This Isn't an E*otic Game?-Chapter 73: There’s No Such Thing

The mages of the Magic Tower were afraid.

They were all seasoned battle mages, well-versed in combat, but never before had they witnessed a massacre of this magnitude.

"The princess!!"

[Kill her! Kill her and prove to Dulaneor that Mammon lives—!]

The moment divine energy surged forth, neither abominations nor black magicians remained.

Their bodies were completely incinerated by the overwhelming concentration of divine power, and those whose corrupted souls had been damaged could do nothing but writhe on the ground, choking in agony.

Once Iomene’s holy magic had swept through the battlefield—

"Move."

It was Erfa’s turn.

With all four of her hands moving swiftly, she unleashed a barrage of multi-layered spells.

A single flick of her wand disintegrated a Mammon-blessed abomination, reducing it to dust. Bombs were dismantled midair before they could even detonate. Firearms overheated and exploded before they could be fired. Every black magic spell hurled at her was met with a perfectly timed counterspell.

Once Erfa had torn through the frontlines, the remaining forces—battle mages and Ketraatus warriors—handled the cleanup.

"Please, spare me! Have mercy—AAAGH!!"

"There is no mercy for you, filthy heretic."

Most of the work fell to the Ketraatus warriors assigned to Iomene’s protection.

Children. Women. They changed forms, weeping and pleading in heart-wrenching voices. Any normal person might have hesitated for even a moment.

But the Ketraatus warriors did not waver.

Without a second thought, they crushed the cultists—regardless of whether they took the form of a begging child or a sobbing woman.

And so, in an unstoppable wave of one-sided slaughter, they continued their advance.

"Saintess!!"

Amidst the onslaught of miracles she had been unleashing, Iomene heard a familiar voice.

Turning her head, she saw Al Maday and the other Ketraatus warriors charging forward, covered in blood.

"Ahh! I have taught you well! You fight gloriously! I am truly impressed!!"

Iomene let out a deep sigh and glared at him.

This was the problem with Al Maday and the Ketraatus.

Other paladins and priests of the White Order treated her with utmost reverence as the Saintess. But these warriors?

They treated her like a child.

It was understandable, she supposed.

To battle-hardened soldiers who had spent their lives on the battlefield, she was just a three-month novice who hadn’t even memorized the Codex Prolilium in its entirety.

They were insufferably stubborn, but if there was one thing Iomene could respect about them, it was their purity.

They were narrow-minded and inflexible in peacetime, but in extreme circumstances, there was no one more reliable.

They were, quite literally, unbreakable shields.

"No deaths, I presume?"

"None! That would be disgraceful!"

"Pull the wounded back, and the rest of you focus on protecting us. You must be exhausted, and your ammunition must be running low."

"Understood."

The Ketraatus formed a protective ring around the mages.

With their forces reinforced and their formation solidified, they surged forward once again—unstoppable.

Nothing could stand in their way.

"Mammon, grant us your strength! Protect us—!"

One of the black magicians, desperately summoning the undead from below, was abruptly silenced—incinerated by Iomene’s divine magic, obliterated by Erfa’s spells, and crushed beneath the hammers of the Ketraatus.

At last, they stood before Mammon’s stronghold.

And as expected, the enemy’s numbers were beyond comprehension.

In the vast underground space, thousands of abominations, dozens of black magicians, and countless cultists had fortified their last line of defense.

"Enemies! Open fire!!"

The moment they saw the approaching force, they unleashed a hailstorm of machine-gun fire and explosives.

"Hold the line! Just two more minutes!! We only need to last two more minutes!!"

The black magicians, desperate to wring out what little malice they had left, threw every hex, curse, and dark spell they could muster.

But no matter what they did—

They could not stop the expedition force.

"We’ll handle the defenses!!"

The mages of the Magic Tower stepped forward, raising their wands, intercepting the incoming black magic with barriers and counterspells.

"Raise your shields, brothers!!"

The Ketraatus warriors stood at the front, blocking the incoming machine-gun fire and explosions.

With their massive shields, heavy armor, and defensive miracles, they held the line against the barrage.

And in the midst of it all—

"Iomene!!"

"I’m already ready!!"

Iomene raised her hands, her divine stigma—the mark of Dulaneor—glowing at full intensity.

