When night descended upon Nimbosia, Michael emerged from Goddess Ava's temple, bidding farewell to Fayeth. The clash between the angels still raged above, filling the sky with streaks of lightning and bursts of thunder. The flashes of Kranar's angels' lightning illuminated Michael's path as he walked.
"Thankfully, the streets are clear of citizens," Ayag quipped from within Michael's coat pocket. To blend into the darkness, Michael had swapped his earlier brown robes for a black coat over his armor.
"These gods and angels seem like real troublemakers," Sarba grumbled.
"Nithroel did mention that the realm of gods is far worse than the mortal realm," Michael recalled as he moved along the rooftops, carefully avoiding the gaze of the battling angels.
After several tense minutes, Michael reached the imposing temple. Close up, it appeared even grander and more imposing than from a distance. The entire structure was constructed from glass, adorned with opulent gold accents. The glass bore a deep black tint that prevented Michael from peering inside with his naked eyes.
Utilizing his X-ray vision, Michael spotted Rainar's angels patrolling around the temple's exterior.
"There's someone inside, tied to a chair and being subjected to torture," Michael murmured, his X-ray vision revealing a figure bound in the center of the temple. However, the features of the figure remained obscured.
"It's likely one of Marli's worshippers," Ayag surmised.contemporary romance
Agreeing, Michael inched closer to the temple. His inherent ability as the god of darkness rendered him nearly invisible in shadowy places—this wasn't considered the use of his powers, just a natural attribute.
Blending into the darkness, Michael stealthily approached the temple. However, the main entrance was flanked by two gray-armored guards, their level of cultivation hidden from Michael's view. To discern such details, he would require a specific skill from the system or a rare artifact native to this realm.
"We obviously can't barge through the main door," Ayag suggested, glancing upwards and spotting an opening.
"Perhaps we could fly in through that window," Ayag suggested, but Sarba quickly dismissed the idea.
"No, I sense the presence of runes around us," Sarba interjected.
Activating his X-ray eyes, Michael spotted shimmering runes in their vicinity. Thanks to his time spent with Elidyr, the accomplished six-star runemaster, he could faintly recognize the symbols.
"These runes have been placed here to prevent anyone from flying around the temple," Michael explained.
"You saw the runes? Are they similar to the runes in the mortal realm?" Ayag inquired with curiosity.
"Not exactly, but there are some similarities," Michael replied.
"Then how do you plan to ascend?" Ayag pressed, to which Michael grinned and rolled up his sleeves, revealing the Mark 3 grappling hook on his forearm.
With a swift motion, he aimed at the edge above and fired the grappling hook. The hook firmly caught onto the edge, propelling Michael upwards.
Inside the temple, Michael crouched on the edge of a beam, peering down at the scene below. Carefully navigating along the beams that stretched across the ceiling, he observed the activity below.
"That doesn't look like Marli's worshippers, unless her followers dress like kings," Ayag noted with a frown. Michael concurred and focused on the man being tortured. Clad in red robes embellished with precious gems and adorned with a gold crown, the man was a stark contrast to what Marli's worshippers would appear to be.
"You failed your master..." the hulking brute, an orc with pale green skin, taunted the man tied to the chair. Towering at seven feet, the orc exuded an imposing and fearsome aura.
"Please... I have nothing but loyalty towards His Grace! Please..." the man pleaded desperately.
"How is it then, that His Grace's carriage was attacked by Kranar's angels? Don't you know what it carried?" the orc questioned, running his fingers across the man's face.
"His Grace made you the king of Nimbosia, entrusting you with the protection of his possessions. Now that you've failed, why should His Grace spare you?" the orc jeered. Michael's suspicions were confirmed, but he was taken aback by the revelation.
"The king?" Michael murmured in shock.
"Please... His Grace must command his angels to find the culprits..." the king implored, but the orc's laughter resounded.
"Hahaha, what did you think His Grace was? An investigator? No, His Grace doesn't stoop to that. It's your fault the carriage went missing, and you will pay the price," the orc declared, applauding mockingly. With a wave of his hand, a leather bag materialized over the king's head.
"No... no... no..." the king's panic grew, and he struggled against the ropes that bound his arms and legs. The orc grinned and kicked the chair, sending the king crashing to the ground, his face shrouded by the leather bag.
"Let me enlighten you on what's about to unfold—just to pass the time," the orc chuckled with sadistic glee.
Unbeknownst to both the orc and the temple's guards, Michael silently bore witness to the brutal scene from his hidden vantage point above.
The orc leaned closer to the king, his voice dripping with cruelty. "You see, Your Majesty, there's a method by which each drop of water can feel like a blade, a relentless torment that chips away at your sanity. A drip here, a drip there, it doesn't seem like much, does it?"
The king's muffled protests and frantic breathing were barely audible beneath the leather bag that covered his head. He squirmed against the ropes binding him to the chair, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation.
"Drip...drip...drip," the orc continued with a sadistic rhythm. "The anticipation becomes unbearable as you wait for that next drop to fall. The cold sensation slices through your thoughts, shattering your mind bit by bit."
The king's pleas for mercy became more frantic, his voice strained and cracking with desperation. He tugged at his restraints, his struggles growing more violent as he tried to free himself from the torment that awaited him.
"Please, I beg you! Mercy!" the king's voice wavered, his words punctuated by the erratic rhythm of the orc's description.
"Drip...drip...drip," the orc repeated, his tone unyielding. "And as time stretches on, the drops become a constant reminder of your helplessness. Your mind races, seeking respite that never comes."
The king's struggles intensified, his body wracked with the anguish of his impending torture. He twisted and contorted in a desperate attempt to escape, his fear palpable even through the leather bag.
"Make it stop! I'll do anything, anything you ask!" the king pleaded, his voice breaking under the weight of his terror.
The orc's malicious grin widened as he relished the king's torment. "Ah, but you see, Your majesty, this is the fate you've chosen for yourself. The choice to fail, to disappoint His Grace, led you to this moment."
The king's cries of desperation grew louder, his pleas echoing off the walls of the temple. His body convulsed as if each drop of imaginary water struck him with searing intensity.
"Drip...drip...drip," the orc's voice continued, a chilling refrain that underscored the king's agony.
Tears mixed with sweat as the king's struggles weakened, his strength fading under the weight of the mental torture he was subjected to. The anticipation of each nonexistent drop had fractured his resolve, driving him to the brink of madness.
And in the shadows above, Michael watched in grim silence, his heart heavy with a mixture of pity and shock at the cruel scene unfolding below.
The orc meticulously created a small hole beneath the leather bag, a hole so tiny that it allowed only a solitary droplet to escape at irregular intervals. Michael's keen eyes picked up on a rune etched onto the leather, a rune responsible for randomizing the timing of each water droplet's descent.
As the first droplet touched the king's forehead, his agonized scream reverberated throughout the temple. The sound was visceral, as if he had been struck by a hammer. The orc, his face twisted into a sadistic grin, delighted in the torment he was inflicting.
He shifted his gaze toward the soldiers standing nearby, their grim expressions betraying no emotion.
"Once this old fool's suffering comes to an end, take care of Marli's worshippers," the orc commanded before vanishing from the temple in an instant.
The soldiers, with silent obedience, acknowledged his orders without a word. They continued their patrols, moving stealthily through the temple's halls. Amidst the tense atmosphere, the only sounds that punctuated the air were the haunting echoes of water droplets and the king's anguished screams. Michael recognized the method well – it was the dreaded "dripping machine" used for torture on Earth.
The realization that such a method was being employed in this world left Michael taken aback.
"Are we going to save him?" Ayag's voice trembled with uncertainty.
"It depends on how much he could help us. But truthfully, there's little point in rescuing him," Michael's tone turned cold and calculating.
As he considered the idea of saving the king, Michael knew it was a futile endeavor. Even if he were to intervene, Rainar would simply replace the king with another pawn. Moreover, leaving the king alive could risk betrayal and expose his intentions.
"So, how do you plan to rescue Marli's worshippers?" Ayag inquired.
"With good old-fashioned methods: eliminate everyone except one, and then extract information from him," Michael's smile was chilling in its intent.
With that, he unsheathed his dark swords. Positioning himself on the beams, he watched the soldiers below with the aura of a deadly assassin. His dark armor and hair, fluttering in the air, added an air of lethal charm to his presence.
Michael's blade swiftly dispatched the unfortunate soldier who happened to be directly beneath the beam where he crouched. After ensuring no prying eyes were upon him, he descended from the beam, striking the soldier through the head from behind. With the lifeless body in tow, he returned to his concealed vantage point above.
"Quite swift," Ayag couldn't help but be impressed by Michael's efficiency.
"Ever since I started relying on spells and powers, I forgot how satisfying it is to take someone down with old-fashioned stealth," Michael remarked, a touch of nostalgia in his voice.
"One down, eight to go," Michael said, cracking his neck. The cacophony of the king's screams and the ongoing battle among the angels provided the necessary cover for Michael's actions. Oblivious to their impending fate, the gray-armored soldiers continued their patrol within the temple premises.
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