Chapter 292: High-Order Evil Creature

In the projection, the sky was dull red and the ground scorched black.

Thick clouds of corruption hung in the air, so dense they seemed to corrode the view.

A horde of evil creatures clustered around a flag.

The banner was pieced together from countless scraps of skin in varying shades, its stitched seams crooked and uneven.

A tall, spindly evil creature held it aloft.

Richard immediately activated [Erudition].

He scoured the entire database in his mind.

Yet he found nothing that matched.

"None of you will find it in your manuals."

Heracles's voice rang out.

"It isn't in the official archives, either. Our field team named it ourselves... the Flagbearer."

He raised a hand the size of a palm-leaf fan and pointed at the banner in the projection.

"The evil creatures in the Ash Belt normally stick to their own nests and tear each other apart."

"In places where they die in massive droves, the stagnant death aura festers and breeds this kind of high-order evil creature."

"It rarely fights directly," Heracles continued.

"It raises the flag to rally the other evil creatures into a formation, continuously amplifying their strength."

In the projection, every evil creature gathered beneath the banner possessed an aura far exceeding its normal kin.

"The worst part comes next."

Heracles's tone grew heavy.

"Whether the evil creatures under the banner are its own lackeys or enemies slaughtered in the fray..."

"...as long as they die within the flag's radius, all the dissipating ether pollution flows straight back into the Flagbearer."

So that's how it is. That explains its Rank as a high-order evil creature, Richard thought.

Killing its lackeys only fed it; the more violently you slaughtered them, the faster it grew.

But if you just stalled, the horde of buffed evil creatures would drown you alive.

You couldn't advance and you couldn't retreat, and the enemy only grew stronger as the fight dragged on.

The only solution was a blitz: break through the encirclement and kill it the second the battle began.

In the projection, that was exactly what Heracles did.

Several faceless field operatives followed close behind him.

The team first clashed with the horde of evil creatures beneath the banner.

Using his companions as cover, Heracles hoisted his Giant Olive Wood Club and smashed it directly into the evil creatures' shield wall.

That single strike shattered the entire shield formation.

Across the table, the pan on Nemesis's tilted scale swayed.

Having borrowed his patron's power, Heracles possessed an ether density that far exceeded an ordinary Minor Adept.

A single swing of his club literally warped the surrounding space.

Richard now understood.

This was the weight of a top-tier title.

Empowered by the God of Strength, Heracles's brute force was already scraping the edges of a standard Major Adept.

In the projection, the evil creatures fell into chaos without the protection of their shield wall.

Heracles advanced on the flag, step by step.

The Flagbearer tried to flee, but Heracles seized the banner.

With his bare hands, he tore the patchwork skin banner straight down the middle.

The moment the flag broke, the Flagbearer dissipated entirely.

Its subordinate evil creatures collapsed in unison, like marionettes with their strings cut.

The members sitting around the table felt their pulses quicken at the sight.

But Richard's gaze lingered on the torn flag.

He quietly deployed [Silent Observation]. As that layer of tranquil water sank deep into the projection, he spotted a flaw.

The flag bore two completely different types of tears.

One had been made by Heracles's bare hands—thick, frayed edges ripped apart by overwhelming brute force.

The other was hidden near the corner of the banner. Its edges were fine and clean. That wasn't Heracles's handiwork.

Richard understood.

Before Heracles even made his move, the Flagbearer had already been heavily wounded by something else.

The projection continued to play.

After tearing the flag, Heracles didn't stop.

Bloodshot with killing intent, his borrowed ether began to surge violently.

He hoisted his giant club and smashed everything in sight to pulp.

He repeatedly pummeled the fallen evil creatures, hammering massive craters into the scorched earth.

It was a display of pure, mindless destructive urge.

Richard recalled the old myth surrounding the original Heracles.

Hera, Queen of the Gods, had despised him and cursed him with madness.

Driven insane, Heracles had slaughtered his own wife and children.

The Twelve Labors that followed were his penance for that very sin.

Above the torch on Hecate's mask, the projection abruptly vanished.

Nobody at the table minded; they had seen enough of the thrilling hunt.

Dionysus raised his wineglass in a vague toast toward Heracles.

The scales in Richard's mind grew heavier.

He pieced the two flaws together.

