Crown Of Blasphemy: Rise Of The Legendary Villain

Olga's boots sank to the calf in icy mud, a sludge sounding out as she freed herself from its grip, "we should have taken the mountain range," she muttered with a deep frown.

"Sorry Olga," Sophia's voice quivered from behind her. She was still latching onto Cerberus who seemed to have it worse, his boots sinking deeper due to the extra weight.

The mud was a cloying, sucking mire that stole boots and swallowed ankles whole. Each step was exhausting.

But they moved at a steady pace.

"How are you doing that," Olga suddenly raised her head to Mr. Valen who was perched on one of the dead trees like some sort of primate.

"Such feats are within my capacity," Mr. Valen muttered trying to peer into the mist, but even with his eye sight, visibility remained limited to ten feet, the blindness was sickening.

"Fucking animal," Olga cursed under her breath, but Mr. Valen despite hearing her paid no mind.

The misty marsh reeked of rotten eggs, or sulfur—whichever his nose perceived at that moment.

Everything was either dead, rotting, reduced to sludge or slippery. The trees were three of those things.

Yes this place had trees.

Trees that were stripped of bark and leaves, their branches like shattered ribcages against the gray sky.

Their roots were as thick as serpents, bursting from the mud in tangled knots.

Some formed natural bridges over sinkholes; others coil like traps, but the entire thing formed a complex maze like terrain that made traveling on foot a nightmare.

The trees were coated by a slimy residue that would irritate the skin if touched for too long and it was slippery, Olga had learned the hard way.

Mr. Valen on the other hand seemed to be an exception.

In reality he was simply physically stronger than Olga and the rest and his healing factor negated the effects of the slime.

But though he wasn't affected by the mud, he was still deeply uncomfortable, the rain made sure of that.

He was used to the rain of this world as much as one could get used to dropping hair and wet skin, but the rain of this terrain seemed colder, leaving a faint burn to the touch.

They split into two groups taking two different paths into this terrain, the same was done for the mountain range and now their pursuers had four paths to follow—five, if they counted the carriage

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Meanwhile, as Mr. Valen's group forged through the Misty Marsh, another group, riding large dog-like beasts, arrived before scattered carriages

The beasts that pulled the carriages seemed exhausted, one whimpering from an injury to its flank—the very beast Mr. Valen had injured

It would seem their pursuers had taken the bait.

At the arrival of the pursuers, the injured beast whimpered, its flank still oozing from Mr. Valen's parting strike.

Its labored breaths fogged the damp air as the first of the pursuers emerged from the shadowline—not as men, but as shadows given muscle.

They rode atop monstrous hounds with shoulders as wide as barrels, their hides matted with filth and old battle scars.

The hounds bore some resemblance to the beasts that pulled Sophia's convoy but seemed to be of a different, more deadly breed.

The hounds' lips peeled back from yellowed fangs, strings of drool swinging while they sniffed the air, catching the scent of prey.

But the riders were worse.

Fifty of them, each built like a battering ram wrapped in leather and iron.

They wore no polished armor, no noble insignias—just layered hides, spiked pauldrons, and the occasional rusted breastplate strapped over chests thick enough to stop an axe mid-swing.

Notable were two glaring dots imprinted upon the skin, marks which they displayed with pride as it spoke of their identities as warriors of the Cigil Clan.

For weapons, they bore cruel devices: cleavers the size of butcher's blades, spiked mauls with heads like anvils, still crusted with dried blood and flecks of bone.

They were Rust-choked axes, their hafts wrapped in fraying rope for a grip that never slipped.

Serrated daggers tucked into belts, not for finesse, but for levering open ribs when a fight got too close.

They moved with the slow, deliberate menace of men who knew they didn't need to rush.

Their boots—thick-soled and studded—sank into the weak soil without complaint, their strides unhurried, their eyes scanning the abandoned carriages with the cold amusement of wolves finding a snapped trap.

And at their head, a man who made the rest look like boys.

He didn't dismount so much as uncoil from his saddle, his bulk landing with a wet thud on the ground.

Where his men were broad, he was a wall of scarred flesh and iron. His arms, each thicker than a normal man's thigh, were sleeved in old burns and knife marks, the skin like pale leather stretched over stone.

His face was a ruin—a broken nose long since healed crooked, a brow perpetually furrowed into a glower, and a mouth that seemed more suited to snarling than speaking.

One ear was half-gone, chewed off in some forgotten brawl, and a jagged scar split his lip, pulling it into a permanent sneer.

