After hours of forced march, the marshland mud gave way to the cold stone of the slopes.
The air turned thin and biting.
Towering before them, embedded in the mountain’s guts like the fossilized teeth of an ancient beast, stood the Ruins of Aethelgard.
Black granite pillars covered in forgotten runes held up half-collapsed arches.
There was no trace of the Church’s divine light—only a dense, heavy, and pure aura that made the mana in Haruto’s blood vibrate.
“This place lacks the System’s seal,” Haruto murmured, touching the frozen surface of an ancient column.
His analytical eyes gleamed with a faint blue light as he scanned the structure.
“The energy here flows in spirals, not in the straight lines imposed by the Vatican’s faith.
It’s primordial mana.” Aoi let the tip of her greatsword fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, letting out a deep sigh.
The strain of maintaining a rapid pace after their previous battle showed in the paleness of her face.
“It feels…
heavier to breathe, but my soul doesn’t feel suppressed,” Aoi remarked, looking into the depths of the main entrance—a mouth of shadow descending into the belly of the earth.
“It’s as if gravity itself is different here.” “It’s the forcefield of the First Kings,” Haruto explained, pulling two torches from his pack and lighting one with a tiny spark of compressed mana.
“The Church hasn’t been able to purge this site because the ancestral energy repels their incantations.
It’s perfect for us, but it also means whatever creatures dwell inside have evolved without restrictions.” “I’d rather fight honest monsters than hypocritical priests,” Aoi said, taking the torch from him and giving his hand a quick squeeze before stepping forward.
“Let’s head inside before the Third Division reaches the base of the mountain.” They ventured into the stone passage.
The sound of their footsteps echoed off the sloped walls as they descended a spiral staircase carved out of living rock.
As they made their way down, the carvings on the walls told a story vastly different from the one the Church taught in the Sacred Capital: images of men and women who didn’t pray to gods, but rather molded nature and their own spirits until they transcended death through their own merit.
Suddenly, Haruto froze mid-step.
“Aoi, stop.” Before them, in the center of a vast circular chamber illuminated by violet-hued magic crystals, lay a sleeping creature.
Its body, resembling a giant six-legged feline, was covered in plates of black bone that swallowed the light.
“An Abyss Guardian,” Haruto whispered, adjusting his grip on his short sword.
“It doesn’t use the leveling system.
Its power relies entirely on the density of its spiritual core.” Aoi smirked, unstrapping the greatsword from her back.
The crimson aura of her soul began to pour from her hands, responding to the charged atmosphere of the chamber.
“Then it’s the perfect test to see if our ancient magic works.”