Chapter 11: The Conspiracy Lurking Behind
While the investigation team from another world was mired in fear, within the Imperial Capital, a small banquet was being held in a corner of the city.
Surrounded by three rocky mountain ranges, the Imperial Capital was also known as the City of Three Mountains. These mountains, enchanted with countless spells, formed a defense more reliable than any city wall. Beyond these mountains, in the eyes of everyone—including those on the same side—he had no connection to a good reputation whatsoever.
But this time, everyone who suspected Moros was wrong—he was observing Joshua purely out of guilt.
After all, the two demon-blooded dragons that had assassinated Joshua had set out from his location.
Even though he had erased all clues and information related to himself, and the dragon slayer from the North didn't seem overly suspicious, Moros still felt a nagging unease. This compelled him to constantly search for information about Joshua, as if only that could set his mind at ease—only to be misunderstood by others.
"Steinar, what does the Duke mean exactly? Our relationship shouldn't warrant you hiding even this from me."
Arriving at the banquet hall's entrance, where the sounds of nobles exchanging greetings and pleasantries could already be heard, Count Moros stopped. He bent slightly and spoke in a low, serious tone to the old man before him: "Don't beat around the bush. I'm not so easily frightened by your plans."
Could these people really be planning to move against that Northern fellow? Surely they weren't that idle? He was a Gold High-rank—did the Duke truly think he was His Majesty the Emperor?
"What plans? You're overthinking it. As for Joshua..."
Pressed by his acquaintance, Steinar had no choice but to show some sincerity. His eyes narrowed into slits as he said flatly: "He's been too prominent. As a former member of the noble faction, he's now leaning so quickly toward the Imperial family—no matter what, he has to pay some price. The Duke once extended aid during his father's time of hardship. Though Joshua might not know this, regardless, it's a betrayal."
"We're merely reclaiming what we once gave."
Spoken with such righteous indignation, yet it's still the same old tune. These old nobles are truly too corrupt (fǔxiǔ).
Moros shook his head slightly, his expression unchanged, but a flicker of disdain passed through his mind: And when it comes to revenge, you're already too late.
This noble, renowned for his wide connections, couldn't help but recall the last time he communicated with those massive, long-horned, winged monsters. Beneath their calm exterior, their anger had been like molten lava.
A dragon's nest, two powerful aberrant dragons—those flying monsters wouldn't willingly suffer such a great loss.
— Far South, Nameless Island, Beneath the Deep Cave.
"Did you get his blood?"
"We got it."
In a dark, chaotic rock hall filled with shadow, a low voice echoed continuously.
The hall was over a hundred meters on each side, square-shaped, surrounded by all kinds of twisted, grotesque decorations and statues. The floor tiles were carved with vile reliefs and blasphemous runes. Eight massive stone pillars supported the hall, and on the vaulted ceiling, patterns seemed drawn with dried blood. Using the pillars as anchor points, they formed a massive magical array.
At the core of this array, in the center of the hall, floated an obsidian altar suspended in midair. Two enormous figures stood beside it, conversing in a strange, low language.
"This is the armor he used in the army. It's soaked with his blood and that of the orcs. Getting this armor took considerable effort," said a deep voice.
"Are you sure we have the right target?" asked a low voice.
"That's only if those orcs are still alive. Though we hate that guy, we have to acknowledge his strength... Enough, let's begin the ritual."
"Heh, heh."
The low voice laughed: "This is a curse using the power of a true god. No one in the mortal world can resist it."
The deep voice was filled with contempt and anger: "Let those dragon slayers know that killing our kind comes at the cost of life—and everything."
As they spoke, a set of battered armor, covered in black scabs of dried blood, suddenly appeared in the center of the obsidian altar. Countless tentacles made of pitch-black mist extended from the altar, crawling over the armor. With the tentacles' trembling, black-red, vein-like patterns emerged on the altar. A murky crimson light flared brightly, and the blood array on the vaulted ceiling pulsed with the rhythm of magic, breathing chaotic energy like a living thing.
And in the distant North.
A tall warrior with black hair and red eyes, carrying his weapon, was walking toward the road to the Imperial Capital.
(To be continued)