Chapter 537: The Princess and the Prince (1)
The forest creatures, tainted by disease-infused black magic, lunged at Oliver the moment he left an opening, using their size, weight, and numbers to overwhelm him.
It was like a raging bull charging at a person.
The frail Oliver was flung backward by the impact, and, as he collapsed, a swarm of creatures covered in pus, sores, and blisters pounced on him like a pack of wild dogs.
Raw, primal violence.
The sound of hard teeth grinding as if chewing on rocks quietly reverberated through the forest.
Milieu members, along with other black magicians, mercenaries, and treasure hunters who had joined along the way, watched in silence.
Those who lived by violence knew instinctively.
Oliver was currently the most powerful asset in this forest.
To survive in this abnormal forest, they needed him—whether they liked it or not.
And now, he was under attack by these creatures.
"…"
Even though helping him was essential for their own survival, no one moved.
Were they scared? No, quite the opposite.
Despite witnessing Oliver under attack, they felt no unease whatsoever.
Even though the visual evidence showed Oliver in danger, they felt no anxiety at all.
Instead, a different kind of apprehension spread through them.
An overwhelming strength and presence. An undeniable dominance.
The outsiders felt confusion at this foreign sensation, but those familiar with Gallos sensed a strange familiarity.
Like those remnants who had served under the Flesh Chef, or perhaps various bosses in Milieu who had once competed with the Flesh Chef.
“Lucien. This is…”
Pierre, the oldest among Milieu's bosses, spoke.
The faint sense he’d felt when Oliver had intervened to prevent him from slicing up Ewan’s flesh now sharpened with alarming clarity.
It was the same presence as the Flesh Chef’s.
Lucien said nothing. He, too, was captivated by the sight before him.
With the Flesh Chef gone, throwing the underworld into turmoil, a figure as powerful as—or perhaps even surpassing—the Flesh Chef had appeared here.
“Shadow. Devour them all.”
Oliver murmured in a low tone.
Thanks to the quiet around them, everyone could hear him, and they saw shadows spreading across the ground like spilled ink, forming multiple sets of teeth.
Crunch!
Rows of disturbingly neat teeth began chewing through the infected creatures alive.
“Kiiiieeek…!”
“Kurrkkk! Kurrkkk!”
“Gaaaaaah!”
The massive, menacing creatures let out grotesque screams as they vanished between the teeth, and those watching felt their skin crawl with disgust and horror, as if they were witnessing something eating vermin.
Not something that courage or bravado could overcome—this was a primal human reaction.
But that wasn’t the only unsettling thing.
Even after devouring the disease-afflicted creatures, Oliver’s shadow remained unaffected, which anyone with a shred of black magic knowledge would find peculiar.
It made no sense for the shadow to be unharmed after consuming creatures afflicted with disease-weakening black magic.
For humans, it would be like eating meat riddled with parasites and diseases and staying perfectly fine.
The only explanation was that the shadow possessed resistance to the very essence of disease, something unattainable through any magic formula. It was an intrinsic trait.
Only one individual could do such a thing.
The one who wielded thousands of diseases, immune to them all—the Flesh Chef.
“Gooooooh!”
Just as Oliver's shadow was about to consume the remaining creatures around him, more creatures from a distance charged, heading straight for the shadow.
A colossal skeleton giant, towering over five meters, let out a grim wail as it seized Oliver’s shadow in its massive hand and tried to bite it.
In response, the shadow coiled and lashed back with its characteristic fluid, cephalopod-like movements, attempting to entrap the skeletal giant, but more creatures swarmed like ants, piling onto the shadow with a collective assault.
A headless scarecrow stabbed it with a sickle and a hoe.
A hollow suit of armor slashed with spears and swords.
A veiled executioner swung a massive axe.
A dwarf with a large nose jabbed at the shadow with a stake, trying to manipulate it.
Then there were hunchbacks carrying huge sacks and twisted, child-sized monstrosities biting at the shadow in a frenzied attack.
It was as though they were witnessing a scene straight out of hell.
A monstrous shadow creature locked in combat with a horde of grotesque beings.
Oliver’s shadow devoured the surrounding creatures with voracious greed and ferocity, but the sheer numbers overwhelmed it, inflicting countless wounds.
This displayed that the Sleeping Forest was indeed a force not to be underestimated, even for the Flesh Chef.
After all, the sheer number of beings contributing to this forest seemed to number in the hundreds of thousands, if not more.
In this endless nightmare of a battlefield, Oliver, cloaked in his shadow mantle, slowly stood up.
The shadow had shielded his body the moment he fell.
