The air in the Decaying Forest didn't just smell of rot; it tasted of ozone and ancient, curdled spite. On the eastern edge of the woods, the environment was being systematically unmade.
Trees that had stood for centuries were reduced to splintered skeletons as streaks of obsidian magic collided with bursts of radiant gold.
Isabel, daughter of the Goddess Rebecca and a living symbol of divine wrath, was dying. Not quickly, and not without a fight that would be sung about in the chapels of the Rebecca's Church, but she was fading.
Her breath came in ragged, burning hitches. Every time she swung her Raphael's Spear to intercept a Dark Cutter, the impact vibrated through her marrow, chipping away at her remaining Divine Power.
"Hahaha...! Is this all the power you can muster up!? Pathetic!"
Malacus, a Servant of Yatan, hovered a few feet off the blighted ground. His priest's robes fluttered in a wind generated by his own dark mana.
A sinister smile stretched his face, eyes wide with the manic glee of a predator who had finally cornered a lioness. He rained down a relentless sequence of Fireballs and dark blades, not just at Isabel, but at the gap in the treeline behind her.
There, huddled in the dirt, were eleven children. They were small, soot-stained, and paralyzed by a terror so profound they couldn't even scream.
They were the "materials" for a ritual Isabel had interrupted—and now, they were the anchor dragging her to her grave.
'Curses...!' Isabel's thoughts were a frantic blur. 'If I keep focusing solely on defending the children, I'll run dry in minutes. My shield is flickering... my grip is failing.'
She looked back at the youngest boy, who was clutching a tattered doll. If she stayed on the defensive, they would all die when her mana hit zero.
If she charged Malacus, the stray area-of-effect spells would incinerate the children before she could close the distance.
Goddess, forgive me for the sin I am about to commit, she prayed, her eyes hardening. She began to shift her weight, preparing to abandon the defensive stance for one final, suicidal burst of speed. She would kill Malacus, even if the cost was her soul and the lives behind her.
Then, the world screamed.
"Extreme Shot—!"
A sound like a localized sonic boom tore through the clearing. A streak of silver light, too fast for the human eye to track, whistled past Isabel's ear, the wind pressure nearly knocking her off her feet.
Malacus's eyes bugged out. In a flicker of instinct, he threw up a Magic Shield, the translucent purple barrier his pride and joy.
The silver projectile hit it and didn't just break it—it pulverized it. The spear buried itself four inches deep into Malacus's side, the force carrying his body backward until he slammed into a blighted oak.
[Critical Hit!]
[Due to the level gap being over 118, the damage you dealt is decreased by 64%]
[You have dealt 42,781 damage.]
The forest went silent, save for the sizzling of dark blood on the silver spearhead. Isabel froze, her sword halfway raised. Was this a new horror? A third party hunting both light and dark?
Five seconds later, a tall figure stepped through the curtain of settling dust. Arthur looked ruffled, his breathing steady but his eyes sharp. He looked at the chaos, then at Isabel's trembling form.
"Arthur...!" The name escaped her like a sob of relief.
Arthur caught her eye and offered a brief, grounding nod. "It seems you're in a predicament, Miss Isabel. Though I'd love to chat, it seems I have to deal with our loud friend first."
Malacus let out a gurgling scream of rage, clutching the silver shaft in his side. His health bar, once a daunting wall of red, had plummeted to 65% in a single hit.
"Who the hell are you...! How dare you interfere in me killing Rebecca's dogs! You have no right to stop me from claiming the honor of slaying one of her symbols!"
Arthur didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a sharp, mocking laugh that echoed through the clearing. "Hehehe... Buhahah! That's the funniest thing I've ever heard. You? Talking about honor?"
Arthur's expression went cold, his levity vanishing instantly. "You use children as shields to gain a mechanical advantage, and you talk about honor? You're not a priest, and you're barely a villain. You're nothing but a worthless idiot who can't win a fair fight."
The insult hit harder than the spear. Malacus's face contorted into a mask of purple fury. He began to chant, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register. The sky darkened further. "I will tear your soul from your marrow! Divine Punishment!"
It was his trump card—a massive, unavoidable strike of dark lightning. But Arthur didn't wait for the incantation to finish.
"Magic Coating!" Arthur shouted.
A shimmering film of mana wrapped around Malacus. The priest laughed through his chanting, assuming the fool was accidentally buffing his magical resistance. But Arthur was already moving his hands through a series of rapid gestures.
"Water Surge!"
A torrent of conjured water erupted from the ground, soaking Malacus and the area within the Magic Coating. The barrier now acted as a container, holding the water in a high-pressure sphere around the priest.
Arthur's eyes glowed with a predatory light. "Chain Lightning!"
The bolt didn't just hit Malacus; it conducted through every cubic inch of the water trapped by the coating.
The discharge was blinding. Malacus tried to abort his spell to cast Dark Cloak, but the paralysis hit him before his brain could send the signal to his tongue.
[Critical Hit!]
[Damage decreased by 64% due to level gap.]
[You have dealt 8,327 damage.]
[Chain Lightning has paralyzed Malacus for 10 seconds.]
Malacus stood frozen, his body twitching with residual blue sparks, his eyes rolled back in his head.
"Isabel! Now!" Arthur barked, not looking back. "Take the children and run! Get to the clearing where the paladins are waiting! I'll hold him off until you're clear!"
"But Arthur, your level—!" Isabel started to protest, her heart hammering. She couldn't leave him to face a Yatan Servant alone.
"Go!" Arthur yelled, his voice cracking with genuine urgency. "If they stay here, they die. Do you want their blood on your hands because you were too stubborn to move?"
