Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai-Chapter 127 - 122

So that was a failure.

It should have been dispiriting. One of his strongest spells countered just like that. But Nick was made of sterner stuff. Yes, he knew he was in mortal danger. Yes, his options were extremely limited. But that didn't mean it was over. It's not over till it's over.

I could try to heat the air, he thought after swallowing down his disappointment. If he heated the construct of cold air, he might disrupt the delicate pressure difference they needed for maximum destructive power.

The problem was as obvious as it was frustrating: one wyvern outclassed him in raw magical might. Eight working in unison, at full strength, dwarfed anything he could muster. He suspected they'd swat aside any further attempt at subversion the moment he tried it. Raw manipulation certainly wouldn't overwhelm them if the [Vacuum Sphere] hadn't been enough.

A shuffle of footsteps on his right startled Nick out of his grim reverie. Pivoting, he saw two battered priests hovering around a third figure between them, Marthas. The Prelate was walking under his own power, albeit barely. He looked gaunt, with hunched shoulders that made even someone his size look small and eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Yet a fervent energy still lingered behind them, like embers refusing to die.

They halted beside Nick, and one of the priests pressed a trembling hand against Marthas' shoulder to keep him balanced, who wasted no time with pleasantries. "We must disrupt that spell," he said urgently.

Nick nodded. "I know," he replied quietly, gaze flicking skyward. "But I don't have enough power." The admission was frustrating, but it was the truth.

Marthas almost smiled, though lines of pain creased his forehead. "You're not alone, son," he said. "If I had even just half a day to rest, I'd be able to do much more, but that doesn't mean we are completely helpless." His breath rattled as he gestured at the two priests.

"What do you mean?" Nick asked.

"I have a way to stop them. Sashara's glory can smite them from the sky. But to call upon such power, one must serve as the channel. I am too depleted to carry it myself, and these two have not the stamina to funnel the necessary energies." He paused, letting the implication sink in before continuing. "That leaves you."

"You want me to channel divine power?" Nick was hardly ignorant of how the temple operated. While the notion of summoning a celestial entity might be standard for high-level priests, Nick had never placed his faith in gods, not in his old life nor in this strange new one. He valued the privacy of his mind and had never entertained the idea of selling himself to a higher power.

The older man coughed, wincing in pain. "Not precisely. I will shape and guide the calling. You need only act as a conduit—I need your mana and your body. You are gifted enough to handle this even without training." His gaze flicked down to Nick's forearms, where the network of azure lines glowed under his skin. "It will have to suffice."

Nick hesitated. He loathed the idea of letting some divine presence flow through him. Whether or not Sashara was truly a goddess, Nick's entire life—both the old one and this new iteration—had taught him to value independence from higher powers. He had no illusions that such an act could be safe.

Yet the swirling storm above threatened to annihilate them all, and the black box Ogden had given him remained a last resort he would use only if every other option was exhausted first.

"Are you sure I can handle it?" Nick asked, searching Marthas' eyes.

"We have no choice," the Prelate answered gravely. "And yes, I suspect you can endure it. My priests are too drained, and the others out there can scarcely manipulate simple spells—none of them have the skill you do." He coughed again. "We will supply the faith."

Before he could demand more reassurances, a thunderous bellow from above jolted them. The ring of wyverns roared in unison, and the ash-laden clouds began to swirl ominously. They were close to releasing the magic.

Marthas's jaw set. "We have no more time to debate." He shifted behind Nick, one priest on either side and placed his broad, scarred hands on Nick's back. The priests mirrored him, each resting a hand on Marthas' shoulders.

"You might feel discomfort," Marthas murmured. "Let me guide the power. Resist if it overwhelms you, but do not sever the flow entirely. We cannot risk an unexpected result. Divine summoning requires a constant connection, or our call might be diverted."

Nick disliked the entire notion, but the alternative was letting eight monstrous wyverns flatten them. So he swallowed his trepidation, gave a quick nod, and closed his eyes. I'll trust [Blasphemy] to protect me if the goddess tries anything truly invasive, he decided.

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There was a question in his mind as to whether the Trait would even allow the foreign power to enter his veins, but he had a feeling that as long as he actively and consciously didn't consider it as an "external influence," then it would be fine. What would happen should he feel threatened was up in the air, but hopefully, he wouldn't have to find out.

"O Sashara, guiding flame,Welcome us in your warm embrace.

Turn the infidels in charred ruin,Through the arms of your mightiest blaze."

Marthas began to chant. The words reminded Nick of the incantations the two priests had used to summon the Servant when they battled the Hunt leader. The ash underfoot started to warm, eliciting a mild hiss as the stray moisture in the ground sizzled away.

Nick heard the priests add their own chanting, weaving harmonies around Marthas' words. The effect was bizarre: though Nick understood not a syllable, the cadence itself conjured images of swirling solar flares, forging new life from cosmic embers. A mild tingling coursed through his arms. The lines of [Mana Channels] responded, flaring a faint neon.

Then it came: a creeping presence, a pressure at the edges of his awareness. If Nick had to describe it, it felt like warm honey poured into the top of his skull, oozing downward through his body. It spiked alarm in him. This was not his own mana, nor the typical synergy one experienced when collaborating on a combined ritual. No, this was something wholly Other.

His immediate impulse was to recoil and clamp down, but he reminded himself he had no choice. If he tried to stop it, [Blasphemy] would trigger.