A radiant halo of light erupted from her, blanketing the entire stronghold.

Though it was not as powerful as the saint’s pillar of light on the surface, for the black magicians and abominations, it was devastating.

"Ghk!!"

"Ugh!"

The black magicians' spells and curses were interrupted mid-cast, forcibly nullified.

The abominations’ flesh sizzled and burned, their agonized screams echoing through the cavern.

And within that chaos—

"My turn."

Erfa moved.

Her lower pair of hands formed a complex hand seal, amplifying her spell.

At the same time, her upper hands swung her wand, unleashing her magic.

From her Triadic Research, a spell amplified to the extreme materialized—

A thunderstorm.

A massive, city-wide storm of lightning erupted in the heart of the enemy stronghold.

"W-what the fuck?! How is it this powerful—!"

Lightning raged through the battlefield, covering the entire enemy front.

Cultists disintegrated into dust without a sound.

The machine guns’ barrels melted, their overheated ammunition detonating inside the chambers.

Bombs, still in their users' hands, detonated instantly, wiping out entire squads.

Abominations?

Not even they, blessed by Mammon, could withstand it.

They, too, were reduced to ashes—no different from the lesser cultists.

Only the black magicians barely survived—

"Ugh! Aaaagh!! This power—! This isn’t normal!!"

Even attempting to block a single strike drained them of nearly all their malice.

The ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) Ketraatus warriors, the battle mages, and even Iomene herself gazed in awe at Erfa.

"Al Maday," Iomene spoke, watching the destruction unfold. "Perhaps we should consider adding mages to the Ketraatus units."

"That would violate the Codex Prolilium, Saintess. When we return, I suggest you focus on memorizing that section."

"......"

"That said," he admitted, surveying the battlefield, "it would be quite useful if the Magic Tower offered their assistance more often. I will concede that point."

Al Maday scanned the field.

Aside from a handful of black magicians, no enemies remained.

Everything had been incinerated.

Or rather—

Reduced to ashes.

"Only those damned heretical black magicians remain. Wait right there, you wretched filth. I’ll rip you apart myself!!"

Raising his greatsword and shield, Al Maday roared, sending the surviving black magicians into despair.

They barely had any malice left.

And with Iomene—the Saintess of Dulaneor—flooding the battlefield with divine light, their already weakened spells had become practically useless.

There was no winning this fight.

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Their situation was beyond hopeless.

Yet they did not give up.

Pooling together their last reserves of malice, they cast a massive defensive spell.

"One minute! Just one more minute! Mammon’s Chosen will awaken and fight for us! Hold on!!"

Al Maday snarled in fury and was about to charge when—

"Stop, Al Maday."

"What?! But, Saintess!"

"There are only mages left, aren’t there?"

"......?"

"We should let its natural predator handle the hunt, don’t you think?"

"...Ah!"

Al Maday chuckled and stepped back.

The black magicians tilted their heads, confused by the sudden halt in the expedition force’s assault. But then—

"The—The defensive spell is failing!"

"What is this?! I—I can’t cast my magic!!"

"Aaagh!! Aaaaagh! My magic is backfiring! It’s breaking!!"

"Where?! Where is it coming from?!"

"Something is attacking me!!"

They quickly realized, through sheer suffering, why the enemy had stopped their assault.

Their protective magic began to unravel, spells faltering and collapsing without explanation.

And then, something unseen began stabbing them.

A black magician, screaming in agony from magical backlash, suddenly had his head severed.

Another, who had just been shouting for the enemy to stay back, collapsed with a gaping hole in his chest.

Black magicians were dropping like flies, yet the most terrifying part was that they couldn’t see who was attacking them.

The surviving magicians turned pale.

"The Black Fortress!!"

"An anti-magic field!!"

"Goddamn it!! It’s the Soulless Ones!!"

"Drop your wands! Use your guns! We can’t fight with magic!!"

A bizarre sight unfolded as the black magicians tossed aside their wands and frantically reached for their pistols.

But their panic changed nothing.

It didn’t matter if they had guns—they still couldn’t see their attackers.

And worse—

"D-Don’t come closer! Don’t—Wait, why isn’t it firing?!"

