"We'll circle around the valley, take a wide detour to avoid bringing trouble to the soldiers stationed below at this time…"
Allen closed the map he'd been studying and turned to see Vesemir thoughtfully weighing a dwarven bomb in his hand. After a pause, he said, "Still, yes, we're leaving just like this."
"The curse of the dark god is insidious. Even if we were to swoop down from the skies and drop bombs, there's no guarantee we wouldn't get caught in its effects."
"And if the 'good girl' gets attacked…"
He didn't finish the sentence. Vesemir visibly shuddered, gripping the Royal griffin's mane tightly before securing the dwarven bomb back in his pack.
"Cawww!"
The Royal griffin raised its neck, cutting through the murky clouds with a sweep of its wings.
The two witchers exchanged glances but remained silent.
The gray cliffs below were teeming with necrophages, their numbers so dense they looked like flood. Beyond the cliff's edge, Scurvers—grotesque giants of the forest—emerged halfway from the treeline, their massive forms dwarfing the surrounding landscape.
From seven directions, they surged forth, crashing through trees and leaving claw-like gouges in the vast forest.
Within these trails, too, were swarms of necrophages. Beneath the forest's dense canopy, there were likely even more.
To Allen's surprise, when the Royal griffin appeared, none of the necrophages gave chase. They did not attack or make any movements at all. Instead, they simply tilted their heads skyward, staring with blood-red eyes at the newcomers.
The wind seemed to stop.
The entire forest fell into a deathly, eerie silence.
The dark god was watching them!
"Cawww!"
The griffin's uneasy cry jolted the two witchers, who had nearly forgotten to breathe.
Originally, Allen had planned to have the griffin draw the necrophages' attention with a quick provocation before veering away.
But now…
A chilling fear gripped him, as if icy claws were brushing against his heart.
Overwhelmed by a sense of imminent danger, he hastily gave the mental command.
The griffin turned eastward, diverting its flight path 30 or 40 meters away from the cliffs.
The necrophages still did not give chase.
Thousands of cold, unblinking stares simply watched them leave in silence.
It was a long while before the griffin had flown far enough from the valley that the dark, oppressive greenery below turned into a blur, like a smudge of green paint on a canvas. The unsettling feeling finally faded.
And yet, Allen couldn't shake the notion that those countless blood-red eyes were still watching them—watching him.
"Don't worry," Vesemir said, lightly patting his shoulder.
Allen turned his head.
"It's the same old trick," Vesemir muttered, blinking slowly. "The dark god is trying to scare us because it can't actually do anything. All it can do is intimidate."
"You've encountered Dark Gods before?"
"Witchers who live long enough encounter everything," Vesemir said with a faint smile. "So yes, I've faced them—more than once."
He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, before murmuring:
"Humans always need something to believe in."
"Women pray to Melitele for safe childbirth and happy homes… or to Freya for beauty and love."
"Knights worship Kreve, hoping the Father of Skies will clear their minds of doubts and weaknesses, empowering them to fight evil."
"Scholars revere the Prophet Lebioda, yearning for the saint to share his wisdom…"
"And the lost souls? What do they worship?"
"Dark Gods?" Allen ventured.
"Yes, Dark Gods. The lost often turn to malevolent deities," Vesemir nodded. "Unlike righteous gods, these dark ones are strangely generous. They offer power, wealth, vengeance, curses, and more… often for the mere cost of another's blood and life."
"And isn't that such a simple price to pay?"
Allen didn't respond.
Vesemir didn't mind and continued with a sigh: "But Dark Gods are always greedy. Beyond the sacrifices of others' lives and flesh, they eventually covet the souls of their followers themselves."
"Their corruption always begins in the mind before spreading to the body."
"For a time—around a century ago—the Northern Realms were overrun with bizarre creatures: arachnomorphs with human faces, werewolves, bearbeasts, harpies… These abominations appeared wherever human settlements bordered untamed wilderness."
"They were all followers of Dark Gods?" Allen asked.
Vesemir nodded. "At first, we thought these monsters were just strange anomalies, and we hunted them as the contracts demanded. But eventually, we noticed remnants of human features among their corpses."