His weapon? Was a black iron reaper's blade, its edge serrated like a saw, its weight enough to split a man hip to collarbone with a single swing.

He carried it one-handed, the other gripping the reins of his hound—a beast with milky, blind eyes and a muzzle stitched shut with wire.

The man did not speak at first, rather, he inhaled, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air.

Rotten eggs, wet earth, and the faint, fading tang of blood.

He then grunted, a sound like gravel shifting in a sack, and jerked his chin toward the marsh.

"They fooled us" His voice was a landslide given words. "The trails we overlooked far back must have been them splitting up, heading for both the Mountain Range and the Misty Marsh, we split up, head for both, and send a message to the Clan requesting backup."

To his words, his men nodded in approval.

One of his men—a young brute with a cleaver lodged between his shoulder blades like a spare tool—snorted. "Sir Vorlag, we don't need backup for those cowards."

To those words Vorlag raised a brow, his voice akin to a growl. "Have I not told you never to underestimate trained soldiers, they may be weak physically, but they can burn you to ash before you even touch them."

"Haha, can you blame the kid, this is his first hunt," one of the warriors laughed.

"Maybe he'll earn his first battle scar today, a good burn would look cool," Another chimed in, but Vorlag just shook his head with a chuckle.

'Such quick thinking, I did not take Commander Olga for such a quick witted woman, it would seem that I have misjudged her,' he thought.

With that, Vorlag remounted, his hound snarling as it pivoted toward the terrain of mist-choked trees.

Behind him, the war party readied their weapons, their laughter a low, hungry rumble.

The beasts were quick, brute-forcing their way through the confines of the mud, jumping through the maze like structures of trees and roots.

They rode for about an hour, until...

"Halt!"

Vorlag commanded, smiling as he noticed his beast picking up a scent, he also spotted signs of passage in the mud.

"This way," he commanded and they moved following the scent with precision.

"Haha, we've got prey," the men laughed as they moved riding their mounts towards four armored men in the distance.

The man heard the sound and turned back, the look in their eyes transitioning from confusion to fear, then to determination.

"Glory to the Veridianan Empire!"

They unsheathed their swords, flames engulfing the weapon as they rushed forward.

One of them—the largest soldier of the bunch arrived faster than the rest, slamming his foot against a protruding root—launching himself into the air.

"Accendere!" He chanted the flames on his sword intensifying so that even his flame resistant weapon turned red hot, and then he swung it down sending a wave of horrifying heat their way.

"Haha a bunch of hellfire novices want to defeat an infernal battlemage, LEAVE THEM TO ME!" Vorlag yelled as he leaped off his hound, landing on the mud with a sickening thud.

"Auctō!" he chanted, the glow in his eyes intensifying as he unsheathed his reaper's blade, his muscle bulging as he swung it, creating a current of air that pushed back the flames.

But the green-eyed soldiers advanced despite his impressive feat.

"You'll never capture the High Scioness," The one in the lead spat—crossing blades with Vorlag for a brief moment before being pushed back through the air.

"Clang!"

He deflected another burning hot strike, the flames scorching his skin as he pushed it back before deflecting another.

It became a repetitive dance: with Vorlag attempting to attack, push back, and defend all at once.

They were too fast, even though Vorlag pushed them back with his immense strength, they just used their powers to create flames under their feet, the explosions boosting their speed exceptionally.

"Clang!" "Clang!" "Tang!" "Clang!"

Vorlag blocked four simultaneous strikes with ungodly speed, yet he seemed not overwhelmed, but pleased.

"Entertain me!" he cried, his face paling slightly, his muscles tightening as he chanted again, "Auctō!"

"Slush!" Blood flew as a soldier was cut in half, the look in his eyes one of rage as he fell. Vorlag's speed had doubled, but he looked far from well

"Auctō!" He chanted once more, his body reddening, veins bulging, blood seeping out of his lips as he swung his blade beheading another two, his movements barely visible.

"Clang!" Sparks flew as he countered another attack from the burly soldier. The soldier grunted, his arm swinging wide from the recoil, leaving him open."

And Vorlag saw this.

"Schluck!" He drove his blade through the chest of the last man, a devilish smile on his reddish face as he asked, "Where is the High Scioness?"

"Argh!" The soldier grunted, his words coming in forced exhalations, "fuck you—Ahh," Vorlag twisted his blade watching as the man suffered, he intended to get his information by any means necessary.