Chapter 171: “The Crossroads of History”

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The figure stood imposingly, even taller than Inquisitor Vanna. Despite his height, he was emaciated, his skin stretched tightly over his bones, giving him a skeletal appearance. His gauntness was accentuated by the dark, ominous trench coat he wore. The old archivist needed only a brief glance to feel the malevolent energy emanating from him – he seemed to embody sacrilege itself.

“Could he be from the remnants of the Black Sun?” the old archivist murmured, his voice a mix of shock and anger. “How dare he desecrate this hallowed space?!”

Before he could ponder further, a loud gunshot shattered the silence within the domed hall. The senior priest, quick to react, fired a sanctified bullet from his large-caliber revolver. However, the umbrella-wielding stranger was ready. As the gun fired, two inky tentacles shot out from beneath his coat. One deflected the bullet, while the other struck the priest’s shoulder with such force that he was hurled back into a nearby bookshelf.

Satisfied with his actions, the gloomy stranger approached the pile of books that had buried the old priest. But his arrogance was premature. A thunderous battle cry erupted from beneath the books, and the priest emerged, sword in hand. This was no ordinary sword; it vibrated with energy. Seizing the moment, the priest launched an attack at his foe.

The stranger remained unphased. Rather than dodging, he adjusted his black umbrella to intercept the descending blade. The collision was spectacular, with blinding sparks flying as they clashed with tremendous force.

The old priest, a seasoned warrior of light, had anticipated his initial strike might be blocked. Without missing a beat, he redirected his assault, his sword moving with a swift, silver gleam. This was the hallmark of storm priests – relentless, unyielding, each strike gaining momentum like waves crashing on the shore.

Despite the priest’s fury and determination, the intruder’s umbrella proved to be an unexpectedly strong defense, enduring each blow without damage. As the relentless onslaught continued, the stranger’s anger grew, his shadowy aura swirling around him.

With a deep, gurgling growl, the heir of the Black Sun began chanting in an unintelligible language, clearly preparing a dark spell for a counterattack.

The old priest remained focused, undeterred by the intruder’s mutterings or thoughts of his own safety. In this sacred domain of the Storm Goddess, he was a beacon of light, duty-bound to vanquish this darkness and atone for the day’s failures.

The seasoned archivist couldn’t suppress his growing doubts. How could such an abomination enter the church’s sacred grounds? This place was the heart of Gomona’s influence in Pland. Even if the goddess missed it, surely the clergy would have detected the intrusion. Numerous wards and alarms were also in place. Their collective failure suggested a significant vulnerability in their defenses, a flaw that could be catastrophic if not addressed.

“Could this creature have bypassed the conventional means to infiltrate the church?”

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, piercing whistle. The old priest’s instincts, honed by years of battle, took over. He swiftly adjusted the angle of his humming blade, anticipating the enemy’s sneaky strike.

However, an unexpected, intense pain erupted from beneath his ribcage, an area he thought well-protected. Stunned, he looked down to see a writhing black tentacle piercing his torso, entering from behind and protruding out the front. He tried to reach the wound to assess its depth, but his movements were slow. The once-reliable gears in his prosthetic limbs were overheating, grinding to a near halt.

A somber realization struck the veteran warrior – he had aged, as had the machinery that supported him…

With a wet, repulsive sound, the intruder retracted the tentacle into his trench coat and moved closer. The old priest, his strength waning, leaned heavily on his longsword, his trembling arms barely able to hold it up.

The intruder, his face a grotesque mask of twisted flesh, finally spoke, “Go tell your God~ That this wretched age is at its end and the sun shall rise once more from the annals of history…”

The word “History…” caused the old priest’s body to tremble involuntarily. Though weakened and near death, his mind remained sharp, “You dare tarnish history?!”

The intruder’s distorted face twisted into a wicked smile, revealing jagged teeth. “The day the flames rose, our collective desires were fulfilled.”

The priest, fading fast, barely registered the intruder’s words. Gravely wounded, the cold grasp of death was closing in. His time was nearly up.

Such a demise seemed to bore the intruder, who had hoped for a more engaged audience for his revelations. As he prepared to leave, grasping his black umbrella, a startling noise shattered the silence. The screeching of metal against metal echoed throughout, followed by the rhythmic pulsation of oil pumps and the sharp hiss of escaping steam. Whirling around in surprise, the intruder’s eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the sword, glowing with intense heat, descending upon him.

“Goddess, bear witness to my final stand!” the old priest roared, unwavering faith etched on his face.

Despite his frail body, the priest’s spirit blazed with an untainted passion. He saw himself as the protector of the mortal realm, their last beacon of hope against the encroaching darkness. It was his sacred duty to defend his land and its people until his last breath. Whatever sacrifice was needed, he was ready.

In his weakened state, he summoned enough strength for one final, resounding blow. The blade crashed down, cleaving the intruder in two. Normally, such a wound would be fatal. But this was no ordinary foe; this was an heir of the Black Sun, a creature of profound malice and darkness. From the raw edges of the wound, grotesque sounds emerged as flesh writhed and squirmed. Tiny tentacles appeared, stitching the two halves back together as if the injury had never occurred.

Despair filled the priest’s eyes. His valiant last stand, his ultimate act of defiance, seemed in vain. The goddess had granted him the strength for that final assault, a divine miracle in itself. But the realization that he couldn’t defeat this monstrous foe weighed heavily on him.

Moments later, fully healed and enraged by the priest’s audacity, the intruder prepared to retaliate. As he unleashed his tentacles, his face bore a grim expression. This umbrella-wielding monstrosity despised unexpected challenges, especially from a storm clergyman.

…

Unbeknownst to the malevolent intruder, a profound transformation was unfolding beyond the walls of the twisted archive. The once majestic city of Pland, now a skeletal remnant of its former glory, was being consumed by tendrils of verdant flames. This eerie green fire spread with insidious intent, weaving through the ruins and sparing no stone. The only refuge from this devastating onslaught was the church grounds, but that sanctuary was on borrowed time, its impending doom looming large.

The old priest’s fading vision granted him a glimpse of this unfolding cataclysm, and what he saw was both confounding and poetic. The green flames, like a relentless predator, crept up behind the unsuspecting intruder. To the dying priest, it was akin to watching a hound poised to deliver a fatal bite, its jaws perfectly positioned to strike.

Confusion welled up within the priest. Was this spectacle real or merely a dying man’s illusion? If reality mirrored his vision, he could pass with some satisfaction. The arrogant intruder believed he held the upper hand, but fate had a cruel twist in store. With a vengeance, the serpent-like flames ensnared the intruder, imprisoning him in a blazing cocoon. As the fire consumed him, his agonized screams, though unheard by the priest, were the embodiment of retribution.

But just as suddenly as the flames had risen, silence settled over the scene. The raging fire receded as if it had never been. The tainted memories of history retreated once more into obscurity, and the archive, a nexus between two diverging timelines, was blanketed in oppressive silence. No soul ventured there, and none would remember. The day’s harrowing events vanished, erased from the annals of time…

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