Chapter 108

Chapter 108
Alon’s declaration left every person in the tent utterly speechless.

Wise Ashgul’s aged face, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening, was a mask of pure shock.

Syrkal, whose swift movements were matched only by her vigilant distrust of Alon, was equally stunned.

Even Evan, who had been distractedly studying one of the large monster masks placed in a corner, became completely still.

Reinhardt, who had been surveying the tent with an air of detached boredom, shared the same fate.

All of them were left staring, mouths agape.

The statement that had just left Alon’s lips was beyond the comprehension of anyone who heard it.

Of them all, Reinhardt wore an expression that most clearly shouted, ‘What absurdity did he just utter?’

Though Reinhardt’s appearance was rough from prolonged training in the jungle and life on the move, he was still fully aware of the entity Alon had named.

The Receiver, Basiliora.

A brutal and colossal snake, it was the undisputed master of the eastern territories and the divine being to whom the Thunder Serpent Tribe prayed.

The primary reason so many expedition parties chose to steer clear of confrontations with the Thunder Serpent Tribe was the terrifying power of Basiliora backing them.

And yet, here was Marquis Pallatio, boldly announcing his plan to subdue Basiliora directly in front of the tribe that worshipped it as their god.

‘Has he lost his mind?’ Reinhardt wondered, gazing at Alon with a feeling of genuine incredulity.

He was, of course, aware that Alon was no ordinary man.

The rumors had reached him, and he had personally observed some of Alon’s exceptional capabilities.

But no matter how capable, the notion of challenging Basiliora felt like the peak of folly—an act that transcended mere overconfidence.

‘That creature…?’

Reinhardt’s memory flashed to the single occasion he had laid eyes on Basiliora.

Its gigantic tail had swept casually through the jungle, shattering dozens of ancient trees as if they were dry kindling.

Its immense form had loomed over the canopy, leaving a memory so powerful and terrifying that Reinhardt knew he would carry it forever.

Seeing Deus, who stood beside Marquis Pallatio, calmly nodding in agreement only deepened Reinhardt’s shock.

“…What did you say?”

For the first time, Wise Ashgul’s composure broke, his brow furrowing deeply.

“Those are words, regardless of your status, that cannot be spoken without grave consequence,” Ashgul said, a sharp edge of hostility in his tone.

Alon, however, remained perfectly calm.

He had expected this very response.

Alon delivered the argument he had prepared.

“So, do you plan to continue living this way?”

“…What are you implying?” Ashgul demanded.

“I am asking if you intend to keep sacrificing your own people to that god,” Alon stated, his words direct and unsoftened.

“How… How could you know of that?”

The shock on Ashgul’s face was a clear confession, confirming the truth without words.

But Alon did not stop; he pressed on.

“Remember this, Ashgul. The god you revere will never cease its demand for human lives—not until the Thunder Serpent Tribe is completely wiped from existence.”

“And what makes you so certain?” Ashgul challenged.

Without a moment’s pause, Alon answered, “I don’t need to be certain. You already know, don’t you? You know it will never stop.”

Alon’s next statement cut even deeper.

“If the Thunder Serpent Tribe assists me, I will remove it for you.”

Ashgul fell into a heavy silence, unable to form a reply.

Alon said nothing more.

Not because he had run out of things to say, but because further words were unnecessary.

His goal here was dual: to compel the chieftain of the Thunder Serpent Tribe to face a long-buried truth, and to present them with a path toward liberation.

After a long, strained silence, Ashgul finally spoke.

“…Will you grant me a day to consider your words?”
“I will wait,” Alon replied.

With that, their initial meeting concluded, the weight of the following day lingering in the air.

As Alon departed the tent with his companions, he caught a final glimpse of Syrkal, her pupils shaking with uncontrolled emotion.

They left the sacred space without another word.

A short time later, back at the quarters provided by the Thunder Serpent Tribe:

“Marquis.”
“What is it?”
“…Are you truly intending to capture that being they call a god?”

The moment they returned, Evan could not hold back his question.

Alon gave a serene nod.
“I am.”
“…You are completely serious?”
“Yes.”

“Sometimes, Marquis, I truly cannot fathom your thoughts. But… are you certain you do not need to offer them more explanation? From their reaction, they did not seem at all happy with your proposal.”