"That discovery drove us to investigate further, and we found the truth."
"Dark Gods!" Vesemir spat. "These monstrosities were the Dark Gods' handiwork."
"Once we traced the source, things became straightforward," Vesemir said, patting Allen's griffin. "You can always trust your blade. Slay the followers, then destroy the corpses, spirits, and beasts they've corrupted."
"After that, the Dark Gods can only spit threats and stage theatrics like what we just saw."
"Look at me," Vesemir added, gesturing to himself. "Time's passed, and I've nearly forgotten most of those dark god incidents. And yet, here I am, still alive and kicking."
Paired with Vesemir's age, his words carried a weight of authority that couldn't be denied.
Allen felt a sense of relief.
But moments later, the image of an entire valley—a living ritual formed from the flesh and blood of necrophages—flashed through his mind.
He frowned.
"Can it really be that simple?" he wondered.
The curse left by the Eyeball God had baffled even Ianna. It had only been resolved when his soul ascended to Melitele's divine realm.
Perhaps…
Just as humans vary in strength—common folk, sorcerers, and witchers—Dark Gods might also differ in power.
The Eyeball God's curse had been crafted from the heads of mere drowners, yet even that had required the intervention of a righteous deity to lift.
A mere tremor in the Conjunction of the Spheres had allowed it to deploy monsters to construct rituals and spread terror in secret.
What level of dark god was the Eyeball God?
Allen didn't ask Vesemir. He noticed the older witcher's brows furrowed in a stormy scowl.
"He's just trying to reassure me," Allen sighed softly.
The Dark Gods Vesemir spoke of seduced humans for their own ends, inciting bloodshed and chaos.
The Eyeball God, however, had orchestrated its actions with chilling precision, mobilizing necrophages to construct rituals in complete secrecy.
The two were worlds apart.
----------------------------------------
Rustle, rustle.
Chalk scraped against the smooth ground, leaving a series of intricate, twisting lines.
A small crowd gathered around to watch.
After a long while, the chalk suddenly stopped at the end of a broken line.
"This is everything I saw," the chalk's wielder said, exhaling deeply. The speaker was Allen.
Having ridden a giant griffin, Allen had not landed in the Mahakam Mountains.
With Arthur's timely warning, Sara's squad of monster hunters and the royal knights had moved ahead. The god's minions wouldn't catch them, so there was no need to worry.
Thus, after a brief discussion, the two master witchers of the Wolf School decided to fly directly to the mountain behind the Temple of Melitele and sought out Archpriestess Ianna without delay.
The lines and circles drawn with chalk were the depiction of the valley Allen had witnessed.
"This is a ritual, isn't it, Mother Ianna?"
Allen stood and looked toward the elderly Archpriestess surrounded by the crowd. His piercing cat-like blue eyes reflected a sharp intensity.
"It is a ritual," Ianna confirmed grimly. She carefully studied the incomplete ritual diagram Allen had sketched before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "And it's nearing completion. A summoning ritual. Or, to be precise—"
"A god-summoning ritual!"
"What?!"
The surrounding crowd erupted in shock.
The location was beneath the library of the temple, a vast underground chamber.
The walls were hued in shades of dark blue, etched with shimmering runes that pulsed faintly.
This room was specifically designed for ritual studies, with the runes on the walls serving as a divine shield to prevent any unforeseen mishaps during such examinations.
Thus, naturally, the onlookers were all priests with expertise in ritualistic studies.
"Quiet!"
Nenneke's stern voice cut through the noise, restoring order to the chamber.
"A summoning... a god-summoning ritual?" Vesemir asked hesitantly, his tone tinged with unease.
"Exactly as it sounds. This ritual can summon a god," Ianna replied, her expression grim. "Centuries ago, a similar ritual brought the 'Thousand-Legged Bone Serpent' into this world, resulting in the destruction of three major cities, countless villages, and the deaths of nearly a hundred thousand people."
'Three cities… a hundred thousand lives…'
Allen drew a sharp breath.
