The midday sun bathed the marble pillars of Folkvangr, the headquarters of the Freya Familia. Following the tremors caused by the roar of the One-Eyed Black Dragon earlier at dawn, Orario slowly tried to crawl back into its daily routine. Yet, for those standing at the pinnacle of the city's hierarchy, the tension still clung to the air like an invisible layer of dust.
On the highest balcony overlooking the sprawling Labyrinth City, the Goddess of Beauty stood gazing into the silence. Freya leaned her slender figure against the mithril railing, letting the gentle breeze toy with her shimmering silver hair. Her purplish eyes exuded an intoxicating calm, concealing a storm of thoughts behind her eyelids.
Just a few steps behind her stood a giant who seemed as though he had been carved from black steel. Ottar, the Vice-Captain, the only Level 6 adventurer who currently served as Orario's strongest spearhead. He stood still, his massive black sword sheathed on his back, his posture as unyielding as a fortress that would not fall even if the sky were to collapse upon it.
"Ottar," Freya's voice broke the silence. It was soft, caressing the ear, yet carried the absolute weight of a ruler.
"Yes, Freya-sama," Ottar replied in a low, heavy tone. He bowed his head slightly, offering his utmost respect without needing to look at his goddess's face.
Freya swirled the wine glass in her hand, watching the reflection of the deep red liquid within. "If you were to step onto a battlefield right now, and your enemy was Alfia... what would happen?"
The question was simple, but Ottar did not answer immediately. The jawline of the boar-beastman tightened. Memories of a bloody past crept back to the surface of his mind.
"If I were allowed to choose, Freya-sama," Ottar finally spoke, his tone cautious yet profoundly honest. "I would much rather fight to the death against Zald than have to face Alfia."
Freya turned her head slightly, glancing at the broad shoulders of her loyal knight with a faint, intrigued smile. "Oh? 'Silence' is more terrifying to you than 'Gluttony', who could shatter a mountain with a single swing?"
"Zald is the embodiment of pure, destructive power. Facing him means pitting physical strength and endurance against one another. That is a kind of battle I can still comprehend, a clash between warriors," Ottar explained, his hands reflexively clenching into fists. "But Alfia... she is something else entirely. Her talent defies logic. She has never shown mercy in a fight. Her magic is not merely an attack; it is absolute annihilation. Standing in her path is tantamount to defying death itself."
Ottar knew his current standing perfectly well. He had only just reached Level 6. To the entire population of Orario, he was the pinnacle of present-day power, the unrivaled King. Yet, deep within his dedicated heart, Ottar knew he was still incredibly far from the true 'pinnacle'.
In the past, when the banners of the Zeus and Hera Familias still fluttered proudly, dominating the skies of Orario, Ottar was nothing but a fighter endlessly trying to scale an impossible cliff. He recalled his youth, brimming with pride and foolishness. He had once challenged Maxim, the Captain of the Zeus Familia, who stood at Level 8. The result? He was floored without Maxim even needing to draw his weapon.
He had also challenged Empress, the Captain of the Hera Familia, who occupied the absolute throne at Level 9. The mere pressure of her aura back then had been enough to make Ottar cough up blood. Ottar had fought Zald, and he had also tasted the sheer terror of facing Alfia head-on. Before those monsters of a bygone era, Ottar was constantly reminded of how small and fragile he truly was.
"You are too modest, Ottar. But that is one of the things I adore about you. You are never blinded by arrogance," Freya murmured, turning her gaze back toward the city. She took a slow sip of her wine. "Then... what if she were healthy?"
The question made Ottar's massive frame flinch slightly. It was a reaction rarely displayed by a man of his immense strength. The hairs on his arms stood on end.
What if Alfia were healthy?
Ottar envisioned the silver-haired woman unblemished by the disease that was gnawing away at her body. Free from coughing up blood, free from breathless gasps, free from any limitations on her extraordinary Mind.
