[First Day of Destruction, : 10:35 AM]
[Location: The Great Forest of Tob, Military Supply Route]
Two distinct columns sliced through the verdant silence of the Great Forest, traveling down a road carved violently into nature by the Slane Theocracy's past military campaigns. They moved not with the casual gait of travelers, but with the synchronized lethality of a single organism.
They were mounted on beasts bred for travel, To the untrained eye, they appeared to be horses, yet the unnatural rippling of their musculature betrayed their magical hybridization. Known within the Theocracy as "Arcane Steeds," these creatures possessed tireless stamina and explosive acceleration, luxuries reserved strictly for the elite special operations units of the Six Scriptures.
The vanguard consisted of one hundred operatives from the Clearwater Scripture, commanded by the serene yet vigilant Captain Sharo Fra Sarna. Flanking them rode one hundred and fifty members of the Windflower Scripture, led by a man with sharp, hawkish features: Captain Grete Cohen Vian.
"—We are approaching the perimeter."
Grete's voice cut through the rhythmic thudding of hooves. He guided his mount closer to Sharo, his expression softening just enough to break his professional mask. "It feels like a lifetime since we operated in tandem like this. I never imagined it would take a catastrophe of this magnitude to reunite our units."
"… Indeed," Sharo replied, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Her voice remained calm, a practiced discipline, but the leather of her reins groaned under the tightness of her grip. "It is only natural. The silence of the Extra Seat… it is not merely a tactical loss. It is a fracture in the very foundation of the Theocracy. Sending two Captains is the bare minimum."
"The disappearance of the Extra Seat of the Black Scripture," Grete murmured, a shadow crossing his face. "Hmph. I only met her once. An unpleasant woman who wore her arrogance like armor. Yet, for a monster of her caliber to vanish into thin air…" He glanced at her, his eyes narrowing. "Sharo, you must exercise extreme caution. You are the eyes; do not attempt to be the sword."
"I am aware of my station, Grete."
Sharo felt a treacherous warmth rise in her cheeks, threatening her Stoic facade.
The relationship between the Clearwater Scripture—specialists in infiltration and information recovery—and the Windflower Scripture—masters of espionage and guerrilla warfare—was historically symbiotic. However, the bond between their Captains was an open secret that danced precariously on the edge of fraternization regulations.
To the rank-and-file soldiers, they were a perfect match. But Sharo knew the cruel calculus of their reality. Grete was a prodigy, his potential surging toward the Realm of Heroes. It was whispered in the corridors of the Cardinals that his transfer to the Black Scripture was imminent.
Sharo, conversely, had reached her ceiling. Her growth had stagnated years ago.
He is younger than me. Brighter. Stronger, she thought, the bitterness of the truth settling in her chest. His path leads to legends, while mine ends in administration or a shallow grave. A woman like me has no right to bind a hawk with chains of affection. It is selfish. It is… pathetic.
"—Sharo?"
"Hm?" She blinked, snapping back to the present.
"What is it?" Grete asked, a playful glint entering his eyes. "I was just wondering if you were spiraling into those unnecessary, self-deprecating thoughts again. You have a habit of frowning when you think about the future."
"… I was seriously contemplating the mission parameters," she lied, flustered. "Forget it! Focus on the road, Captain Vian!"
"Yes, yes. Understood, Ma'am."
The levity evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. The weight of their orders settled back upon them like a leaden shroud.
Zesshi Zetsumei is missing. The Elf King is unaccounted for.
And looming over the vacuum of information was the specter of the Sorcerer Kingdom. According to the preliminary divination by the Thousand Leagues Astrologer, the site of the incident had been scrubbed clean.
The Sorcerer Kingdom of Ainz Ooal Gown…
Sharo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the forest wind. Every operative sent to infiltrate E-Rantel had vanished. Silence was the only return on their investment. Even the wise Cardinals were blind. The Sorcerer King was not merely a magic caster; he was a void into which the Theocracy stared, and saw nothing looking back.
Gods, please watch over us. Let this simply be a reconnaissance mission. Let us find nothing, and return home.
"—?!"
It hit her.
It was not a sound, nor a sight. It was a violent intrusion into her soul.
Within the hierarchy of divine magic casters, there existed a rare, specialized class known as "Sibyl." They were the oracles, the diviners, those who could peel back the layers of reality to glimpse the threads of fate. In the entire Six Scriptures, only two currently held this title: the Thousand Leagues Astrologer, and Sharo Fra Sarna.
A Sibyl did not just see the future; they felt the turbulence of destiny. And right now, Sharo did not feel a ripple. She felt a tsunami.
The air ahead—where the Theocracy's forward operating base should have been—was not empty. It was heavy. Malignant. It felt as if the world itself was screaming in terror, begging to be released.
This was not the anxiety of battle. This was the primal, biological panic of a prey animal realizing it has walked into a predator's nest.
"—ALL UNITS HALT! STOP IMMEDIATELY!"
Her scream tore her throat.
The discipline of the Scriptures was absolute. Despite the hysteria in her voice, the column ground to an instant halt, dust billowing around the hooves of the confused beasts.
Grete circled back, his hand already blurring toward the hilt of his sword. "Sharo? What is it? A trap? Did you see a vision?"
"Turn back…" Sharo was hyperventilating, her pupils dilated to pinpricks. She clawed at her chest, trying to force air into her lungs. "Grete, we have to turn back! It's pitch black ahead. Death. Absolute, inescapable death! If we take another step, we are dust!"
"Hey, hey, calm down," Grete frowned, looking toward the tree line where their army's forward base should reside. "That's our own garrison ahead. Are you saying our own forces—? No, wait."
Grete paused. He lifted his nose to the wind.
He smelled it. Faint, sweet, and metallic.
The scent of blood. Not the smell of a skirmish, but the heavy, copper stench of an abattoir.
Is it my imagination? Grete thought, sweat beading on his brow. Or is the silence of the forest… too loud? Where are the birds?
"Windflower Scripture, First Squad! Dismount and prepare for reconnaissance! We will—"
"GRETE!"
Sharo roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fear that made the veteran soldiers flinch. Her face was ashen, drained of all blood. "Why aren't you listening to me?! In all my years as a Sibyl, I have never felt a shadow this large! This isn't a strong enemy... this is a catastrophe! If you go there, you die. No... your soul won't even remain!"
"Then what do you propose?" Grete snapped, the tension fraying his nerves. "We flee? We return to the Pontifex Maximus and say we ran away because of a bad feeling? We are the Scriptures, Sharo!"
"Yes! That is exactly what we must do!"
"I can't do that. My duty…" Grete gritted his teeth, looking torn. "Fine. I promise, no engagement. I will go alone, in stealth. I'll just look through a scope from a kilometer away. If I see anything off, I retreat immediately."
"But—!"
Suddenly, a voice spoke. It did not come from the soldiers. It did not come from the woods. It seemed to manifest directly beside their ears, smooth, polite, and terrifyingly amused.
"—I see. I was curious why the ants suddenly stopped their march. It appears there was a Sibyl among them. How fascinating."
Author's Note:
The Stench of the Abattoir is intended to signify more than the literal aftermath of slaughter. In this chapter, the abattoir represents a place where resistance has already been rendered meaningless—where overwhelming power has passed through, leaving only silence, blood, and absence behind. The "stench" is both physical and metaphysical: a lingering trace of violence that manifests as dread, instinctive terror, and the Sibyl's warning of irreversible fate. It serves as a quiet declaration that the characters have entered a domain claimed by a predator, long after the killing itself has already ended.