Sarthel continued observing the Hounds who had fallen to the Butcher. In the damp darkness, the creature's fire provided just enough light to reveal a bloated face, its decayed, fish-like eyes staring blankly at him. The fetid moisture crawled along the swollen lumps on the corpse, like gray-green maggots.
Though recently deceased, the body already bore the lingering stench and shape of prolonged decay.
"Since losing divine authority, Hud has been missing for a long time," Jeanne's gaze followed the direction where the insects had vanished. There was nothing but damp darkness and what seemed like a corridor descending endlessly into the abyss. She withdrew her gaze, her tone low. "Now—I can at least confirm that Claudius has struck a deal with it. If this intelligence reaches the First Throne through the Church, her nation will be turned inside out by at least ten thousand T'Mas—insomniac, nonstop, not eating or drinking—even if reduced to ashes, they can reassemble and scour the land."
Surprisingly, she displayed no schadenfreude.
"Hud has indeed been missing for a long time." Though Sarthel was intrigued by the Burner's thought process, he did not probe further in such a setting. With such unfamiliarity between them, inappropriate questions could easily be taken as provocation. He changed the subject.
"Long ago," he said, "people used the phrase 'Breath of Hud' to pray, confront death, and curse their misfortune. Back then, we believed that when all life ended, the souls of the dead would pass through Hud's gate. How nostalgic that feels."
"Is it really nostalgic?" Jeanne's tone was blunt, laced with undisguised sarcasm. "There's nothing to reminisce about. The only thing it did was skewer the dead like roasting meat. Its priests treated flies and maggots as cute little spirits, bathing them in the blood of the condemned—taming those disgusting little things with their entire bodies, and calling it devotion!" She moved her recently healed arm, which seemed flawless as if never injured. Her incessant complaints continued. "Absolutely terrible. Besides your false gods, I've never encountered something as disgusting as that."
"Respecting the immortal is proper etiquette, Elant's follower."
Sarthel half-lifted his eyes from beneath his dark hair, continuing to examine the corpses. Most of the Hounds who had fought the Butcher met tragic ends—the one wrapped in a sack was imbued with ancient, lethal magic, older than humanity itself.
"The king of the deceased's family hasn't truly fallen—he's just been kicked to the ground by your master."
His voice was soft, the words carrying an oddly melodic cadence.
"Too bad it didn't completely fall," she said, a hint of glee in her golden gaze, her damp lips curving into a beautiful arc. Sarthel's glance lingered slightly longer when he turned toward her. Such a face wasted atop the Burner's head—it was a shame. Out of prudence, he refrained from saying so aloud. Like Jeanne, he did not always speak everything on his mind.
"Seems I can't discuss these things with you," he continued, probing the swollen lumps on the corpses, his face calm as though flipping freshly baked bread. "Fine, I'll focus on finding an escape route."
Jeanne snorted lightly, declining to comment further. Her displeased snort might have made her seem cuter, but instead it emphasized her coldness. Her black attire matched the grim mood of the place.
The stench of rotting flesh thickened as he inspected, the oppressive aura of death making the air almost unbreathable—but the two of them were exceptions. Occasionally, dim flashes glimmered in the dark; an unnatural chill seeped from the shadows, as if something invisible stirred and spread across the air. These were the very magics Jeanne had called "heretical gods"—alien spells that opposed the natural order of this world.
Jeanne kept her gaze fixed on him, growing increasingly impatient. Leaning against a coffin, she followed the direction of his fingers and asked, "I say, heretic—what have you learned now?"
"First—"
Sarthel pointed to a young man clutching a dagger, its tip embedded in his own eye. Blood-soaked hair clumped like animal intestines, while his face bore a bizarre smile, as if embracing a lover.
"Do you understand what this is?"
"I wanted to ask the same…" Jeanne's tone was sharp. "…If I must answer—it's a spell of the Mind Labyrinth?"
"Long ago, at the end of the First Empire's ruin, mages attempted to summon deities from another dimension to oppose the Supreme King Carlo," he said, not directly confirming her guess, simply shaking his head. "The result brought those so-called 'heretical gods' into our world. The dungeon we inhabit, including these grotesque creatures, are also descendents of alien divinities—"
"I hate history class. Can you take your textbook and die with it?"
Communicating with barbarians was never easy, Sarthel mused with some irritation.
"In short, this place isn't part of the real world. Communicating with the Labyrinth as a source of magical power is difficult. Ordinary spells require expelling internal energy or using special materials—like spiritual bodies."
"Or… casting in your unusual way." Jeanne gave a faint, cold smile. "Don't tell me Hud and its priests became heretical god worshippers too. It was at least a god once."
"The sun shines for all, without moral distinction."
"…What are you implying?"
"Alien divinities are entirely different from our world's pantheon," Sarthel said gently. "In the past, some were so fragile they were easily destroyed by Carlo's army; others drove even ancient gods mad with their very presence. Hud's embrace of alien divinities is not hard to imagine. I've spent nearly half my life studying them—their majesty and beauty surpass comprehension, and they need no worship. As for the so-called heretical worshippers, they are merely cautious contacts, much like us."
He spoke with an archaic cadence, like reciting poetry—reminding Jeanne of her long-deceased old priest who once taught her history.
"I lack interest in refuting you," she said impassively. "Debate is no more effective than a spiked chair or a set of pliers. Suppose your guess is correct—Hud truly contacted alien gods, granting its vile priests alien spells. Does that mean, given your understanding, we can purify them?"
"No."
"…Are you rehearsing a comedy, heretic? I refuse to play the fool in this disgusting place." Jeanne's face contorted in disdain, then shifted to a malicious grin. "Of course, if the punchline is you being hanged—I might cheer for you in the audience."
"I suggest you revisit the Church's History of Mages," he said calmly, a hint of mockery. "Neither alien divinities nor this world's pantheon grant all spells directly. Ninety percent of spells are designed by mages based on magical sources. Speculating on spells an immortal exposed to aliens could create is no simpler than becoming a god."
"Seems staying here wasting time with you was a huge mistake."
"At least we can follow their footsteps, saving a lot of effort. Don't you agree?"