Ellander had a population of just over eight thousand. That would be the equivalent of wiping out twelve Ellanders. His suspicions were confirmed—the Eyeball God was even more dangerous than he had imagined.
"Archpriestess, how long before this ritual is complete—"
Vesemir's question was abruptly interrupted.
Knock, knock.
The door to the underground chamber creaked open.
A large group of people hurried in, filling the already cramped space to capacity.
"Apologies for the intrusion, Archpriestess Ianna—"
"Wait... what?"
"Allen? Master Vesemir? You've returned?!"
Allen turned to the speaker—Arthur—who stared wide-eyed at him and Vesemir in disbelief.
Beside Arthur stood the elderly Duke Mason, a strikingly beautiful woman in a blue and pale green low-cut dress, and Erni with seven other young witchers.
"We took a shortcut," Allen explained tersely.
Shortcut? Arthur blinked in confusion. He was well-versed in the terrain of the Mahakam Mountains but knew of no direct route to the Temple of Melitele.
"Sir Allen, Master Vesemir, did you really see the last monster nest?" Duke Mason asked anxiously, leaning on his cane.
Allen nodded gravely and was about to describe the horrors of the valley when—
Click, click, click.
The sound of high heels striking the floor interrupted him.
"What is this?" The woman in the dress strode forward gracefully, her gaze fixed on the chalk-drawn ritual diagram.
The faint ripples of magical energy in the air grew stronger.
"Buzz… Buzz…"
The wolf medallions on the two witchers' chests began to tremble.
Allen instantly guessed the woman's identity—Augusta, the Royal sorceress of Ellander.
"Exactly what you think, Augusta," Ianna said softly. "Ellander may face a disaster greater than the May Day Massacre."
"And…"
Her gaze swept past the visibly shaken Duke Mason to Vesemir. "The ritual will be complete in no more than one day."
"The Northern Realms will witness the descent of a god once again, after three centuries."
"There's no time for doubt, surprise, or denial. Let's get straight to the point."
"Duke Mason!" Ianna's tone grew firm, almost commanding. "This is war. Forget your political scheming. You must mobilize all your forces to contain the necrophages in the mountains."
The Archpriestess's words carried the weight of an order, but the Duke didn't seem to mind.
He didn't even question her estimate of the god's imminent arrival. After a moment's thought, he replied directly: "One day... Allowing for preparation, we need at least half a day to deploy troops."
"Mobilizing and positioning soldiers on such short notice is nearly impossible. Even if we succeed, they'll be overwhelmed by the thousands of necrophages."
"It's containment, not extermination," Ianna corrected. "The soldiers aren't the main force—they're just a precaution."
The Duke froze for a moment, but before he could respond, Ianna turned to Augusta.
"Can you contact Lady Tissaia?"
"I'll head back and reach out immediately," Augusta replied decisively. "If the headmistress learns of this, she won't refuse."
"Thank you." Ianna bowed deeply. "The Temple of Melitele will not forget the aid of Aretuza."
"Preventing a god's descent is a sacred obligation enshrined in the Novigradian Union." Augusta left no room for argument. With that, she turned and stepped into a hastily conjured portal.
Before disappearing, she paused and glanced back at Duke Mason.
"Duke, care to join me?"
"Take me with you." The Duke sighed heavily, his hunched form betraying his despair. He understood Ianna's earlier words—if they failed to prevent the god's descent, his soldiers would serve as sacrificial pawns to slow the god's advance.
"Bang."
The portal vanished.
Ianna stayed behind, giving precise orders to Nenneke and the other priests in the chamber.
Allen, Vesemir, and the seven young witchers stood awkwardly in a corner, uncertain of their roles.
For some reason, it seemed as if Ianna had entirely overlooked them.
When it came to preventing the god's descent, the nobles, sorceresses, and even the unarmed priestesses had tasks to fulfill. Yet the witchers, professionals in dealing with monsters and supernatural threats, were utterly ignored.
When most of the priests had been assigned their duties and left, Ianna herself prepared to leave the chamber. Unable to contain himself any longer, Allen spoke up.
"Mother Ianna, what about us?"
"What can we do?"
.....
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