Alon answered with ease.
“They will most likely agree.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because it is probable that they no longer wish to continue providing human sacrifices.”

Evan let out a frustrated click of his tongue.
“So that is the heart of it.”
“It is.”

“But even so, do you believe they will simply accept your plan? I understand it is a savage custom, but for a tribe where such sacrifices are a part of their traditions, they may not even see it as wrong.”

Evan was not entirely incorrect.

In any society guided by fundamental morals, human sacrifice was considered a monstrous act.

However, for secluded tribes like the Thunder Serpent Tribe, who had little contact with the outside world, it was possible they lacked the ethical perspective to condemn the practice.

Still, Evan was mistaken on one crucial point.
“The Thunder Serpent Tribe did not begin as a people who performed human sacrifices. They are being compelled.”
“…Compelled?”

While Alon did not know every detail of their history, he was sure of two truths:

First, the Thunder Serpent Tribe had no history of human sacrifice in their past.

Second, the one who had imposed this practice upon them was their own guardian, Basiliora.

“…Then why would they not accept your offer?”

Evan looked genuinely confused.

Alon did not answer immediately, but Reinhardt did.
“It’s obvious. They are terrified of the consequences of failure. Is it not easy to imagine? If the tribe is truly being forced, they are likely enduring this horror to avoid total destruction.”
“That is logical, but would it not be better for them to simply flee to a land where Basiliora holds no power?”
“They clearly cannot leave. Something is preventing them, which is why they suffer this degradation,” Reinhardt concluded.

Alon regarded Reinhardt with a measure of respect.
Despite his rugged, almost bandit-like exterior, Reinhardt had correctly analyzed the predicament.

“Correct. The Thunder Serpent Tribe cannot abandon this place. To be more precise, they are prisoners here. Basiliora watches them, ensuring they cannot escape.”
“Ah.”

Evan released a soft sound of understanding.

Reinhardt briefly puffed up with pride under Deus’s approving glance, but then his expression soured as a thought struck him.
“Wait. Why do all of you look so astonished? Is it really so shocking that I managed to reason that out?”
“Well…”
“…Perhaps because your mind works more swiftly than your appearance suggests?” Deus offered.
“Oh, that’s—ahem—well…”

Evan nodded vigorously, then caught himself and coughed awkwardly under Reinhardt’s glare.

Hastily changing the subject, Evan asked, “Anyway, why would Basiliora refuse to let the tribe depart?”

The earnestness in his tone drew Alon’s focus.
“Most likely because of their faith,” Alon thought to himself.

Basiliora fed on the devotion of the Thunder Serpent Tribe, well aware of the power it gained from their belief.

To Basiliora, the tribe was more than just a protected people—they were a precious resource, a wellspring of faith.

The complication was that Basiliora had discovered that terror and sacrifice could generate even greater devotion than protection ever did.

“And without a doubt, the chieftain is aware of this truth as well.”

Alon remembered the profound bitterness in Syrkal’s voice from the game, as she revealed the secret of the sacrifices, a truth handed down from the former chieftain.

“I do not know the precise reasons myself,” Alon said, sidestepping a full explanation.
The entire story would take far too long to tell.
“For now, we wait.”

With those words, he settled into his seat.

***

Three hours later.

“Is it truly… is it really possible to capture Basiliora?”

Alon looked at Syrkal, who had returned in a fraction of the time he had anticipated. He had expected a council meeting and a decision to take a day or two, yet Syrkal stood before him after only three hours.

“Yes,” Alon replied with a steady nod.
“…My younger sister is the next offering.”

Alon quickly understood why their decision had come so swiftly.
“That is why your meeting concluded so quickly.”
“Yes. If we act now, my sister can still be saved.”
“It must have been difficult to persuade the others.”
“The chieftain and I have sworn to bear all responsibility.”

Alon paused briefly, considering the immense risk she and the chieftain were taking. Could they truly withstand the fallout if this endeavor failed? He dismissed the thought and nodded.

Knowing Basiliora’s nature, the tribe was too valuable a asset for the creature to destroy completely. Perhaps the lives of the chieftain and Syrkal would be enough to appease it.

But for Alon, failure was not a possibility he entertained.
“Then let us discuss what must be done.”