Once on his feet, Oliver tilted his head to one side, producing a cracking sound, then took a deep breath as if fatigued, exhaling slowly.
“Huuu… ha—”
As soon as he exhaled, Oliver raised the blood-colored dagger in his left hand to shoulder height.
There was a chill...
A simple, unremarkable movement.
But some in Milieu, along with the Flesh Chef’s former followers, could feel a shiver run down their spines, recalling none other than the Flesh Chef or perhaps something even worse.
The only word that came to mind was death.
Oliver tilted his dagger-wielding arm slightly back, causing his muscles to tense, pulling the air towards his back as a focal point.
Despite the slow movement, everyone, whether human or creature, was fixated on it, like a mouse before a snake.
Then, someone shouted.
“Get down!”
Swish—
With the shout, Oliver swung his arm forward, slicing through the air.
A chilling slicing sound rippled gently through the space, and from Oliver’s center, all creatures, trees, rocks—everything within view—was neatly severed, falling to the ground with a series of loud thuds.
It had all been done with a single swing of his dagger through the empty air.
In the ensuing confusion, those who truly understood what had just happened were only the Milieu members who had once fought against the Flesh Chef and the remnants who had once served him.
It was the Flesh Chef's notorious decapitation technique, one that claimed the heads of those who resisted, sparing only those who knelt in fear...
…just like the people in this very scene.
"…"
It felt as if the dead Flesh Chef had returned. Or perhaps, something even worse had emerged.
Lucien, along with Milieu members, black magicians, mercenaries, and treasure hunters who had joined them, each looked up at Oliver while lying prostrate on the ground.
The only person still standing on both legs was the Holy Knight, his armor fully clad in iron, shielding him from the blow.
“Devour them.”
However, Oliver paid no heed to their reactions, instead giving his shadow a cold command to devour the remains of the severed creatures.
As soon as Oliver issued the order, his shadow spread out like a serpent, devouring every wounded creature.
Not only creatures, but even the cut trees and ground...
It wasn’t surprising.
After all, this entire Sleeping Forest was a space born of creation-type magic, fortified by magic arrays, though the creatures within were simply creations.
Oliver’s shadow spread outward like a starving man, consuming everything around it.
And at the center, Oliver, who was the source of the all-devouring shadow, stood still with the blood-colored dagger, surveying his surroundings until his gaze settled, projecting a condensed emotion toward a specific direction.
An emotional mist extended and collided with an unseen point in the air, creating ripples.
As the ripples spread, space warped, and shortly after, an old woman with fairy-like wings appeared in the air.
“Shadow.”
The moment the old woman appeared, Oliver directed his shadow to attack, and it surged forward, brimming with brutal force after devouring so many creatures, its form swollen and ferocious.
The winged elder had anticipated this. She swung the staff in her hand, casting a black magic spell.
Despite her creature status, she was no ordinary one.
Like Pan’s shadow, she must have been created from exceptional materials.
As her staff moved, emotions poured out of her, transforming into glittering light that struck Oliver’s shadow.
‘Mental Manipulation-type Black Magic.’
Oliver quickly identified her specialty.
Controlling darkness, hiding within the void, and using mental manipulation black magic on Oliver’s creatures—it was clear enough.
Oliver’s shadow hesitated for about a second under the impact of her light.
It appeared that, prior to becoming a creature, this old woman had been a skilled black magician.
Although mental manipulation black magic varies by user, it typically requires a specific medium or situation to be effective.
But even then, it was only a single second.
Not enough time to halt the shadow’s charge. Rather than panicking, the old woman instead manipulated the forest itself, using the Sleeping Forest as an extension of her control to push back the shadow.
The very ground beneath her rolled like waves, hurling the shadow backward.
Simultaneously, she activated another spell to make her escape.
The black magic formation that began glowing under her feet was a sign of spatial magic, allowing her to alter the surroundings of the forest and flee from this location.
In that instant, as the ground warped beneath her, ready to swallow her into teleportation, it suddenly stilled and began reverting to its original form.
Oliver had countered the elder's spell, deactivating her escape.
"Ah…”
The old woman gasped, her gaze fixed on Oliver, stunned by his interference with the Sleeping Forest.
It was indeed astonishing—grasping a spell was one thing, but imposing it on an artificial lifeform like the forest was another matter entirely.
Creatures were artificial beings, after all. Unless one was their master, it was nearly impossible to exert control.
The elder’s eyes darted around in a reflexive attempt to find a reason, and soon, she spotted Oliver's shadow driving a massive spear-like projection into the ground of the Sleeping Forest.