"If she were healthy..." Ottar's voice trembled slightly as he pictured pure terror. "Perhaps... the One-Eyed Black Dragon would have long been dead, serving as a trophy for humanity. Even while terminally ill and at Level 7, she possessed a lethal power that could threaten Empress at Level 9. Her talent is an anomaly. If that disease had never chained her down, Alfia would have transcended any logic that exists in this world."
Freya smiled mysteriously. Her purplish eyes suddenly glinted with silver, piercing through the bounds of space and gazing far toward the outskirts of Orario, directly at the ruins of an old church where the Barbatos Familia resided.
"A wonderful answer, Ottar," Freya said softly, as though cradling a child. "In that case, prepare yourself. Because I believe... in the near future, 'Silence' might just regain her health."
Ottar's eyes widened. He looked up, staring at the back of his goddess in stark disbelief. "That is... impossible, Freya-sama. With all due respect, the best healers in the world, even Dian Cecht himself, have declared that the bloodline disease afflicting Alfia and her sister is incurable. It is a curse born of her own talent. As long as she uses her power, she is killing herself."
"Medically speaking, perhaps not." Freya turned around, resting her hips against the railing. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous thrill. "But my eyes never lie, Ottar. When I gazed into Alfia's soul, I saw something breathtaking."
Freya raised her hand into the air, as if painting something only she could see.
"Alfia's soul used to be like silver covered in thick, black soot. The illness was eroding the core of her soul, piece by piece. But yesterday, that dark stain... began to fade. Not by much, but it was undeniably diminishing. There is a crystal-clear flow of energy, a gentle yet unstoppable emerald green, slowly washing away the decay inside her."
Freya looked at Ottar, the smile on her lips widening. "Venti. That little bard god... he must possess a way to reverse the curse. To rewind the damage to Alfia and her sister's bodies. That is the only logical reason why an arrogant monster like Alfia would bow her head and join the Familia of a god who literally has nothing."
Ottar fell silent. His mind raced to process this information. If Alfia—who, even at death's door, was enough to level the entire elite force of the Freya Familia in an instant—was now being healed... then the concept of a balance of power in Orario was merely an illusion. The Barbatos Familia, despite consisting of only two people, would be the de facto absolute rulers of this city.
The steel-bodied giant lowered his head further. As a knight who intimately understood the chasm of power between them, he knew that no strategy, tactic, or sheer number of troops could ever turn the tide.
"If that bard god is truly capable of healing her... then the title of the Strongest Familia we currently hold no longer has any meaning, Freya-sama," Ottar said heavily, a brutally honest admission of their powerlessness. "We do not have the strength to rival 'Silence', even while that sickness still chains her body. If, one day, the Barbatos Familia decides to step out of that church and claim the throne of Orario... what should we do? We have absolutely no way to stop her."
Freya burst into a melodious laugh. It was a crisp, elegant sound, yet at the same time felt so impossibly relaxed amidst the logical despair her knight had just voiced. She covered her lips with the back of her hand, looking at Ottar with an amused glint in her eyes.
"Claim the throne? Heavens, Ottar, you fret too much over tedious things like hierarchy and power," Freya chuckled, shaking her head softly. "Let them be. If the Barbatos Familia ever steps forward and seizes the title of the Strongest Familia from us, I wouldn't mind in the slightest."
Ottar frowned slightly, confusion faintly etched on his rigid face. "But... didn't you and the Loki Familia go to great lengths to tear down the remnants of Zeus and Hera to claim Orario?"
Freya's smile faded. Her expression turned colder, more melancholic. Her eyes gazed downwards, toward the sea of humanity within the labyrinth city.
"You misunderstand my true goal, Ottar," Freya whispered. "I have never truly cared for the title of 'The Strongest.' That title is merely a tool, a means for me to gain the freedom to move about this city. My true desire... the only thing that has left my soul thirsting throughout the millennia since I descended to Gekai... is to find my Odr."
Freya closed her eyes, picturing the brilliance of the pure souls she had witnessed. "I am searching for my true destined partner. A soul that can satiate the void within my heart. If Venti becomes the strongest, then so be it. I am quite fond of his soul."
