Re: From Elf Mage to Overlord Slayer-Chapter 35: Mission

Chapter 35: Mission
The chime faded.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Like, really heavy.
It was different from the usual quiet you get in the academy.
This was the silence of a hundred psychos who had just heard the dinner bell.
We all moved at once, a river of black uniforms pouring out from every corner of the Corps, all heading for the main Forging Ground.
The huge, circular room was already packed.
The air was so thick with tension you could probably taste it.
No one was acting tough anymore.
No one was sneering.
All that lazy, ’I’m better than you’ crap from the training grounds was gone. Poof.
Every single eye was glued to the raised platform in the middle of the room, where some guy was just standing there, waiting.
He was just a spooky silhouette against the dim light of the big Anvil crystal.
A tall, skinny shape wrapped in a dark, high-collared robe that looked like it ate light for breakfast.
You couldn’t see his face.
You couldn’t see his hands.
He was just a big column of shadow and ’I’m in charge here’ vibes.
The Warden.
The Master of the Corps.
The ancient, creepy thing who ran this whole damn school for killers.
He didn’t say anything for a long, long time.
He just let the silence stretch out, letting the pressure build, probably letting our own fear do all the work for him. Smart, I guess.
When he finally spoke, his voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
It just... was there.
It was a dry, ancient sound, like rocks grinding together at the bottom of the ocean.
A voice that had probably seen gods rise and worlds fall and was totally bored by all of it.
"The Forge has tempered you," the Warden’s voice echoed, sounding like it was coming from the walls themselves. "Now, the Culling will test the blade."
He raised one long, skinny hand, and a shimmering, 3D map of a dark, twisted forest popped up in the air above him.
"Your target is a Divine Remnant."
A bunch of people started whispering.
Even the most arrogant of the high-rankers looked a little uneasy.
"When a god dies," the Warden continued, his voice as cold as a tomb, "its power does not simply vanish. It lingers. It festers. It becomes a wound in the fabric of reality."
The map zoomed in on a dark, pulsating spot right in the middle of the forest.
"This Remnant, known to the old texts as the Chittering Maw, was once a god of whispers and secrets. Now, it is a cancer. An un-thing of shifting angles and raw chaos, drawn to the echo of Vex’s power."
He made it sound less like a monster and more like some server bug that grew a consciousness.
"Your mission is simple," the Warden said, and the way he said "simple" made the hairs on my arm stand up straight. "Enter the Blighted Wood. Hunt the Maw. Destroy it. And bring me its Resonant Heart."
A classic fetch quest.
The kind of quest that usually ends with a total party wipe.
"Success will solidify your place within the Corps," he droned. "Failure will result in your erasure. You will be forgotten. You will be slag."
Then he started picking the teams.
"Two Blade teams will form the primary assault," he announced. "Two Hilt teams will provide support."
The names pretty much said it all.
The Blade was the weapon.
The Hilt was just the part you hold onto, the part that’s basically disposable.
"Blade One," the Warden called out. "Led by Initiate Seraphina."
Seraphina stepped forward, her face a perfect mask of cool, ’I got this’ confidence.
The Warden listed off the other members of her team.
All of them were Rank 7 or 8.
The best of the best.
The popular kids.
They lined up behind her, a perfect little squad of arrogant, deadly power.
"Blade Two. Led by Initiate Reynolds."
Gandalf stepped forward.
His face was grim, his hand resting on the broken hilt of that sword of his.
The Warden called out the names of the other survivors from the capital.
They weren’t the highest-ranked, but they moved like they had a purpose.
A team forged in tragedy, or whatever.
My eyes met Gandalf’s for a split second.
There was no challenge.
No hatred.
Just a simple, hard look that said, "This is it."
Then came the rest of us.
"Hilt One," the Warden’s voice droned on, losing some of its intensity, like he was already getting bored with us.
He called out a list of mid-rankers, including that wild-eyed psycho, Kaelen.
She shot me a grin from across the room, a look that promised a different kind of fight later.
Great. Just great.
"Hilt Two."
My gut tightened.
I knew what was coming.
He started listing off names that were basically the bottom of the barrel.
The scrubs.
The misfits.
The broken toys.
"Initiate Elara."
I saw the small, terrified girl flinch, her face going totally pale.
"Initiate Quinn."
A few of the Blade team members actually snickered.
Seraphina just gave me a look of deep, pitying disgust.
I was being put exactly where she thought I belonged.
With the trash.
We shuffled into our pathetic little formation.
A handful of Rank 2s and 3s, and me.
The designated bait.
The Warden gave a final, dismissive wave of his hand.
"Go," he commanded. "Prove you are worthy of the name Slayer."
We marched out of the Forging Ground in near silence.
The Blade teams took the lead, their steps all confident and sure.
We, the Hilt team, trailed behind like a sad, forgotten little puppy.
The journey to the Blighted Wood was long and quiet.
No one on my team said a word.
They were all too busy being scared out of their minds.
Elara walked right beside me, her steps so small and hesitant she was practically shuffling.
She looked like a ghost.
My internal monologue, however, was running just fine.
This is a tactical advantage.
The bait always gets to see the boss’s attack patterns first.
Let them underestimate us.
Let them think we’re just here to die. (Seraphina: You are.)
The landscape slowly changed.
The healthy green forest gave way to a skeletal landscape of black, twisted trees and gray, ashy dirt.
The air grew cold and smelled like ozone and something rotting.
We had arrived.