He exhaled and let the power seep in, guiding it into the channels that wove through his arms and chest. The sensation proved both exhilarating and nauseating. He recognized Marthas' signature in it, and despite it being a fraction of the man's unwavering faith, it was scorching in its intensity.

He discovered, with no small relief, that he had the power to stop it if he truly wanted to. Something in his own being, perhaps [Blasphemy] alone or its synergy with [Mana Channels], gave him a failsafe. If he pushed on that mental block, he could freeze the inflow. But that would doom them all. So he swallowed his fear and allowed it deeper.

"Good, lad," Marthas murmured between lines of prayer, clearly sensing Nick's acceptance. "Keep shaping it as I show you."

The Prelate began whispering instructions in a halting but urgent tone: "Carve her symbol…here. Let the flame of Sashara trace the pattern for you." Nick obeyed, allowing the molten surge to flow from his chest, down his arms, and into the ashen soil before him. Orange fire blazed across the ground, leaving behind glowing sigils that pulsed in time with Marthas' chanting.

More power gathered. Nick's teeth clacked together—he felt near to bursting. The priests behind Marthas groaned, clearly funneling their own meager dregs to sustain the incantation, but the real engine of it all came from Marthas himself, or rather from his connection to the goddess.

It wasn't anything like Nick's usual style of casting. There was no conceptual rigor, no directing of the energy. This was Faith, blind and pure. The prayers and chants were merely a way to open a conduit with Her.

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He gasped as the lines along his forearms flared brighter, painfully so. The ground beneath him quivered. This is madness, a corner of his mind. I could have tried to craft a ritual. Done something rather than trust the power of a Goddess I don't believe in.

Up above, the wyverns' roars spiked into a unified, resonant cry. They had reached the final stage, and the swirling cold air was condensing.

Marthas' voice rose in a final chant.

"Blessed be Sashara, Ever-Burning Goddess of the Ash and the Light. Let your flame sear the wicked from the sky. Show them your glory!"

With that, he shoved the entire weight of that scorching presence into Nick.

A wave of power slammed into his consciousness. The impact was so intense that for a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. He felt the divine essence brushing against the edges of his mind, seeking a foothold, a vessel. Behind the starbursts of pain, a honey-warm voice seemed to beckon him to let go, to yield his identity so the goddess might act unimpeded.

In the same instant, the wyverns completed their own work, and the hair on Nick's arms and neck rose.

Then, the air overhead collapsed inward, and a massive column of punishing wind dived from the skies like a spearing tornado. Dust and debris whirled madly, and the ground began to quake. Men screamed, and the wyverns they had been fighting screeched. Nick could only see glimpses through the ash storm. An unstoppable force of compressed wind was about to smash everything flat.

There is no time! The voice roared. He felt the divine presence begin to seize his limbs. If he let it, it might fling some blazing miracle upward, but he also felt a primal revulsion.

No, he thought. We'll do it my way. That was the moment [Blasphemy] stirred, a reflex hammered into his soul by a lifetime of independence from higher powers. The trait flared, attacking the creeping infiltration. Not to destroy it, though. He had no intention of halting the assault on the wyverns—just the attempt at possession.

What followed was an indescribable sensation. With so much of the invocation complete, Nick couldn't exactly shove the power outside his body, and so it was forced into his [Mana Channels]. The intangible power snaked from his chest along his limbs, flowing through his hands and feet into the ash-laden ground. Each grain of ash trembled and danced, drawn into swirling patterns around him.

Marthas and the priests gasped. They had clearly expected a searing beacon of divine flame to shoot from Nick's body—and something like the righteous Servant they'd summoned before to have taken over. Instead, the ash around them coalesced, swirling faster and faster. Embers ignited in midair, drawn from the remnants of heat in the scorched battlefield. Within seconds, those embers multiplied, forming a shape out of superheated dust and swirling soot.

Nick shuddered, somewhere between horror and fascination. The presence was forcibly expelled from his body, shaping not a pillar of cleansing light but a terrifying figure made entirely of swirling cinders and flickering embers—a cloud of ash that glowed red-hot from within. It towered a good ten or twelve feet in front of them, Where the arms should have been, stumps of swirling, ember-laden ash formed blade-like protrusions. Sparks dripped from its molten eyes.

The priests staggered, jaws slack. Marthas inhaled sharply, something beyond shock flickering in his eyes. The chanting died in his throat. Nick felt the last vestiges of that cosmic presence slip away from his mind, leaving behind only the surging headache of overdrawn mana usage. Then, at the edge of his vision, the System displayed a new message:

System Notification:

You have resisted a High-tier Divine Possession.

[Blasphemy] triggered.

He clenched his teeth, trying not to collapse from exhaustion. So I was right. The Servant truly had tried to seize direct control.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over him, but he forced himself upright. Now, I just have to hope that whatever this is, it will still help us.

A bellow from above jarred him: the monstrous column of wind was descending. The swirling funnel roared, an unstoppable avalanche of pressurized air aimed straight at their location. Nick braced for the worst, but the newly formed ember colossus reacted first. With a roar that came as a deep rumbling in the air, it raised an ashen arm, wreathed in swirling coals, and thrust it skyward.

A massive wave of dark flames soared upward, colliding with the incoming wind. A thunderous explosion shook the battlefield, sending ash and dust flying in all directions. Nick's hair whipped around his face, and he had to rely on his senses to know what was happening. The two forces were clashing in the sky, pushing and nullifying the other, until the balance cracked, and the sky went white.