Freya opened her eyes again, radiating a gleam of longing. "That bard god's soul... is utterly breathtaking. Unlike the dull and rotting souls of the other gods in Tenkai. Venti's soul is as vast as the boundless sky, a pure and soothing turquoise. He is a deeply captivating anomaly."
Freya sighed softly, her tone shifting to one of disappointment. "It's a pity... even though his soul is extraordinary, he is not the Odr I am looking for. Venti is far too free. He is like the wind itself. And the wind cannot be bound; it cannot be imprisoned in a golden cage, no matter how beautiful. Attempting to possess Venti is akin to trying to grasp empty air. He will always slip through the gaps of your fingers."
Ottar remained silent, absorbing his goddess's every word. He knew perfectly well how obsessive Freya could be when it came to her pursuit of the perfect soul.
"Then... regarding the fall of the Zeus and Hera Familias," Ottar murmured, trying to trace the thread of his goddess's past actions.
Freya's face instantly hardened. Her gaze sharpened, betraying the lingering wrath of the past. The hand gripping the wine glass squeezed so tightly that the crystal let out a faint creak.
"The reason I allied with Loki to purge their remnants from Orario was not merely a matter of power," Freya hissed, her voice dripping with suppressed hatred. "I did it because I was sick of it. I absolutely could not stand Hera's arrogance."
Freya stepped away from the balcony, pacing with elegant but emotionally charged strides.
"Do you remember how tyrannical that madwoman was in the past? Hera acted as if the whole world, the gods included, were her servants," Freya ground her teeth. "She often mocked me in front of the other gods. She laughed at me, calling me a 'pitiful Goddess of Love,' prophesying that I would never find my Odr."
Freya's eyes flashed with vindictive malice. "And what I can never forgive... is that she forced my hand. Wielding the absolute might of her Familia as a threat, she compelled me to use these very eyes to scout for the seeds of talented adventurers all across the globe, solely to recruit them into the Zeus and Hera Familias. I was treated like nothing more than a talent-sniffing hound to feed her ambition!"
Freya stopped pacing, staring at Ottar with slightly ragged breathing, before finally regaining her composure. She smoothed her hair and offered a chilling smile.
"Therefore, when that dragon decimated her main forces, I didn't think twice about trampling the remnants of Hera's pride until it crumbled into dust," Freya stated flatly. "Now, Hera is just a vagrant hiding from her own shadow, and I rule Orario. This is karma."
Freya raised her wine glass once again. Flawless serenity returned to grace her mesmerizing features. "Let Venti play with Alfia. We shall be good spectators. Orario will soon be engulfed by a most fascinating storm, Ottar. And I wish to see... just how fiercely the winds of that bard god can spin the wheel of fate."
.............................................
While the gods in Orario orchestrated their intrigues with elegance, deep within the hidden bowels of the earth, a similar tension rippled through the headquarters of Evilus.
In the depths of Knossos—a colossal artificial labyrinth born from the blood-madness of Daedalus's lineage—panic had taken root. This place was no mere filthy cavern; it was a masterpiece of subterranean architecture, constructed from precision-cut stone blocks and impenetrable mechanical doors plated with Orichalcum.
The patron deities of evil had gathered in one of the frigid main halls. The purple glow of magic torches reflected off the meticulously arranged stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows into the corners of the room. The labyrinthine corridors outside the hall sprawled like a deceptive network of veins, ready to swallow the sanity of anyone foolish enough to tread without a key.
In the center of the room, Thanatos, the God of Death, stood with a serene posture. His black-purple robes blended into the shadows, and his pale face radiated a peace that felt terribly out of place in such a vile den. Around him, the atmosphere was chaotic and tense.
Dolos, the God of Trickery, was toying with a poisoned dagger in his hand, a look of dissatisfaction plastered on his face. In another corner, Apate, the Goddess of Deceit, let out a harsh sigh while crossing her legs, appearing both bored and restless over the uncertainty of their plans following the dragon's roar at dawn.