One, Heracles's true strength was likely still a bit lacking to kill a high-order evil creature on his own.

Two, and far more concerning... Heracles was already being influenced by the mask.

The price of Hera's jealousy had already begun to gnaw at him.

His uncontrollable excitement, surging ether, and mindless blood frenzy... were all part of the toll the mask demanded.

"Impressive work," Prometheus spoke up first.

The voice beneath the red-gold mask was calm and unhurried.

"Your strength, Lord Heracles, is truly enviable."

His words were carefully measured, stopping just short of praising anything beyond mere strength.

The "Firebringer" had sharp eyes; it was entirely possible he had spotted the two different tears as well.

But choosing not to point them out was perfectly in line with his usual prudence.

"Just a stroke of luck." Heracles waved a hand.

Beneath his Lion-Mouth Mask, the manic excitement had yet to fully fade.

"A few brothers on my team pinned it down first. I just delivered the final blow."

At least he was being honest.

His strength was real, but not great enough to delude himself.

Hecate dismissed the image completely.

"You have all seen what Heracles brought us."

Her maidenly voice rang clear.

"The evil creatures in the Ash Belt are growing more restless."

The Golden Mask turned toward Demeter.

"Demeter, why don't you show us your work."

"Heracles has shown everyone power. Now, show them production."

Richard understood Hecate's careful arrangement for the evening.

First, let the newcomer Heracles flaunt his "power," then have Demeter showcase her "production."

One martial, one civil; one hard, one soft. It was a dual demonstration of the boons granted by the Divine Persona Masks.

Demeter lifted her calloused hands from her lap.

She reached into a coarse burlap sack resting beside her, pulling out items one by one and lining them up on the table.

A few small wax-sealed clay jars, rolls of oil paper, and over a dozen tightly twisted paper bundles.

Before long, she had covered more than half the tabletop.

Seeing the sheer volume of goods, the other members at the table took on much more serious expressions.

"I tend the fields," Demeter began, her voice slow and measured.

"Since donning the mask the Chief prepared for me, I can make the fields grow far faster."

Richard ventured a guess.

The "fields" she tended were definitely not ordinary farmland.

It was most likely an ether weak point she had cultivated for years, or an already fertile sacrificial ground.

Demeter unrolled the largest oil paper packet.

Inside were various seeds, spores, roots, and dried leaves—big and small, black and yellow, all neatly organized.

She pointed to them one by one, speaking little as she simply recited their names and uses.

"Silent Fern."

She pinched up a small clump of dark green fern spores.

Richard's Inspiration immediately latched onto it.

Silent Fern. It was exactly what he had been searching for lately.

The Fog Bell was only a substitute, meaning his "Silence" spell formula had remained usable, but nothing more than that.

"This touches the fringes of the deep realm. You won't find it through proper channels."

Demeter gently pushed the spores toward the center of the table.

"I can grow it here. Stable yields."

She moved on.

"Multi-Eyed Black Moss." A tuft of black, mossy fuzz.

"Spirit Realm Pomegranate Seeds." A few dark red kernels.

"Whoever eats these forges a pact with the Spirit Realm. They can serve as a medium for sealing or tracking."

Demeter continued down the line.

"Requiem Poppy." A handful of tiny seeds, so dark red they were nearly black.

"Useful for soul-soothing and sleep-return spell formulas. Crush them and scatter them around the deceased, and they can quiet restless spirits."

Richard's mind flashed back to that night in the Black Trench. If only he'd had this on hand back then...

"Underworld Narcissus." A few shriveled, grayish-white bulbs.

"A medium for guiding and channeling spirits. If someone with high Inspiration carries this, they might wander into the wrong place in the dead of night."

"Bone-Eroding Root." A pitch-black root that was still slowly writhing.

"It slowly corrodes away ether residue. If you hold any forbidden items that shouldn't be kept, you can use this to dispose of them."

Having listed all of that, she picked out a single ear of wheat from the roll.

The ear of wheat was bulging, every grain so plump it looked ready to burst from the stalk.

But when she pinched it between two fingers, the ear deflated. It was completely hollow inside.

"Bountiful Wheat." She placed the deflated husk back onto the table.

"It grows incredibly fast and looks exceedingly plump, but crumbles to nothing the moment you pinch it."

Her terracotta mask tilted slightly toward the head of the table.

