Chapter 24: The Statue of Sylvanas

In the southern district stood a monument giving off waves of stench so foul that every passerby took the long way around. Even the citizens of Alkhemia, well used to the occasional puff of alchemical smoke or failed potion, found themselves gagging after more than a few breaths.

This was one of Alkhemia's massive sewer entrances. Everyone knew the sewers were a cesspool by nature, but this smell was new.

Once upon a time, even a hint of odor would have been scrubbed away within minutes. This was Alkhemia, after all, where even sewer hatches were designed as pieces of public art.

But that was two or three years ago. These days, people just pinched their noses and hurried on.

When Ambrose and Naomi arrived, they caught sight of the rogue and ranger ducking into the sewer from afar.

Naomi couldn't help but mutter, "They'd risk their lives just to hurt someone else?"

The two of them had actually braved that suffocating stench just for the sake of a scam. The naive young druid looked genuinely shaken by that level of malice.

Ambrose, on the other hand, barely reacted. Figures. She was obviously one of those druids raised in a sheltered little grove somewhere, kind-hearted, honest, never having to experience the uglier parts of the world.

Now that her clan was in trouble, however, she had no choice but to face reality head-on.

"Welcome to the real world," Ambrose said flatly.

He'd lived through centuries and seen enough treachery to fill a library. Compared to that, this little incident didn't even register as a blip.

Naomi fell silent, her expression hardening.

"Master Megaman, should we go in now?"

"Not yet," Ambrose said. "You're a druid. You can summon beasts, can't you? How about ravens?"

Naomi nodded. Summoning animal companions was a druid's bread and butter. The raven call was beginner-level stuff. Through a ritual, she could project a raven from the wilds. It wasn't a real bird, but it was close enough. It would be perfect for reconnaissance.

Ambrose pointed at the manhole beneath their feet. "Summon a raven and send it through. Make it fly around and check under the sculpture."

Naomi instantly understood his intent. He suspected those two had laid traps at the entrance.

"He's so cautious," she thought. "I really did pick the right undead."

Still, druids and the undead were mortal enemies. Naomi couldn't help worrying that, even if she saved her clan, she'd later be punished for having worked with an undead to do so.

But now wasn't the time. Ambrose was her only hope—and any retribution she might face could wait until after the rescue.

Following his instructions, Naomi called forth a raven and sent it fluttering down through the sewer grate. The instant it entered, her face twisted. The familiar bond between druid and beast involved sharing nearly every sense.

The raven's nose was hers now. The stench hit her like a wall, nearly making her lose control.

She gritted her teeth and guided the raven around the tunnels. No sign of the rogue and ranger, no sign of traps. Barely keeping down her nausea, she dismissed the raven and relayed what she saw.

Ambrose snorted. "Two amateurs. If it were me setting up an ambush, I'd have left at least five magical traps at the entrance."

"So... should we go in now?" Naomi asked.

"No rush," Ambrose replied. "Maybe they're just good at hiding things, and you didn't notice."

Naomi's temper flared. "Then why didn't you check yourself in the first place? You're undead. You don't even have a sense of smell!"

"Caution never hurts," Ambrose said, entirely unbothered. "Don't worry, I won't make you suffer through that again. We'll take a different approach."

He cast a spell, and both their bodies shimmered. Naomi expected to fade into invisibility again, but this time, her body dissolved into swirling mist.

This was the Vapor Form spell. Their bodies turned gaseous, consciousness intact, as they drifted lightly through the air. In this state, they were immune to physical attacks and most lesser spells—but also unable to do much besides float.

Naomi couldn't help murmuring in awe, "You magicians really do have a spell for everything."

Magicians differed from other spellcasters. They relied on intellect, not faith or instinct. As long as a spell could be understood, they could cast it.

Whether they were masters or mere dabblers was another story.

As drifting clouds, they slipped through the narrow grate and entered Alkhemia's underground world.

But the moment they were inside, Ambrose abruptly dispelled the transformation.

"What in the world happened here?" he muttered.

Decay, corruption, malice—those sensations pressed in like a physical weight. Even a lich would find it unbearable.

Even in vapor form, he'd felt the filth trying to infect his essence. Who knew what kind of abominable residue he might have absorbed if he remained that way? Returning to solid form was the safer bet.

Naomi fared worse. Her resistance was weaker, and her contact with the miasma had already turned her complexion pale green.

Once back in human form, she could barely stand.

Ambrose was just about to purge the contamination when Naomi's hand flared with light. A small oak statue appeared in her palm.

A surge of pure, verdant energy washed out from it like a tide. Life itself seemed to bloom in the fetid air, forming a sanctuary of clean, living space amid the rot.

Naomi's color returned immediately. The corruption in her body evaporated as if it had never been.

Ambrose, however, stayed outside the emerald light, instinctively wary. To him, that radiance was far more menacing than the stench of the sewers.

He studied the statue and said, astonished, "An idol of Sylvanas? Your circle was blessed by a god?

Sylvanas was the God of Nature, the deity most druids worshipped. But the devotion went one way only; most prayers went unanswered. Yet Ambrose could feel divine power emanating from that little statue. This was no mere token. It was an artifact blessed by the god Himself, a relic any druidic circle would guard with their lives.

Things had just gotten complicated.

A relic like that would never leave its tribe unless the tribe itself had been wiped out.

Which meant Naomi Watts was either the sole survivor of a massacre... or she'd stolen the relic herself.