[You’re gripping the gun incorrectly. With a grip safety, holding it like that prevents it from firing.]

Their shooting stances were so abysmal that even the Soulless Ones, who were systematically slaughtering them, offered corrections.

It was laughable.

Within twenty seconds, every black magician lay dead, either decapitated or with a bullet through their heart.

A pitifully anticlimactic end.

But not entirely meaningless.

"Heh... Heheheh. You were a little too late, bastards."

One of the black magicians, blood spilling from the hole in his chest, coughed as he turned his fading gaze toward the massive coffin at the center of the stronghold.

Mammon’s Chosen.

Barely, just barely, thanks to their desperate final resistance—

It was complete.

Of course, the body was undoubtedly in a horrendously unfinished state. It had been awakened far too suddenly, and its mind was likely broken beyond repair. But a Chosen was still a Chosen.

"He will kill everyone here! Taste his wrath, you worms!!"

Even with his dying breath, the black magician’s roar was filled with fury.

[Move!!]

[We must stop the Chosen!!]

"Move! We have to stop it before it fully awakens!!"

The Soulless Ones and the expedition force rushed forward—but they were too late.

The lid of the coffin burst open, and the figure within slowly rose.

The last surviving black magician wept tears of joy at the sight.

"Ooh!! Chosen one!! Mammon’s Chosen!! Unleash your fury!! Show this world the return of Greed!!"

"Assassins, fall back!! Mages, retreat as well!! The Ketraatus and I will handle this!! Don’t get hit by its black magic or curses!!"

Following Iomene’s orders, the assassins and mages quickly withdrew, while the Ketraatus warriors and Iomene herself charged forward.

"Fear no death, brothers!! The Saintess is with us!!"

"For Dulaneor!!!"

With resolute voices, the paladins surged forward.

"This is the end!! The apocalypse!! Watch as the Chosen of Greed tears this world apart!!"

A black magician, gasping his last breaths, spat out his final words of mockery.

"I will not let it destroy the city that Amayel sought to protect!!"

Iomene ignited her divine power to its fullest and charged.

All tension—all urgency—vanished in an instant.

Because as soon as everyone laid eyes on the Chosen of Mammon, silence fell over the battlefield.

"Uuh... Grrgh..."

A painfully emaciated man staggered forward.

He had no eyes.

He had only one arm.

His legs were twisted and deformed, barely able to support his weight.

"Hun... Hungry... It hurts... Uuugh... Father... Why!!!"

Like a petulant child, the Mammon Chosen wailed, his voice filled with mindless frustration.

"Why did you take my power!! ...Father!! Why!!"

His malformed legs failed him, and he collapsed onto the ground.

No one spoke.

Not the last surviving black magician.

Not the Ketraatus warriors.

Not Iomene.

Not the mages of the Magic Tower.

No one.

"Eeeh... I’m hungry... So hungry..."

Wriggling pathetically on the ground, the Mammon Chosen sobbed.

The last black magician, who had been watching him in a daze, finally muttered in sheer disbelief.

"Mammon... already took his power back and ran away...?"

The pillar of light had appeared. Mammon’s authority had rapidly weakened.

It wasn’t difficult to put the pieces together.

The god had been critically wounded by that divine light.

To preserve himself, Mammon had reclaimed the power he had bestowed upon his Chosen, then abandoned everything—his followers, his stronghold—and fled back to Hell.

In other words—

Every ounce of blood and sacrifice his cultists had shed in this battle had been completely meaningless.

"Mammon... You goddamn motherfucking piece of shit..."

With his dying breath, the black magician uttered a curse against the very Demon Lord he had devoted his life to.

And with that, he died.

The Chosen of Mammon, destined to bring destruction to the world?

No such thing ever happened.

****

"Eeeh! I-I’m hungry... Uuuu... AAAAGH!! AAGH!!"

Iomene, without hesitation, approached the pitiful Mammon Chosen and incinerated him with a burst of divine power.

He twitched briefly—

Then disintegrated into ashes.

It was over.

It had ended so easily, so anticlimactically, that it almost felt disappointing.

Iomene stood still for a moment, then suddenly, her expression brightened.

"Erfa. I just received a report from Almene."

"What is it...?"

"The Saint has awakened."