"Don't just look at the benefits, everyone."

"A borrowed harvest is an empty one."

"Forced growth yields things that pale in effect compared to those grown naturally."

Listening to her, Richard connected her words with Heracles's earlier display.

Heracles gained a massive surge in strength, but suffered the backlash of a blood frenzy.

Demeter gained a bountiful harvest, but the yield suffered a steep drop in quality.

Everything borrowed had to be repaid.

"These..." Demeter made a sweeping gesture over the pile on the table.

"...are just a select few. I have dozens more in storage, far too many to bring tonight."

That casual statement carried far more weight than the entire table of seeds.

But internally, Demeter was much more spirited than she let on.

She felt that this gathering had grown even more interesting than the last.

Last time, it had been a brood of chicks huddled around an old mother hen. This time, there was a half-grown, headstrong rooster thrown into the mix.

Of course, the mother hen was still Hecate.

Hecate naturally had no idea what her good sister was thinking. She simply pushed forward with the evening's agenda.

The groundwork was laid. Now, it was time for the main event of the gathering.

"You have all seen what Demeter brings to the table."

"Next comes tonight's true business."

"The Divine Persona Masks."

Everyone at the table sat up straighter.

Hecate raised her hand, palm facing upward.

The silhouettes of a Torch and Key flickered on her Golden Mask.

Out of thin air, four masks materialized in the center of the table, slowly rotating as they hovered in the air.

Each one was entirely unique.

One red-gold, one deep purple, one silvery-white, and the last... Richard's breath hitched when he saw his.

It was a bronze mask, its surface cast with a pair of spread wings, and two serpents coiled between them.

Golden wings and twin serpents—the mark of Hermes.

"Before I hand these masks over to you," Hecate's tri-layered voice echoed out.

"Let me make something perfectly clear."

"I have made the power you can borrow from these masks very clear. I will make the price they demand just as clear."

She gestured toward the four floating masks.

"The masks do not grant you power out of thin air."

"They are conduits. They draw a sliver of the collective perception accumulated over millennia by these divine names and channel it into you."

"The deeper the well you dig for yourself, the more water you can draw in."

Sitting in his seat, Richard weighed Hecate's words in his mind.

It was her usual brand of rhetoric.

She acknowledged the risks, set a clear price, and explained the cost in full.

Yet by laying out the price so plainly, she shifted the entire burden of responsibility onto the wearer.

If you couldn't draw enough water, or if you lost yourself to the power, it meant your own well was lacking. You couldn't blame the conduit.

The host at the head of the table never lied; she merely twisted the truth.

"You need not be so guarded." Hecate's crone voice lowered.

"We share this table. We grow together."

Her Golden Mask swept across the table, taking in all six members.

"I gain absolutely nothing from harming you."

"Once you borrow power through the masks, you will advance far faster than you do now."

"These benefits are shared by all of us. The faster you progress, the firmer the foundation of my table becomes."

"Very well." Hecate dropped the tri-layered echo, speaking solely with the voice of the mother.

"I have said my piece."

She raised her hand and gestured toward the silvery-white mask.

"Nemesis."

The silvery-white mask drifted from the center of the table and stopped in front of Nemesis.

Nemesis reached out and caught it.

She cradled the mask in her hands, "peering" into it.

Hecate's motherly voice recited the words for her.

"Goddess of Retribution, Holder of the Scales, Master of the Whip and Reins."

"The power of Nemesis lies in the perception of 'excess' and 'imbalance'."

"Those who overstep their bounds cannot escape her scales. Her whip punishes, and her scales keep the ledger."

Nemesis remained silent as she cradled the mask.

"The price." Hecate's motherly voice sank lower.

"The Goddess of Retribution brooks no imbalance."

"If you don this mask, you will be driven by an insatiable urge to 'even the score'."

"Debts must be paid, grudges must be avenged; the moment you witness an imbalance, you will be compelled to deliver punishment."

"Even if doing so works to your own detriment."

"Every favor received and every insult suffered will be tallied in your heart, forcing you to balance the ledger."

Catherine stared at the mask in her hands.

For the others, it was a question of whether to wear it. For her, it was an absolute necessity.

Richard watched as Catherine raised the silvery-white mask, slowly placing it over the decorative mask she already wore.

The instant she slipped it on, her aura shifted into something completely alien.