Ragna didn't answer, his gaze still fixed on Big Belly Lake with an amused smile.
Yes, he had gouged out his own eyes with his own hands.
But so what?
Ragna was indifferent to Big Belly Lake's lost eye—he was only interested in the power concealed behind it.
He remained silent as Big Belly Lake continued his story.
"That day, we tracked the flying dragon beast beyond the Great Wall, prepared for battle."
"We severed its colossal head, and when it fell, torrents of blood spilled from its throat, blanketing the entire sky!"
"We triumphed. We could have hoisted its head high, led the young dragon beasts, and returned to Winter City in glory."
"We could have been heroes."
"But then, the eyes… those bloodied, cursed eyes… And the blood, that darkness-infused blood…"
"The Blood of Darkness."
"The tide of darkness is coming… the tide of darkness is coming…"
"No one can escape… no one can escape…"
As he spoke, his wooden features twisted, and in his lone remaining eye, dim light flickered—then, slowly, a sinister red spread across his sclera.
Tears of blood trickled down his face, his expression contorting in horror.
"Has that energy been corroding your mind?"
"Did recalling that moment drive you into madness?"
"And… does it taint flesh and blood as well?"
"The Dark Blood—is it contagious?"
"The infection spreads, but its erosive force seems weak…"
Ragna reached out a single finger and tapped Lake's forehead.
A surge of radiant solar energy poured into Big Belly Lake's body.
The divine heat met the eerie corruption within him, turning his flesh into a battlefield of opposing forces.
Light and darkness—holy and profane—waged war.
His body trembled violently under the clash.
The corruption ran deep, its tendrils anchored within him. It was a remnant of an ancient power, stubborn and insidious.
But the energy of the sun—Ragna 's energy—was limitless.
Though the darkness resisted, it melted like ice beneath his radiance.
A brilliant glow erupted from within.
Big Belly Lake's shaking ceased. The crimson in his eye dissolved, replaced by a trace of gold.
No. He could no longer be called Big Belly Lake.
His grotesque belly had been burned away in the purification process. His entire form had been reshaped, refined.
His legs were strong once more, his body cleansed, yet his lost eye remained darkened. Though golden light pulsed within the socket, the shadow persisted—unmovable, unyielding.
"The energy itself is weak, but its essence is profound…"
"The tide of darkness… so this is the so-called Blood of Darkness… and the abyssal demons. Interesting. Very interesting."
Ragna withdrew his finger, ceasing the flow of power.
If he desired, he could have eradicated the darkness entirely, but such an act would have drawn unwanted attention from the so-called gods.
Besides, keeping a fragment of this abyssal energy would allow him to study it further.
"I offer my all to my lord."
Reborn, Lake fell to one knee, striking his chest with his left fist—a soldier's solemn pledge.
Reforming the body did not come without a price.
Ragna 's power had penetrated every fiber of his being, shaping him anew. Even his mind had been subtly altered, his memories brushed over and refined by Ragna 's touch.
Now, he was Ragna 's most devoted follower.
Still kneeling, Lake remained unmoving, while Ragna stood, motioning for him to rise.
They ignored the trembling tavern owner and the frightened dancing girls hiding in the cellar.
The burst of energy had shaken them all.
That power—Lake's newfound strength—was at least that of a tenth-order saint.
In Orante's hierarchy, a tenth-rank warrior was called a Saint.
A step further, at eleventh rank, they were Legends.
At twelfth, they stood as Demigods—the peak of mortal power.
Even ninth-order warriors were legends in their own right.
Yet now, Lake—once a mere seventh-rank warrior—had ascended directly to the tenth order.
However, by cosmic standards, a tenth-order Saint of Orante was merely equivalent to a seventh-tier combatant in universal terms.
And Ragna had no shortage of seventh-tier warriors.
Leading Lake outside, Ragna pushed open the tavern doors. Snow continued to drift down from the heavens.
"Prepare a carriage. We're heading to Bliss."
With a flick of his gaze, Ragna scanned and copied the most extravagant carriage near the tavern.
He climbed in, while his newly anointed Saint took the reins, guiding the horses forward through the snowy roads.
A man walking alone through the snow, clad in pristine robes, would draw too much attention.
Sitting within the carriage, Ragna silently sifted through Lake's memories.
The northern territories, the structure of Orante's power, the Kas religion—he now had a clearer picture.
But Lake, despite his rise in strength, had once been a mere seventh-rank warrior. His knowledge of true power was limited.
To understand the full extent of Orante's mysteries, Ragna needed to seek out the true powers that ruled this world.
And the City of Bliss—the independent dominion nestled near the heart of the Kas religion—was the perfect place to start.
A direct confrontation with the sacred mountain of Kas was unwise.
To challenge the gods without knowing their limits was foolishness.
Knowledge was power.
Even in the cosmic battlefield, intelligence dictated the victors.
As the carriage rolled forward, its wheels pressing deep tracks into the snow, Ragna observed the world outside.
Here and there, figures collapsed onto the road—refugees, driven by desperation, unable to endure the cold.
Some still clung to life, crawling toward the cities, hoping for salvation.
The churches of Kas would take them in.
Kas was merciful.
Yet too many never made it.
Alongside the dying were the priests and nuns of Kas, draped in solemn robes.
They worked tirelessly, rescuing the fallen, offering aid without hesitation.
A religion of kindness.
A faith of salvation.
A perfect tool for kings.
And yet… why were there so many refugees?
If the Kas religion ruled, if their faith was supreme, why did suffering persist?
Ragna pondered the meaning behind it all.
The Orante Continent had stagnated.
Kings rose and fell. Popes ascended and were replaced.
Yet the world remained the same.
For millennia, no one had ascended to godhood.
For millennia, power had been carefully contained.
Was this stagnation by design?
Did the Kas Pantheon seek only to maintain believers—to preserve this world in a controlled state?
But how could a pantheon of mere mid-tier gods stand against the advanced war machines of a fifth-level technological civilization?
Fifth-tier civilizations wielded armies with combat power equivalent to the thirteenth through fifteenth orders.
Machines. Mass-produced war engines.
A technological force that outmatched gods themselves.
And yet, the Kas Pantheon lingered.
What were they playing at?
Ragna smirked.
The City of Bliss claimed to grant any wish—for the right price.
Perhaps it held the answers he sought.
And so, through the falling snow, the carriage pressed onward toward Bliss.
Where secrets waited to be unveiled.
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