The shadow had devoured enough of the forest creatures to absorb their traits, parasitizing the forest in turn to establish control.
What she had assumed to be her domain had now been taken over by another’s hands.
The old woman, like most, felt a surge of fear and confusion as she looked at Oliver, and then, their eyes met.
Compelled by instinct, she tried to speak.
“W-Wait—”
[Targeting]
Oliver extended his left hand, uttering an incantation.
A target-like formation appeared between Oliver’s hand and the elder’s neck, drawing her toward him with intense force as he clenched her throat.
“Ghh…!”
The speed and iron grip were too swift and powerful for the elder to resist, and she was caught, helpless.
Her skill in black magic aside, combat was clearly not her forte.
All she could do was gasp and struggle in a futile attempt to breathe.
Though her voice was choked, Oliver understood what she wanted to say.
He could read the desperation in her emotions.
“What you did earlier—that was you, wasn’t it?”
Oliver, recalling the darkness conjured into the form of Colin, questioned her. The elder's emotions flared with a reluctant confirmation, along with a fierce pang of resentment, asserting it had been against her will.
Oliver continued.
“Who ordered you to do it? The Princess?”
Remembering the supposed ruler of this forest, he guessed, and his intuition was right.
The elder frantically intensified her emotions, confirming it was indeed the Princess who had given the order, not her own will.
Given the elder’s nature, it seemed she possessed more self-preservation instincts than typical creatures, though Oliver was unconcerned.
He had no real interest in creatures, and he’d already gotten all the answers he needed.
“Ghh…”
Sensing his intent, the elder cried out in terror, begging for her life.
She tried to convey that she’d only followed orders, with no malice on her part.
But, as previously mentioned, Oliver didn’t care.
Crack.
Oliver tightened his grip, snapping her neck with cold, impassive efficiency, without a hint of mercy or deliberation.
Curiously, the act seemed to suit him perfectly.
Arrogant, unyielding, and ruthless.
Oliver discarded her body like unwanted waste, and his shadow engulfed it whole in a single bite.
Everyone else watched in silence, unable to utter a word.
Only one person dared to speak first.
“I’m going to meet with the Princess.”
With that, Oliver entered the forest, not waiting for anyone’s response. None dared to stop him.
...
After Oliver disappeared into the heart of the forest, several minutes passed before people began standing up, each looking dazed and silent as they tried to process what had just happened.
After all, it felt as if they had witnessed the rebirth of the Flesh Chef, who had once been killed by the Archive.
It seemed impossible, and yet...
The clarity was undeniable, and too many of them had sensed the same feeling.
It made no sense.
Even if he was renowned in Landa, how could a young man, barely in his twenties, project a presence that surpassed that of an ancient, monstrous figure who had lived for centuries?
And the execution they had just witnessed wasn’t something that could be mimicked by mere imitation.
Beheading those who defied him, forcing those who feared him into submission—it was the Flesh Chef’s hallmark technique.
No, this was not something that could be replicated.
The many bosses of Milieu silently looked to Lucien, silently asking him for an explanation.
The remnants who had joined them in fleeing the Sleeping Forest also exchanged glances, each wondering aloud what had just happened.
Yet, no one could give a clear answer.
Only more questions surfaced, such as whether it was truly the Archive who had defeated the Flesh Chef.
Watching the events just now, that doubt emerged endlessly. When had anyone actually witnessed the Archive defeat the Flesh Chef?
But it was not something they could easily voice, so all remained silent—until a voice rang out, neither young nor old, male nor female.
“The Flesh Chef comes to mind.”
The speaker was none other than the Holy Knight, clad head to toe in iron armor.
With that one sentence, he brought everyone’s unspoken question to the surface.
In Oliver’s actions, they had seen the reflection of the Flesh Chef, and with it, came the question of who had really defeated the Flesh Chef.
His words carried weight, and everyone remained fixed on him, curious as to what else he might say.
But the Holy Knight fell silent once more, and, sensing something, he surveyed the surroundings and pointed to one spot.
Everyone followed his gaze. Moments later, the shattered ground of the forest churned as corpses surged up from beneath, forming a doorway.
Was this black magic? No, though similar, it was something else entirely—a ritual involving human sacrifice.
As everyone grew tense and assumed defensive positions, a doll-like man emerged through the portal of corpses.
He wore a crown of thistle on his head and wielded a jagged sword of flesh in one hand.
The prince candidate of the White Swan Sect, the very man who had attacked Claude and the remaining Flesh Chef followers, had arrived through a ritual of human sacrifice.