However, the epicenter of the commotion originated from a single figure.
Alecto, the Goddess of Suffering.
She paced the room with heavy, stomping steps. Her fiercely beautiful face bore a sadistic smile that never wavered, even as her eyes flashed with utter impatience.
"Enough with these tedious discussions about that blasted dragon! Enyo hasn't even shown up!" Alecto clicked her tongue, slamming her fist against the stone wall. "I'm sick of hiding in this rat hole. I need a new toy. I need fresh agony!"
Thanatos turned his head slowly, gazing at Alecto with soft eyes that stood in stark contrast to his title as the bringer of death. "Impatience is the quickest path to the grave, Alecto. Our plans in Orario have yet to mature. What has made you so restless today?"
Alecto grinned broadly, bearing her white teeth. "I'll be leaving Orario for a little while," she announced. Her decision was spontaneous, yet laced with cunning calculation.
Apate raised an eyebrow. "Leaving Orario? Whatever for?"
"To gather ammunition, of course," Alecto spun around, her dark dress billowing. "I've been keeping an eye on something for quite some time. Two highly... potential targets. Two sisters living in a secluded Elf Village outside the Guild's jurisdiction, near the warzone."
Alecto licked her lower lip, as if visualizing a delectable dessert.
"They possess a fascinating lineage and dormant combat potential. But most importantly... their fate is teetering on the edge of a precipice. They are blank canvases, ripe to be painted with suffering."
Dolos tossed his dagger into the air and caught it deftly. "So you intend to recruit them? Why not just send our pawns to abduct them and force them to accept your Falna?"
"Tsk, tsk, tsk... you truly lack artistic taste when it comes to agony, Dolos," Alecto reprimanded in a condescending tone. She wagged her index finger side to side.
"Forcing them to join won't yield pure hatred. Loyalty born from coercion is fragile. No," Alecto smiled sadistically, her eyes widening with madness. "I want a loyalty born from absolute despair."
Thanatos tilted his head slightly. "And how do you plan to manufacture this absolute despair?"
"I will borrow a few mid-tier Evilus squads," Alecto sauntered over to the stone table in the center of the room, leaning both her hands upon it. "I'll let those squads raid their village. Slaughter their neighbors, burn their homes to the ground, and destroy everyone right before their very eyes."
Alecto's voice dropped into a chilling, passionate whisper. "I will let those two girls taste the most profound depths of helplessness. I want them to weep, begging to deaf gods. Let tragedy flay every last layer of hope from their hearts."
Apate and Dolos exchanged glances, silently acknowledging Alecto's methodical cruelty.
Alecto straightened her posture, throwing her arms into the air as if basking in the cheers of an unseen audience. "And once they hit rock bottom... when they are lying amidst the ash and blood of their loved ones, when the world spits on them and leaves them to die... at that exact moment, I will descend."
Alecto smirked, envisioning the theatrical scenario. "I will descend like a savior goddess. I will extend a warm hand, offering them the power to exact vengeance upon a cruel world. They will have no choice but to grasp my hand and embrace suffering as their new religion."
Thanatos closed his eyes serenely, as though listening to classical music. "A terribly inefficient method, squandering troop resources simply for emotional theater. However... I cannot deny that a soul shattered into pieces often makes for the most resilient servant of death."
The God of Death opened his eyes once more. "Go, Alecto. Take the forces you require. But ensure that when you return to Orario, those two girls have become monsters we can rely on for our grand design."
"Oh, don't you worry, Thanatos," Alecto's laughter echoed menacingly against the walls of Knossos, mingling with the distant sound of dripping foul water. "By the time I'm through with them, they will be the sharpest blades of despair."
In the gloom of the subterranean chamber, Alecto turned to leave, preparing to weave a tragedy elsewhere. The wheel of fate in Orario never stopped turning. Just as the Wind Thief was piercing the heavens with the last of his strength to bring home a long-lost salvation, the darkness within the belly of the labyrinth city was gearing up to reap lives, weaving together a fresh tapestry of tragedy and ruin.