Goblin Slayer - Volume SS2.02 - Chapter 5.4

The change is dramatic.

“Wha—?!”

The confused exclamation might come from Female Bishop or perhaps the priest. Or maybe you yourself—you don’t know. But the next one clearly belongs to the young magic knight.

“A—agh… Ahh… Agghh?!” His moaning is so hysterical that at first it almost seems ridiculous—until you see first his face, then his torso, then his limbs go limp, then wither away, crumble, and finally turn to ash. When he tries to move, his clothing crumples soundlessly, ash flowing out of the sleeves.

Whispering shadows gather in the depths of the room: “Ahh, a mistake, a miscalculation. I never dreamed your level was so high already…” Darkness billows up as if shrouding itself in the miasma of the dungeon. Before you is darkness itself, incarnate in a humanoid shape.

Then you see it; you’re sure of it: In the man’s—the black-hatted wizard’s—hand is the red blade, glowing brightly. A blade unnatural.

“Teacher! Help me, Teacher! Why…? What did I…? Why…?!”

“Hmm, well, let’s see, here. I thought you were a young man with real potential—I never meant to deceive you,” the wizard says, adopting the tone of a teacher who’s made a mistake in class. He scratches his cheek as if embarrassed, as if the whole thing is a simple misunderstanding.

That’s when you notice how strange he is—you couldn’t miss it if you wanted to. Even though he was hit full force by Female Bishop’s spell, an attack into which she threw everything she had—he isn’t so much as scratched.

“But you see, it’s a real failing not to know your history. Haven’t I been saying so all along?

“Never equip a random ring you picked up.”

These words are like the key that sets off the chain reaction.

First there’s a clattering of armor as the lord’s flesh turns to ash where he lies on the ground. The sand-bandit girl is the next to lose her body and soul. She turns into a pile of ash as if to hide the blood, leaving behind only clothing and equipment, and your dagger perched in the middle of it all—the old, famous sword and the knife.

And lastly, two dull-colored rings.

“Teacher…! Tea—” The young magic knight’s voice can no longer form words. Now that the transformation to ash has reached his throat, he probably can’t even breathe. The young man who stood against you, fought you, and might have become friends with you meets his end as a pile of dust. Strangely, there seems nothing dramatic about the way his life concludes.

“No! How could you…? Ah—Agghh?!” the priest shouts.

Female Bishop, unable to stand it any longer, calls out the priest’s name and reaches out to take her hand—and maybe she would have. But the moment their fingers touch, the priest’s hand falls away, dissolving into ash.

“Ah—ahhh—ahhhhh…!”

All that remains in Female Bishop’s hand is a fistful of ash, the dust of her former friend. There are ash-filled vestments on the ground and a single lolling ring. That, and the blue cord the priest had worn.

As Female Bishop scrambles desperately to gather the dust to herself, the miasma of the dungeon carries it away. Finally, Female Bishop is left on her knees clutching an empty outfit, the cord in her hand.

She has to admit it now. Her friend is finally and utterly lost.

Your cousin stands beside her, her wizardly gaze surveying the detritus coolly. “This ring… It’s cursed, isn’t it? It’s the kind that drains life energy…” She just manages to grab the ring, which now sits in her delicate hand. It’s a simple gold band, unremarkable, but just for an instant something written on it shines with a dark, reddish light, then vanishes again. “…Was that your plan all along—to steal the life from these children?!” Her voice shakes as she squeezes out the words. Still, she manages to keep a hold on her emotions, her affect mostly flat.

The man of darkness—the man in the dark clothing—doesn’t answer. His only response is a voiceless laugh. He seems to be saying there’s nothing left to talk about. Instead, he claps his hands and says: “Ha! Congratulations, brave adventurers!”

Bastard…

“Now, now, don’t look at me like that. I would’ve thought you’d be a little more pleased…” As he speaks, he sways from side to side like one of the ancient nazgul of legend. He seems almost made of darkness itself, but his smile forms a horrifying red slash across his face. His mouth, like a blood moon on a lightless night, opens and closes in a way that doesn’t look human. “Have you not proven your strength, just as you wished to do?” He speaks as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. The red sword dangles from his hand. “You’ve gotten stronger. Is this not the power you wanted?”

Well… You try to speak, but the words won’t come. You defeat enemies, you get stronger. That is what you wanted. But that—it wasn’t the only thing you wanted.

“Are you him, you son of a bitch…?” Myrmidon Monk asks, never letting his vigilance lapse for a moment. “Are you the Dungeon Master?”

“You think it’s him…?!” Half-Elf Scout sounds shocked; he’s already bringing his butterfly dagger to bear.

“…Hrrrraaaaaahhhhhh!!” Female Warrior, summoning all the strength left in her body, dives at the man. She tries to make the iron haft of her spear substitute for the broken tip. In your eyes, the move itself is ravishing, a killing strike imbued with all the fury of her heart. Into it she pours everything she has, everything she is, all her pain, all her feeling.

“Wha……?”

The man doesn’t dodge the strike.

No—it looked like he didn’t dodge it.

Instead, he takes a half step. The slightest movement. Enough to evade the blow completely.

At the same time, he jabs the hilt of the sword gently into Female Warrior’s solar plexus.

“Ah—hrgh?! Hack—!”

It’s enough to send her flying like a dead leaf. She skips across the ground with a series of dull thuds until she slams against the far wall of the chamber. It must be a serious shock to her internal organs: She twitches, and blood mixed with spittle dribbles out of her mouth. “H— Hggh… Agh…gh…”

She’s alive. You bite your lip as you hear her broken voice. You want to rush over to her, but instead you confront the man. You’re closer to him than any of your party members at this moment. You can’t leave this spot. A single stroke will have to settle—no…

That’s not enough to bring him down.

You don’t believe you’ll be able to land the blow. The way the man in the black outfit holds himself is simply too perfect.

He’s just standing there, not too much weight on either foot, with the red sword in one hand. That’s all. And yet…

No matter where or how I strike, I’ll be the one who gets cut down.

That seems the only possible outcome.

Even so, you grasp the hilt of your katana. You drop your hips deep, then rise.

Your vitality is running low, you see no chance of victory, your companions are behind you, but you simply cannot run away.

A familiar voice sounds in your head: “You are a master. So is your opponent.” You never thought you would hear that voice again. “Your opponent carries a master blade, while the weapon in your hand is just a lump of iron.”

Her eyes seem to be watching you, piercing through you: mellowed with drink and yet the eyes of a tiger, never to be mocked.

“So. What do you do?”

“Ha, you’ve come so far… But there’s still so far to go.”

Before you can find the answer to the question in your mind, the man speaks, sounding like a child who’s grown tired of playing with his toy. He strikes his shoulders with the flat of the red blade as if giving himself a little massage, and then he moves, swaying. Not toward you and the others, but toward the great, thick door in the far wall.

He reaches out, and the door opens without a sound.

Whoosh—a terrible wind, so cold it seems not of this world, fills the dungeon chamber.

“I’ll be waiting for you…,” the man says, as casually as if he were going for a stroll, though he stands on the brink of an abyss. “Please, come find me anytime you like. But I urge you to hurry. For otherwise…

“…your little world is done for, eh?”

The man in the black outfit sounds practically giddy—then he flings himself into the depths of the darkness and disappears. The doors hang open, and you have no way of knowing where the blackness within them might lead.

No, that’s not quite true. One thing is clear: This abyss must lead somewhere, and wherever that is, something is waiting for you.

The Dungeon of the Dead.

A labyrinth of magic and murder calls to you…