Isabel bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. She looked at the children, then at Arthur's back. She saw the set of his shoulders—the weight he was choosing to carry so she wouldn't have to.
With a sharp nod, she gathered the children. They hesitated, looking at the man who had just saved them, but Arthur turned his head slightly and gave them a small, reassuring smile.
"Go on. I'll be right behind you," he promised. As the brush swallowed the group, the paralysis wore off.
Malacus slumped, his breathing heavy, his skin scorched. He looked at the empty space where the children had been, then at Arthur, who was calmly retrieving his first spear and drawing a second.
"You... you had the chance to finish your combo," Malacus spat, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and ego. "Yet you let the girl and the children escape? Hahaha! You're much more idiotic than I thought! You traded your life for a few peasant brats!"
Arthur didn't answer. He simply stood in a low-center-of-gravity stance, dual-wielding the silver spears, his eyes tracking Malacus's every tremor.
Suddenly, Malacus froze. He didn't look at Arthur, but toward the western horizon. His senses, honed by years of dark devotion, picked up a massive surge of holy energy. The Paladins of Rebecca were converging. The "dogs" were coming in packs.
"...It seems you got lucky this time," Malacus growled, his body beginning to dissolve into a swirl of shadows.
"The next time we meet will be your doom. Prepare yourself, for I, the servant of Yatan, will personally kill you! Until then... watch your back, little hero."
With a final, hateful glare, he vanished.
Arthur held his stance for exactly ten seconds. Then, he let out a breath so long and heavy it felt like his lungs were collapsing. He slumped against a tree, his hands shaking.
'He'll likely get stronger by the time he targets Irene...' Arthur thought, wiping sweat from his brow. 'But then again, so will I. I have to.'
The journey back was bathed in the surreal, amber glow of a sunset. For Arthur, Isabel, and the eleven children, the orange light felt like a physical embrace after the claustrophobic darkness of the Abyss Forest.
Arthur walked at the center of the group. To his left, the surviving paladins and priests marched with a new-found reverence, occasionally casting glances at the man who had stood down a Yatan Servant.
To his right, Isabel walked in a strange, stiff silence. Her armor was dented, her cape torn, but every time she caught Arthur looking at the rescued children with a soft, tired smile, her face would turn a bright, indignant crimson.
She'd quickly snap her head forward, her heart doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs.
The children, however, had no such reservations. The initial terror had been replaced by the boundless curiosity of youth.
"Sir Arthur! Is it true you fought a slime the size of a house?" asked a young girl, pulling at his sleeve.
Arthur chuckled. "Actually, it was bigger. And it smelled like rotten lemons. I had to use a lot of soap after that one."
"Tell us about the twins!" another chimed in.
"Alfia and Meteria? They're brave. Just like you all were today," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a gentle tone.
He told them stories of the simple things—helping Anna with her medicine, the chaos of rabbit infestations, and the quiet beauty of the world outside the forest.
The paladins listened, their respect deepening. They saw a man who didn't brag about his power, but focused on the lives he'd touched. Isabel, however, felt a strange, sharp pang in her chest every time he mentioned "Anna" or "the twins."
'Who are these girls?' she wondered, her grip tightening on her sword hilt. 'He seems so... fond of them. Why does that bother me? It shouldn't bother me. I am a Daughter of Rebecca! I have no time for such... such petty emotions!'
As the towering white walls of Patrian appeared on the horizon, the reality of their situation returned. A senior paladin stepped alongside them.
"Lady Isabel, Sir Arthur... we are nearing the gates. We need to discuss the protocol for the children. The local orphanages are... well, they are crowded and underfunded."
The children's ears perked up. The word "orphanage" hit them like a physical blow. The small boy with the doll immediately grabbed a handful of Arthur's cloak, his eyes filling with fresh tears.
Isabel hesitated. She knew the Temple would provide, but it would be a cold, disciplined life. She looked at Arthur, searching for an answer.
Arthur looked down at the small hands gripping his clothes. He thought about the world they lived in—a world of levels, stats, and cold sacrifices. He thought about his own sister, back home, and the life he wanted to protect.
"I'll take them," Arthur said, his voice quiet but firm. "I'll look after them until they're adults. I have the means, and I'll ensure they grow up strong and independent. They won't be 'materials' for anyone ever again."
The silence that followed was broken by a collective sob. The children swarmed him, burying their faces in his legs and cloak, crying out their gratitude.
Arthur looked slightly overwhelmed, awkwardly patting heads and shushing them with a bewildered smile.
Isabel watched him, her heart swelling with a warmth that terrified her. She imagined a large house, the sound of laughter, and Arthur at the center of it all. She saw herself in the periphery of that vision, and her brain practically short-circuited.
'W-What am I thinking?!' She shook her head so vigorously her helmet rattled. 'Stop it! Just think of something else... like how his hair looks in the sunset... no! Think about how handsome Sir Arth—ugh, dammit, Isabel! Get a grip!'
Arthur, hearing her muffled groan of frustration, looked over. "You okay, Isabel? You look a little... feverish."
"I am perfectly fine!" she squeaked, her voice an octave too high. She marched ahead toward the gate, her cape billowing dramatically to hide her burning cheeks.
Arthur watched her go, then looked back at the eleven children now effectively under his care. He let out a long, weary sigh.
'I guess my luck with misunderstandings followed me here, too...' he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
'Well, children aren't so bad. They're honest. It's the adolescent brats you have to watch out for—like my sister. If she knew I was adopting nine kids at once, she'd probably drown me in a laundry basin for sheer recklessness.'
As the gates of Patrian swung open, Arthur stepped through, a ragtag army of orphans in tow, heading toward a future that was looking increasingly complicated—and unexpectedly bright.