"It's finally over."
This time, the danger had been terrifyingly real. Alistair hadn't expected his simple plan to settle a score would uncover two ticking time bombs right under his nose. He forced himself to his feet, leaning on his greatsword and taking a deep breath. A profound weakness, a bone-deep soreness, radiated through his entire body.
It was the side effect of Desperate Will. The skill, only usable when grievously wounded, plunged its user into a prolonged state of weakness after its duration ended. It was aptly named; its use was a final gamble where only one side walked away.
"Damn it! Thorne is still buried!" Alistair slapped his forehead, shouting at the knights who were now gathering around him. "Get him out of there! Now!"
Thorne lay on a makeshift stretcher, his face as white as a sheet. His helmet was gone, revealing his graying hair and eyes that, despite the pain, still shone with a stubborn light.
"My lord, I am fine… It's just my helmet, and my sword…" the old knight mumbled. Though he was gritting his teeth in agony, he pleaded with Alistair to make sure his helmet and sword were recovered.
Alistair looked at the retreating stretcher with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. The man is half-dead and he's still worried about his gear?
"Goodwin, go fetch a priest to perform a healing ritual for Thorne."
"My Lord, there are no more priests in Frostcrest."
Goodwin pointed a thumb back at the dozen or so headless corpses in white robes lying outside the ruins. "You said to leave no one alive, my lord," he stated, his tone impeccably innocent. "So… we chopped all the priests."
Alistair froze, the realization dawning on him. In his anger, he had ordered the slaughter of every priest in the church. And now, who is supposed to heal us?
He rubbed his face, a headache blooming behind his eyes. "Fine," he said with a low groan. "Go to my study. Bring a vial of the Water of Life for Thorne."
He turned to the rest of the men. "All of you, listen! Search these ruins. Anything of value, bring it to me. If you find anything you're not sure about, report it."
"Gods, I'm short on people," Alistair sighed. He swore to himself that as soon as he had the chance, he would raid another territory and kidnap a few priests. They could do nothing all day, so long as they were there to be his personal heal-bots when needed.
After resting for a while, leaning on his sword, Alistair began to feel some strength return. With nothing better to do, he squatted in front of the pile of miscellaneous items the knights had salvaged and began to sift through them, looking for anything interesting.
"What is all this junk… hmm? Why is there a pair of panties in here? Which one of you idiots brought this over?"
He paused. No, wait. The more important question is, did Anselm and Cole have some… strange hobbies? A penchant for cross-dressing, perhaps? Alistair stroked his chin thoughtfully, trying to picture which of the two pious men would have been wearing them.
"Oh my gods!"
"By the heavens above…"
Suddenly, a commotion from a corner of the ruins broke his reverie.
"What's going on over there?" he called out.
"My Lord! We've found a basement!" a knight shouted, jogging over to him.
A basement? Alistair was confused. What's so surprising about that? "Is it unusual for a church to have a basement?"
"Well…" the knight hesitated, his face pale. "The situation down there is… complicated, my Lord. I think you should see it for yourself."
Led by the knight, Alistair approached the basement entrance. Two other knights were leaning against the wall, vomiting violently.
What did they see?
His expression hardening, Alistair pushed open the basement door. The moment it swung inward, a wave of stench hit him. The coppery tang of old blood, thick as aged wine, mingled with the foul odor of rot, assaulting his senses. The knight behind him gagged, quickly covering his mouth and nose before lighting an oil lamp and stepping in front of Alistair.
They descended the mottled stone steps into the darkness, the sound of their armored boots echoing off the damp walls. The deeper they went, the thicker the bloody smell became, until it was almost suffocating.
Soon, they reached the last step. The knight in front of Alistair suddenly stopped.
Clatter.
The oil lamp dropped from his trembling hands, rolling across the floor. The knight collapsed, clutching his head and letting out a raw, tormented wail.
By the flickering light of the fallen lamp, Alistair saw hell.
In a cellar no larger than ten square paces, bodies were piled high. There were at least twenty or thirty of them, all young beastkin girls.
They were all naked, their deaths horrific. Their faces were bloodless masks of agony, eyes bulging from their sockets in a final, silent scream of unimaginable pain and terror. Some of the bodies were relatively fresh, but more than half were already in a state of decay, and in the dim light, Alistair could see the slick, pale writhing of maggots.
In the center of the room stood a round table. On it was a cylindrical container, as tall as a man, filled to the brim with blood.
Next to the container lay a freshly written, unsealed letter.
To His Holiness, the Pope:
Praise be to Dracoth. I, Anselm, send you my greetings.
The blood for this season's Holy Blood Ritual has been prepared. It will be sent to the capital before the end of the month.
There are still many 'blood bags' hiding in Frostfell, but they've gone deep underground. It'll take time to track them all down. I could really use your help.
Also—if it's at all possible—I urge you to recall Cole. He's just not cut out for this. Arrogant, reckless, a total liability. And his temper? About as pleasant as a clogged latrine.
I sincerely hope that the Church's plan may proceed smoothly. Praise be to the Church of Dracoth, and praise to our great Lord.
—Bishop Anselm of Frostcrest
His face a grim mask, Alistair set fire to the letter, then to the entire basement, watching until the place of sin and suffering was consumed by flames. He led the shell-shocked knight back outside.
He had still underestimated the Church's depravity.
From the letter and the scene in the basement, he could make a solid guess. The Templars were born from this mysterious 'Holy Blood Ritual,' and the blood of young beastkin girls was a necessary component. They were referred to as nothing more than 'blood bags'.
The thought sent a chill down his spine, forcing him to re-examine his own past. The Alistair from the game… why was he so intent on capturing beastkin girls? Was it truly just to satisfy his own lust? Was the 'Beastkin Slavery Convention' his idea alone, or had someone been pulling his strings?
And the war with the beastkin nation—was it really just because of a sudden divine conflict? The unprovoked attack by Dracoth on Silvana, the Goddess of the Wilds, now seemed deeply suspicious.
Alistair's brow furrowed. He felt as if a great, black hand was manipulating everything from behind the scenes.
"Forget it. I can't think about this now." He shook his head, exhausted. He hadn't even figured out the mysteries surrounding himself and the players. He had no time to spare for the grand conspiracies of empires and nations.
His path forward was simple. With the help of the System, he would grow stronger. And when the time came, whatever stood in his way, he would simply smash it to pieces.