Chapter 43: Pawns Upon the Altar

A few miles away from the mysterious ancient city, a group stood atop a small hill formed from broken bones, shattered weapons, and remnants of rusted armor.

Each member of the group was clad in thick black robes that draped heavily over their bodies.

The fabric was dense and unnatural, concealing every inch of their form from their heads to their boots, leaving no hint of skin, shape, or gender.

Their hoods hung low, casting deep shadows over their faces, shadows so dense that staring into them gave the unsettling illusion of gazing into an endless abyss.

With such identical attire, it was impossible to distinguish one from another.

They stood as if molded from the same template, their presence cold and uniform, like manifestations of a single will rather than individuals.

For a long moment, the group remained motionless, resembling statues carved from darkness.

A heavy silence blanketed the hill.

Even the wind seemed reluctant to pass through the space they occupied.

Time itself appeared to stretch, lengthening until seconds felt like minutes.

At last, one of them broke the silence.

“So… the hunt begins?”

The voice was hoarse and hollow, stripped of age and gender, as if filtered through something inhuman.

“Yes. It has begun,” another replied, their tone identical, dry, rasping, and emotionless.

Once more, silence fell.

A strong wind swept across the hill, tugging at their robes, yet the fabric did not flutter.

It did not even shift by an inch, as though the robes were anchored to something far heavier than flesh.

“Finally…” a third voice murmured. “I hope the ancient legend is true.”

Silence followed again, thick and suffocating.

“We have already gone beyond hope,” another voice answered calmly.

“Everything has been prepared. The sacrifice has begun. At this point, belief is irrelevant. Results are all that matter.”

No one responded.

None of them moved.

There was no way to read expressions hidden beneath those shadows, no way to tell what thoughts lingered behind the abyss-like hoods.

“I heard rats have begun sniffing around our trail,” someone said suddenly.

“Rats will always be rats,” another replied dismissively. “What can they possibly do?”

The atmosphere shifted subtly, as if the group collectively accepted that statement.

“I heard a new specimen has arrived,” a voice said, smoothly changing the subject.

This time, there was a faint ripple among them.

“I heard the same,” another said. “The Federation is desperately trying to hunt him down. As if they are capable of such a thing.”

A dry chuckle followed. “Not while we are watching. We must secure him. He alone could reduce our burden significantly and eliminate the need to request additional… resources.”

The others remained silent, but their stillness spoke of agreement.

“That won’t be possible,” one voice finally said, pausing deliberately.

“He is already part of the sacrifice.”

Silence descended once more.

“At the very least, he will still be useful,” someone else added calmly.

Another chuckled softly. “A pity. It would have been interesting to study his talent.”

“Who cares about talent?” a voice scoffed. “No matter how gifted he is, he remains nothing more than a pawn destined for sacrifice.”

“Enough,” another interjected. “Our focus should be on what comes after. Once the sacrifice is complete, everything will change.”

“That is correct,” a voice agreed. “This entire floor will belong to us.”

While the robed figures quietly discussed their anticipated rewards, unaware or unconcerned of the blood already soaking the land, the ancient city itself had begun to stir.

Within its streets, stone men and women now walked freely where silence once reigned.

Their movements were rigid yet purposeful, weapons clutched firmly in stone hands.

Every step echoed with solemn inevitability.

The air grew heavy.

Oppressive.

An ominous energy saturated the atmosphere, as if something ancient and monstrous had begun to awaken from a long, restless slumber.

Thoren moved steadily deeper into the ancient city, his undead minions flanking him in disciplined formation.

After rescuing the Crimson Arc Guild members earlier, he had parted ways with them, offering only a brief warning before leaving.

Whether they heeded his words or not was no longer his concern. He had done what he deemed necessary.

His steps were firm and measured, his gaze fixed forward.

Along the way, he witnessed countless deaths.

Awakeners were slaughtered by human stone statues with ruthless efficiency.

Weapons shattered.

Bodies were torn apart.

Blood stained the ancient streets anew.

The brutality of the statues was enough to send chills down the spine of even the most hardened warrior.

Yet Thoren remained composed.

He had already seen the heart of the ancient palace.

He had witnessed the boiling blood sacrifice, the pulsating carvings, and the horrifying ritual at work.

This was no coincidence.

A conspiracy was unfolding.

And those behind it had already been marked as life and death enemies.

Fear did not take root in his heart.

If anything, it was anticipation.

Still, he did not rush.

There was no need.

He wanted to understand what had drawn both the Crimson Arc Guild and the Silver Crest Guild into this cursed place.

As he ventured farther, the buildings gradually thinned out.

The ancient cobblestone roads beneath his boots faded into cracked earth, then into barren soil.

Soon, he arrived at a desolate path lined with dead, twisted trees.

Their branches clawed at the sky like skeletal hands frozen mid-scream.

Thoren paused briefly, his gaze lingering on one of the trees, before continuing forward.

The number of dead trees increased, forming a forest of decay.

Beyond it, a massive mountain rose into view.

The mountain bore the scars of forgotten time.

Deep spiderweb cracks spread across its dark surface, as though it were on the verge of collapsing under its own age.

Yet Thoren’s attention was drawn not to the mountain itself, but to the ancient gate embedded at its base.

The gate was colossal, engraved with countless runes that pulsed faintly with ominous energy.

The air around it churned inward, warping space slightly, as though something on the other side was drawing everything toward it.

Before Thoren could study it further, a cold, condescending voice rang out.

“You must be the Necromancer who has been stirring up the abyss.”

Thoren turned slightly.

Around the gate stood multiple groups of people, all watching him with open hostility.

Fresh blood stained the ground at their feet, bodies lying discarded like trash.

A burly young man stepped forward, his expression twisted with disdain.

Thoren merely glanced at him before shifting his gaze elsewhere, toward a familiar figure.

“My friend,” Arin said with a broad smile as he approached with the Crimson Arc Guild’s elite team. “You finally made it.”

“Guildmaster,” Thoren said calmly, turning fully toward him. “What is going on here?”

The burly young man’s face flushed red with anger.

“You dare ignore me?” Veins bulged on his forehead as he laughed harshly.

“Fine. Let’s see how you plan to leave here alive.”

Nearby, the Silver Crest Guildmaster frowned deeply, his eyes narrowing as he studied Thoren.

They failed?

How is that possible…?

Another group watched from a distance, their irritation toward the Silver Crest Guildmaster barely concealed.

Bounty hunters lingered as well, their gazes sharp with greed and anticipation.

Schemes layered upon schemes.

Yet at the center of it all, Thoren remained unmoved.

Unfazed.

Like a calm eye in the middle of a brewing storm.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep