NOVGO.NET Chapter 343:The Musician
Chapter 343:The Musician
A group of men stood at the edge of a steep cliff.
Below them, the land still glowed faintly as flashes of holy light slowly dispersed the clouds that had once trapped an ominous and suffocating power. The wind howled softly, carrying the smell of burnt earth and lingering despair.
“Tsk.”
One of the men clicked his tongue sharply.
“It completely went off track.”
He clenched his fists, veins bulging as he stared at the fading light.
“Years of investment, for such a result,” he growled through gritted teeth.
“Mark… you really are a son of a bitch. You hid so deeply and planned so many things, yet you still got fucked over by something so silly.”
He spat to the side in anger, the sound sharp in the quiet air.
“Chee.”
Another figure spoke calmly from behind.
“I don’t think he was that incompetent.”
The others turned.
A man stood slightly apart from the group, holding a dark flute carved with strange runes. He raised it to his lips and played a short, soothing melody. The sound was soft, almost gentle, yet it carried an unsettling weight that made the air tremble faintly.
He lowered the flute and looked at the others.
“This power,” he said slowly, “I am sure it belongs to the Great One of Primordial Evil.”
“The Great One of Primordial Evil?” someone asked, brows furrowing. “Who is that?”
“It is Cthulhu,” the flutist replied calmly. “The octopus-headed monster who feeds on negative emotions.”
“You mostly know him as Lord of the Second Layer of Hell.”
A sharp intake of breath echoed among them.
“His followers…” one man cursed. “Damn it. Why did they have to put their legs into our work?”
One by one, the men cursed under their breath. They had sacrificed too much. Blood, time, and lives had all been spent, and now the core of their plan was gone.
“What should we do now?” someone asked grimly.
Another man stepped forward, eyes glinting with greed.
“I think that battle has concluded. Someone from the Church side is there. However, if we kill them, we can collect such a huge harvest.”
His words sent a ripple through the group.
The black mist.
It was the tainted life essence of several thousand people. Remnants of strong vitality, soaked in fear and death. To them, it was nothing less than a feast.
“Yes. Let’s do that.”
“But that pillar of light…” another hesitated. “His strength might be beyond ours.”
“Kekke,” a man laughed darkly. “He must have overextended himself. Maybe even burned his own life essence. And you really think high-level knights will just roam there freely?”
He sneered.
“At best, it might be the Emperor’s realm. After all, even the King was only at that stage.”
At that moment, the man with the flute shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said.
The group looked at him, puzzled and irritated.
“This is not the correct time.”
They stared at him with questioning gazes.
“We should not underestimate our enemies,” he continued. “We are a secret group, not heroes racing against time. We have the luxury of years, even eons. We can afford to move slowly.”
He scanned their faces, his eyes calm but sharp.
“Going there now would be foolish. We should observe from afar, or withdraw entirely. We absolutely should not provoke others without proper information.”
“Fuck you!” one man screamed suddenly. “You are saying this because you are special!”
He pointed angrily at the flutist.
“For low-rankers like us, that thing is heaven!”
He turned to the others.
“Just think about it. How much stronger could we become?”
Gulp.
Several men swallowed hard.
Their eyes drifted toward the distant dark mass still swirling faintly in the sky. No matter how they tried, they could not deny it.
It was tempting.
Appetizing.
To devour it would mean power beyond their wildest dreams.
The man with the flute sighed quietly.
He looked at his group, at the greed burning in their eyes.
Then he straightened and spoke firmly.
“If you want to go,” he said, “then I am sorry, but I have to stop you.”
A chill ran through the group.
“Getting killed there is worse than dying by my hands.”
For the first time, a hint of ruthlessness flashed in his eyes. It was cold and terrifying, making the others’ hearts tremble.
“You want to kill us?” someone shouted.
“Do you really think you have what it takes to kill us?”
The man did not answer.
He simply smiled.
Then he raised the flute and began to play.
The melody was gentle, almost beautiful. Yet as the notes spread through the air, the atmosphere twisted unnaturally.
“Bastard!” one man roared and lunged forward, throwing a punch straight toward the flutist’s skull.
The flutist tapped the flute lightly and continued playing.
The note shifted.
Suddenly, the attacker’s body twisted midair. His punch veered off course, his balance shattered, and he crashed face-first onto the ground.
“What?!” the others shouted in shock.
The eerie melody continued to echo, wrapping around them like invisible chains.
The melody did not stop, and instead it deepened, the notes stretching longer and heavier as if each sound carried invisible weight that pressed down on the hearts and minds of everyone standing on the cliff, causing the air itself to ripple faintly as the man with the flute continued to play without urgency, his fingers moving smoothly while his expression remained calm and detached, as though what was happening around him was nothing more than a foregone conclusion.
The man who had fallen groaned and tried to push himself up, yet the moment he placed his palm on the ground his arm trembled violently, his muscles locking as if an unseen force had wrapped around his bones, forcing him back down while his face twisted in panic and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to scream but could not force any sound out.
“What… what did you do to him?” another man asked, his voice shaking despite his attempt to sound fierce, as he instinctively took a step back, his boots scraping against the rocky surface of the cliff.
The flutist did not answer immediately, instead allowing the tune to linger as the wind carried it outward, slipping past the edge of the cliff and vanishing into the darkened land below, where the remnants of light and shadow were still clashing faintly in the distance, before he finally lowered the flute slightly and spoke in a soft, almost gentle voice that somehow made the fear grow thicker.
“I only adjusted the rhythm of his body.”