The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic-Chapter 134:The Ploys In Shadow[II]

Albert moved like a phantom, weaving through the debris and bloodshed. His moment came when Sir Hugh was distracted, clashing against one of Albert’s men, Frederick.

Seizing the chance, Albert unsheathed a poisoned dagger and lunged from the darkness.

With a swift, brutal motion, he plunged the blade into a knight’s side, twisting it deep between the gaps in his armor. The old knight gasped, his sword slipping from his grip as pain overtook him. Albert leaned in close, whispering, "The strong devour the weak. Your god won’t save you now."

The knight coughed up blood, his body trembling as he crumpled to the ground. The other knights saw their leader fall and their spirits shattered.

Albert stood tall, wiping the blood from his dagger, his eyes fixed on the backbone of the entire party.

Sir Hugh.

The tide of the battle had turned, but the hunt was far from over.

Albert knew he couldn’t take down Sir Hugh in direct combat. He was no fool. Instead, he disappeared into the shadows, watching as his men engaged the knight.

Sir Hugh’s blade met another warrior, Tarek, slicing through his side in a swift, merciless motion. But it was in that moment of attack that Albert saw his opening.

Silently, he slithered behind the paladin, his dagger coated in a paralytic poison. In the split second before Hugh could react, Albert lunged forward, driving the blade deep into the knight’s exposed side beneath his arm. The poison worked instantly, locking Hugh’s muscles in place. The old knight’s eyes widened in disbelief as he tried to turn, but his movements were sluggish.

Albert leaned in, whispering in his ear, "Even legends fall, old man." With a twisted grin, he slit Hugh’s throat, the knight gurgling as he collapsed in a heap. Blood pooled beneath his twitching body, the proud protector reduced to a corpse in the filth-strewn street.

A horrified scream tore through the air as High Priest Pablo saw his strongest guardian fall. His face, once serene with faith, twisted in terror. The man who would soon become an Archbishop now stood completely exposed.

Albert wiped his dagger on Sir Hugh’s cape, his eyes gleaming with predatory hunger. "Now... it’s your turn." He advanced on Pablo, the priest stumbling backward, desperate in his every move.

He tried to summon divine power but failed.

"Hehhee...It won’t work...Your puny Gods won’t come back to save your ass now.."

"It’s over.

"No, let me go. I swear in the name of Goddess, I will shower you with unlim...BLUERRGGG!"

His words stopped in the middle as Albert lunged the dagger straight across the throat and tore it open.

The hunter had found his prey and with this he screamed.

"ITS OVERRRR!"

A gruesome laughter erupted from his face.

Albert stood amidst the bloodbath, his breathing heavy, his hands drenched in crimson.

With a swift motion, he lifted High Priest Pablo’s severed head by the hair, letting the blood drip onto the cobbled streets of Wangward. His men erupted into cheers, their faces alight with savage triumph.

"Tonight, we feast in the name of the Serpent Fang!" Albert roared, raising the head high before hurling it onto the broken pavement.

With their mission complete, Albert and his group swiftly vanished into the winding alleys, avoiding the approaching city guards.

Their next destination was the hidden sanctuary of the Serpent Fang.

........

The hideout was buried beneath the ruins of an abandoned temple on the outskirts of Wangward, where the bones of forgotten gods lay beneath layers of dust and decay.

The entrance was concealed behind a crumbling statue of a blindfolded woman, her hands raised in eternal supplication.

Albert approached and pressed his palm against an engraving of a coiled serpent. The stone shifted, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness.

Two guards in black cloaks flanked the passage, their faces obscured by serpent masks. One held out a dagger. "The Fang’s blood marks the worthy," he intoned.

Albert nodded and took the blade, cutting his palm without hesitation. He smeared his blood over the serpent engraving. The stone door groaned, sliding open to reveal a cavernous chamber beyond.

Inside, the sanctuary was a nightmarish temple bathed in eerie green torchlight. Statues of grotesque, twisting serpents lined the walls, their fanged mouths frozen mid-strike. Ancient script, etched in blood, covered the floors and ceilings—writings of the old cult that had long since disappeared into obscurity.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, mingled with something far more metallic—blood.

Madmen filled the chamber, their bodies covered in ritual scars, their eyes wild with unhinged devotion.

Some chanted incoherently, others swayed in feverish ecstasy before a massive stone altar where fresh sacrifices had been made. The heart of their latest victim still lay upon it, twitching feebly.

A group of deacons, their crimson robes embroidered with the sigil of the Serpent God, stood gathered near the center. One of them, a wiry man with hollow cheeks and ink-black eyes, stepped forward.

"Deacon Albert," he said with a grin. "You’ve outdone yourself. The Fang is pleased."

Albert inclined his head. "The High Priest is dead. His blood soaks the streets. The Serpent claims another victory."

A murmur of approval swept through the gathered cultists. The deacon clapped him on the back. "Come. The Archbishop waits."

.....

Through a series of twisting tunnels, Albert made his way to the inner sanctum, where only the highest-ranked members of the Serpent Fang were permitted.

The chamber was dimly lit, the walls adorned with ancient carvings depicting serpents devouring kings, priests, and warriors alike. At the far end, seated on a throne of bones, was the leader of the Serpent Fang—Archbishop Bemen.

The man was in his sixties, his skin pale and stretched thin over his skeletal frame. His bald head gleamed under the torchlight, and his sunken eyes, cold as death itself, studied Albert with unsettling intensity.

Albert knelt on one knee, bowing his head. "Archbishop Bemen, I have brought you a most precious gift."

The old man’s lips curled into a thin smile. "Rise, Deacon Albert. Show me what tribute you bring."