bullets at Aslan earlier.
Pushing off with his spear, Aslan extended his purity, piercing through the cyborg’s chest plate.
POOF! A faint sensation reached his hand.
Though it felt unpleasant, like cutting through a bag full of water, Aslan ignored it, gripping his purity tightly and shifting his foot.
His reflexes reacted almost simultaneously.
‘Thunder Call.’
KWOR-RORORONG!
The thunder roared, and the telekinetic force reacting to Aslan’s will tore through the air.
Avoiding this force, Aslan soared into the sky.
Ascending, Aslan saw a black tide rushing toward him.
This tide consisted of possessors from various worlds.
Among them, a werewolf renowned for physical prowess leaped toward Aslan.
Its target was his ankle, intending to grab and throw him to the ground. Anticipating this, Aslan moved the moment his ankle was caught.
‘Knight Break.’
The leg, darkened by Aslan’s technique, slipped past the werewolf’s strike and kicked upward.
Though the force was insufficient to knock it far, it provided enough recoil.
Using this recoil, Aslan twisted his body mid-air, re-gripping his transformed discipline into a spear.
KWAAJ-JI-JIK!
And he descended. He fell alongside the werewolf.
The spear pierced the werewolf’s heart, and Aslan transformed it into an axe, smashing and withdrawing it from the chest.
Swinging the axe, Aslan layered his purity along the same trajectory.
The cyborg whose chest had been pierced earlier lost its head to the axe, and an adventurer’s skull split horizontally.
A perfectly precise attack.
However, Aslan frowned.
Embedded in his side, above the armor, was a projectile mimicking abyssal shrapnel.
Small caliber rounds. The kind often carried by women for self-defense in Westerns.
Quickly scanning his surroundings, he spotted a cowboy at a distance. He also saw a miniature gun with dual barrels.
Next, the cowboy drew a revolver.
Panning. A technique Aslan vaguely remembered from movies. He changed his discipline from an axe to a shield and extended it.
KA-GA-GA-KANG!
White sparks erupted from the shield as Aslan was pushed back. The force was immense.
But he held his ground. Revolvers typically hold six shots.
Misjudging this, Aslan slightly relaxed the grip on his arm holding the shield when three additional shots embedded themselves.
KA-KA-KANG!
The revolver carried by the cowboy held nine shots, a detail Aslan had no way of knowing.
Due to this lack of information, Aslan was pushed back and fell.
Before he could rise, three figures rushed toward the fallen Aslan.
A martial artist in ancient Chinese attire, a regressed individual with a spear in formal wear, and a warrior clad in futuristic exoskeleton armor wielding a sword and shield.
It was a dire situation.
Yet, Aslan neither panicked nor made rash decisions out of anxiety.
He simply did what he could in that moment.
Transforming his discipline into a sword, Aslan rose while still falling and swung it.
Two swords charged toward him, merging with the martial artist’s blade and the futuristic sword, along with the fantasy-like spear aimed at his trajectory.
At the moment of collision.
Something flew through the air.
KWACH!
It struck the regressed individual.
Shattering the skull and splitting open the cranium—it was an axe.
Not forged by the Abyss, but crafted by human or equivalent hands.
Seeing this, Aslan remained unfazed and continued swinging his sword.
CHAWK!
Aslan’s swing severed the neck, and the thrust of his discipline pierced and shattered the regressed individual’s chest.
With a groan, the Abyss seeped onto the Abyss-colored floor.
Something else flew through the air and crushed the plum blossom swordsman.
KWAD-D-D-D-DDEK!
Like a meteor hurtling through the sky.
It flattened the plum blossom swordsman, extracting the axe from the head of the strongest regressed individual of the Gate Era and swinging it.
The swung axe crushed the space opera resolver, while the sword held in the other hand flickered with flames capable of burning the world, forcing the other possessors to retreat.
The figure who landed was not someone consumed by the Abyss.
Nor was it someone who grew up in Geladridion.
If anything, this person exuded a distinctly Nordic charm.
A muscular frame emanating masculinity, a typical Viking helmet, a half-sleeve chainmail draped over him, and a grayish-blue cloak.
A familiar face.
Thus, Aslan recognized him.
Wrapped in winds blowing from the underworld, the Viking warrior stood before Aslan.
He was part of the formless one, the only possessor not swallowed by the Abyss, and simultaneously the only person capable of reversing this situation.
Just as Aslan realized this, the warrior spoke.
“Do you require assistance?”
It was a leisurely voice that didn’t match his fierce appearance.
