Chapter 34

Prologue Holy City. The Archbasilica of the Goddess Elazonia. Marble walls gleamed under the sunlight—blindingly beautiful, as if the walls were the transmuted form of the Goddess herself. All were moved to offer their devotion in the face of this divine sight. But the brighter the light, the darker the shadow. That was the nature of things. The sinister truth of the church was buried deep beneath the glaring luminance of the Archbasilica. “AAAAAaaaaaahhh—!” Beastly howls ricocheted through the dank space—the pits of the earth, far removed from the face of the sun. In fact, it was almost deep enough to reach the bowels of hell. A ten-floor underground prison sealed off from the world by an iron cap. The Pit of Divine Punishment was used to cast away any unlawful heroes. No one could know of its existence, especially the followers. It was a wasteland of the worst and impure, the filth and dregs of the Goddess’s church. “Gack! Gragh! Aaah!” From it erupted childlike sobs, shrill laughter, incomprehensible roars, and the dull thuds of heads slamming against stone walls. It made it hard to believe that every single cry was made by a hero, someone who had once received the Goddess’s blessing. And yet, that was exactly who they were. Each one displayed the Goddess’s sun symbol emblazoned somewhere on their body, granting them their undying status. That was precisely why these prisoners were psychologically beaten and bruised: It’d be impossible to kill them. Well, to be exact, they would be resurrected at the nearest church upon their death. Head cleaved off? Evaporated into thin air? Not a problem. Their bodies and memories could still be resurrected—granting them the miracle of life. This was limited to the exclusive use of heroes, drawing followers to the church and eliminating any dissenters. It was how this organization had the entire continent of Uropeh wrapped around its little finger. In the end, however, a hero was still a human being. Meaning their personality could deviate as time went on… Or maybe it would be more precise to say they could have a complete overhaul of their old ways because they were once a hero. Their golden rule was to be humble and kind to others without exception. That might sound like some ridiculous dream, but it was actually the key to self-preservation. In theory, a warrior could get strong enough to fight back against flames and kindling, but that would easily become a double-edged sword if it elicited envy or fear in others—meaning it had the potential to lead to his downfall. The secret to longevity was to be well-perceived and liked by others. That way, they wouldn’t be compelled to hold a grudge against you. That meant the best self-defense hack was to befriend your would-be murderer. A “good nature” and “friendship” were the best weapons for keeping death at bay. But what about these undying heroes? They wouldn’t need to exhibit humility or kindness if death wasn’t even in the equation. As soon as they realized this, the heroes became arrogant, leading them to harm or kill civilians—and contributing to their own downfall. The elite warriors of the church kept them in check by sealing them deep in this secret pit. “Dammit! I’m going to get out of here and exact my revenge!” A young hero might swear at his captors when he was brought down here, but with time, he would be reduced to a shell of his former self, smiling as he chased an imaginary butterfly in his jail cell. It was impossible to build a prison that could detain a hero forever. After all, they’d been chosen for their strength as skilled swordsmen and magic users. More importantly, if they killed themselves, they would teleport and resurrect at the nearest church, allowing them to escape at their leisure. If they couldn’t be killed or detained forever, that only left one choice: They needed to perish…psychologically. Which sounded like an idea concocted by a certain dirty boy. But in truth, the church had been using this method since its very inception. First, they would let flesh-eating insects crawl into every orifice in the hero’s body: eyes, mouth, nose, ears, urethra, anus. Then, they would allow these heroes to be eaten alive from the inside out to their terror and excruciating pain. But even if they perished while managing to hold on to their sanity, they’d be resurrected at the nearest church: the Archbasilica right above their heads, where they would be immediately recaptured and dragged back down to the pit. Rinse and repeat. They’d be subjected to these horrors over and over again until their minds yielded and caved in. Once their souls had become null, they would become powerless dolls, the husks of once-grand heroes. Their only trait would be their inability to die. “Hmm-hmm, la-la-la…,” sang an old woman with a wholesome little smile. Her hums echoed through the prison. In her past, she’d been betrayed by a lover, leading her to loathe all human beings and to incinerate over a hundred people, reducing them to a pile of ash, fated never to be resurrected. There had been a time in her life when she had been indifferent to casting her diabolical spells. By now, she was nothing more than a feeble old lady, senile at best. She’d lost her ability to conjure clear images in her mind, which were necessary to cast any form of magic. This feeling of powerlessness wasn’t limited to magic users: Warriors suffered under similar circumstances. Their Herculean strength was born from their subconscious use of Physical Enchantment spells even before they became heroes, which meant their muscle mass wasn’t all corporeal. By losing control of their mind, they’d be unable to cast this spell, and that rendered them impotent. In many ways, the fallen heroes were trapped in hell—until the day they died of old age, when they were finally released from their undying curse. Oh, Goddess Elazonia. Why did thou choose me to be a hero? They would have demanded answers from her if they weren’t so broken on the inside. But there were a handful of prisoners in the Pit of Divine Punishment who were holding on to their sanity by a thread—the ones who hadn’t committed acts that were heinous enough to warrant complete psychological annihilation. They were being detained because the church didn’t want their crimes to come to light. One of those prisoners was ex-Bishop Hube of Boar Kingdom, driven from his position when the cathedral was destroyed. “Bastard, bastard…!” he muttered and cursed as he thumped his head against the gray stone walls of his cell. There was nothing other than a bed, a toilet, and the Goddess’s holy book atop a small table in the room. The screams from the other prisoners hadn’t rattled him, and he was still sound of mind. In fact, the chaotic chorus around him didn’t reach his ears. Any normal person wouldn’t be able to handle this clamor for more than three days, but all he heard was a voice playing over and over in his mind, drowning out the noise. It was the voice of a certain girl—his beloved. “Good-bye, bishop.” She’d looked forlorn when they parted for the final time, and then she’d turned her back and walked away for good. She didn’t have the heart to blame him, even after all the pain he’d put her through. Her red hair grew distant as he watched her from behind. And then her slender figure was shrouded in a black fog which twisted into the shape of a boy, the corners of his mouth curling up in a dirty smirk as he mocked Hube. “You lost your love, your title, your honor. Now tell me, how does that feel?” Hube was unable to move, forced to watch as the boy tore off her clothing and defiled her in front of his very eyes. His imagination was playing tricks on him. That wasn’t what had happened in real life. It was a projection of his innermost desires. That’s why Hube shrieked in rage and clawed the walls, so he wouldn’t have to look at this image any longer. “Bastard heretic—!” His nails tore off, causing blood to trickle down his hands. The pain was unbearable. He blamed it all on the black-haired boy, despising him all the more. He didn’t even realize the irony behind the fact that this all-consuming hate was his saving grace, pulling him back from the edge of insanity. “You won’t get away with this… I’ll shame you, ruin you, a hundred times over!” He’d destroy them all: the demons who’d covered for the boy, this fun country or whatever he was so set on making, and even the redheaded girl who giggled by his side. He would make the boy suffer until he begged for death. Only then would he rest. “No matter how long it takes! No matter what I have to do!” Scenes of revenge cycled in his mind, imagining new iterations of his actions and etching his hatred for the boy deep in his soul. Trapped by these sweet fantasies, Hube didn’t notice his surroundings. Inside his cell, closed off by a heavy iron door that none could enter, behind him where he stared at the wall and spouted curses…stood someone, staring silently…