Alon began to outline the plan to Syrkal, whose expression was one of fierce determination.

***

Jenira.

The younger sister of Syrkal, the most formidable warrior of the Thunder Serpent Tribe.

She had recently celebrated her sixteenth year and was meant to undergo her coming-of-age ritual, receiving her tribal name alongside her peers. Instead, she stood alone on the temple roof, watching the heavy rain fall.

Dark, gray-tinged clouds grew deeper as dusk began to settle. Jenira looked down at her hands.

In her palm was an apple.

It was her final meal, a present from the sister she adored. Syrkal had given it to her, and for the first time Jenira had seen, her sister had been crying as she pressed the fruit into her hands.

Jenira stared vacantly at the apple, its once-vibrant red now faded and dull, mirroring the gray expanse above. Syrkal had told her to eat it, but Jenira had not.

No, she could not.

Despite the hunger gnawing at her, despite her love for apples, she could not bring herself to take a bite.

To eat it would make the end feel real. To consume it would mean being truly alone. The terror of that finality kept her from even a single bite. She knew this was her last sustenance.

It’s useless.

Jenira was not a fool. She understood that clutching the apple would not keep her sister with her. She knew the inevitable conclusion would not be halted.

She wanted to flee.

A powerful, sudden urge surged through her mind, but her body remained rooted.

Running would only mean her sister would be chosen as the next sacrifice. She understood that perfectly.

So she remained motionless, watching the gray sky deepen into night.

Until—

“!”

*Ku-gu-gu-gu—!*

She saw it.

Something massive, moving toward her.

The great god she was taught to worship. The god she never wanted to meet.

…Death had arrived for her.

Shattering trees with its sheer bulk, the gigantic serpent—no, the Receiver, Basiliora—coiled smoothly around the massive altar. Its huge, intelligent eyes fixed on her.

The reptilian pupil, larger than her whole body, stared directly into her.
“Ah—”

Terror seized her. Her body shook uncontrollably.

The apple fell from her numb fingers, landing on the rain-drenched stone.

Her mind screamed for life.

‘I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.’

The thought repeated, a desperate, burning mantra.

But in her heart, she knew.

No matter how much she pleaded or wept, no one was coming to rescue her. Her fate was already sealed.

All she could do was stand there, paralyzed, weeping silently.

The Receiver, as if savoring her dread, opened its colossal jaws—wide enough to consume a house whole—to devour her.

But then—

“Arctic Freeze.”

A voice cut through the air.

*Crack, crack, crack!*

Everything on the altar’s summit turned to solid ice.

The stone floor.

The puddles of rainwater.

Even the apple Jenira had dropped.

The rain falling from the sky froze in place, each drop suspended in mid-air.

And then—

From the altar’s edge,

*Step, step—*

A man walked forward, his expression detached as the frozen rain brushed past him.

In one hand, he held a swirling vortex of gray-white energy. Floating beside him was a rectangular block of iron, roughly half his height.

As he climbed the stairs, he murmured something too quiet to be heard.

But instantly after—

*CRAAACK!*

The iron block contorted unnaturally, reshaping into a gigantic spear.

The god, the Receiver, Basiliora, sensed the threat instinctively. It tried to snap its vast jaws shut, but—

Its mouth would not close.

Within the cavernous, ash-gray expanse of its maw, brilliant violet threads wove and crossed violently, forcing the god’s jaws to remain wide open.

The moment it realized this, Basiliora’s massive body, coiled around the altar, began to thrash.

*RUMBLE!*

With a single powerful twist of its colossal form, the entire altar shuddered as if struck by a quake.

Yet the man was unshaken. He calmly ascended the remaining steps, moved past Jenira who stood frozen in place, and stopped before the god.

With another soft utterance, he raised his hand, forming a gesture like a gun with his index and middle fingers.

“Pierce.”

He spoke the final word.

*BOOM!*

A tremendous bolt of lightning descended.

The iron spear launched forward, exploding through Basiliora’s upper jaw with a world-shaking impact.

And then, the god fell.

Basiliora, impaled and defeated, tumbled down the side of the altar, its divine reign broken.

And Jenira, still frozen where she stood, could only stare blankly at the man who had brought down a “god.”