Chapter 61: Return to Reality

This time, it was her turn to lean the Dark wizard against a tree—though he was merely pretending to be on the verge of death, or perhaps just too lazy to move.

Jeanne calmly raised her long sword, her ash-stained fingers sliding along the blade. Surrounded by the dark forest, the sword was overlaid with an unnatural white light, as if reflecting the winter sun.

"Have you ever faced an Inquisitor, Hound?" Jeanne asked her.

"Maybe calling me Olga would be better; I'm not particularly fond of the name Hound," she shrugged, casually shaking off the blood from her sword, "Of course, I've never faced an Inquisitor. You're newcomers to this continent."

"Olga?" Jeanne smirked maliciously, "A dog should have a dog's name, Hound. Call yourself 'Spot,' 'Blackie,' or 'Artoria Pendragon,' but not 'Olga.'” As she spoke, the light from her sword grew increasingly intense, "Dogs are loyal as hell. Without them, things get tough, at least now and then. But for those who ain't their masters, they're a pain in the ass and downright disgusting—killing them would give me a real kick."

She really holds a deep grudge against that British queen, Salser thought. If he ever passes through that country, he must not reveal his identity.

"Did a dog bite you as a child? You're quite pitiful," Olga retorted with a flat tone.

"You'll be the pitiful one, Hound of the Heretic Empress." 

Then came an incantation—Jeanne thrust her sword into the ground, as if sinking a dazzling sun into the soil—the sound of the incantation turned everything upside down.

A searing white light enveloped the scene. Olga leapt upward with a scream, akin to a catkin dislodged from its branch by a gust. The ground beneath her erupted as if laden with radiant mines, dust trembling as it rose into the air, scattering like a waterfall. Immediately after, a hundred radiant spears burst forth from the soil, forming a massive ring around Olga, and then ascending with a shrill shriek, their brilliance overwhelming the night in a cascade of incandescent white fire.

"Just what is it that you do for a living!?"

"It's not my issue to answer you," Jeanne laughed darkly, "Hound, you're the only issue here."

Olga maneuvered her body in the air, bending her waist into an astonishing posture, slicing through a whole row of light spears, turning them into foam. Two owl-like snowy wings emerged from her back—their razor-sharp feathers effortlessly piercing her coat—and then she turned to fly away.

Thunderous echoes exploded in the air, intense and blinding white lightning spears shot down from above her, swift as bullets from a mortal firearm. Several spears were cut by her blade, and a dozen more grazed her wings, exploding—the heat wave washed over her, turning her feathers a charred black.

Olga flew faster, diving into the Warren's entrance.

"RUN IF YOU MUST, HOUND!" Jeanne roared, her voice, alien to this land, shattered the forest's silence, booming under the night sky, "I will not forget what you've done to me, and my vengeance will be waiting for you soon enough!"

Jeanne's roar was like a storm. The ground beneath her feet emitted even stronger light, blinding white beams tearing through the night and the grass, as if ripping apart rotten, stinking linen—until Olga, in a decisive move, turned back and cleaved at the Warren's entrance, finally severing the link between the two worlds.

Silence finally returned here.

Behind, Salser leaned against a tree trunk, straightened his body, and repaired the wound in the location where his theoretical heart should be. He looked around; dense moss and overgrown weeds almost covered every inch of the ground, with no clear path visible, only dark soil. The forest was dense, with tall elms like ghostly shadows, layers of branches intertwining tens of meters above, resembling countless beggar's arms reaching towards the sky, slicing the taciturn moonlight.

Viola tugged at his clothes.

Jeanne walked over, glanced at Salser a few times, her golden pupils flashing with subtle emotions.

"Your magic and swordsmanship ain’t half bad," Jeanne said, "Your survival skills are also better than any knight I've brought on board—even better than my own. If you could pick up some spells from the Warren of Light, I wouldn't have to bother with those fragile newcomers."

Salser thought for a moment, then asked her:

"Are you known for having a poor reputation in this regard?" 

"It's their lack of fighting spirit."

"So, after you've guided a slew of knights to their demise, it's becoming increasingly difficult to find willing fools to serve under you?"

Jeanne's chin lifted, she closed her eyes, struggling to suppress the urge to draw her sword and strike.

"Please, I have my own life to live! If you cease recruiting, does that mean I'm to be the only one you'll order around?"

"What's this 'own life' you're talking about? Hiding away to tinker with your shady spells?" Jeanne raised her cold gaze. Although she was much shorter than Salser, her presence far exceeded that of the reclusive wizard who had been on the run for seven years, "You're stuck working for me till you croak, and whether I keep recruiting is my damn call, Salser Bettrafio. And here's another thing, if I catch you up to no good behind my back, I'll make you choke on the word 'regret.'"

"I can write the word 'regret' in Latin, common tongue, demon language, Barghast language, T'lan Imass language, and even Dark Elf language. Which shall it be? Do you even know how to spell the word regret in your native language?"

"......"

A moment of silence, Jeanne exhaled deeply, then said,  "We'll hash this out when we're settled in the city of Cast."

"And now?"

"Clear out the cultists approaching," Jeanne shook her head, casting off her irritable mood—every word from this Dark wizard was very irritating. She adopted her cold expression, "This is your first assignment, Salser Bettrafio. Pay attention, with civilians, protect them if you can, but if not—it's no big deal if they end up missing an arm or a leg. The Church will handle the appropriate compensation and treatment later, no need to fret over hostages and let those lunatics slip away."

"Oh, my," Salser shrugged, half feigning surprise and half sarcastic, "You people really are heartless."

Jeanne was silent for a while.

"If that's how you see it."

"Did your fragile glass heart break again?" Salser glanced down at her.

"Ah—yes, my fragile glass heart broke again," Jeanne glared at him, repeating it, "Having a deranged Outer God contactor like you around sure spares me a ton of needless trouble."

"Spare you the trouble of mending your broken glass heart while also mending others' broken glass hearts?"

"Most of the time, that's how it goes," Jeanne remarked, her tone a mix of sarcasm and self-deprecation, "Once they truly grasp what they're supposed to do, they can see the difference between what they imagined and what actually needs to be done."

The pale fingers of moonlight pierced through the layers of branches, and vague shadowy figures approached from the depths of the trees.

Jeanne drew her long sword, looking around the darkness illuminated by the moonlight, "Get your spells ready; once this is done, we're off to the city of Cast to find that nun."

End of Volume 1: The Warrens of the Outer Gods 

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