Ch. 8
Chapter 8: [Varak’s Demon Raven and the Fishing Demon King]
“The master of the Karna Wasteland Dungeon, Varak.” Thaleia answered softly.
“Indeed, that’s me.” The enormous red-eyed demon raven, crowned with a crest of feathers, hopped about on the branch.
The feathered crown upon its head trembled with each motion, somewhat resembling the cockatoo Samael had seen in his previous life.
“Cease that weak spiritual energy of yours, and stop trying to seize control of my demon raven. It’s pointless. This is my domain—my spiritual energy has taken root in every inch of this land. I am the Dominator.”
Thaleia pursed her lips and extinguished the faint blue light in her eyes beneath her helmet.
“I heard about your father, little half-blood of House Ronowe. But I had no hand in it, nor am I interested.” The crowned raven lifted a claw with slow, deliberate elegance and strutted along the branch before flapping its wings to perch atop a corpse’s head. “The cold northern mountains of Londoran are far too distant for me. I only care for my beloved Kanna Plains.”
“Tell me, little girl of House Ronowe—what business do you have sneaking into my territory?” The raven’s claws dug into the corpse’s scalp as it bent forward slightly, its blood-red eyes glaring at Thaleia. “Seeking refuge? Don’t tell me you foolishly thought that because your father once helped me, I’d shelter you?”
“My father already paid the price for his foolishness and idealism. I’ve learned to adapt to this cruel and pragmatic world.” Thaleia subtly shifted, standing protectively in front of Samael. “We’re just passing through on our escape. I’m not expecting your help, nor will I trouble you.”
The raven burst into raucous laughter, its body shaking as it cawed hysterically.
“No need to be afraid. Your father did help me with a few minor things when he was alive. Although our kind care little for sentiment, it would be… somewhat unbecoming of me, a monarch, to take your head to Setika and Marna for a bounty.” The raven lowered its head, pecked out the corpse’s eyeball, and tilted its neck to swallow it whole.
The corpse swung like a pendulum, suspended from the branch by a hemp rope, swaying with each peck from the massive raven.
“But you’d best not loiter near my territory. Those other monarchs’ subordinates are hunting you across the lands. You’d better not lead them here.” The raven clutched the skull as it swung with the dangling bones, its feathered crown bobbing. “Leave quickly—get off the Kanna Plains while you still can.”
“Uncle, sounds like you’ve been quite busy lately, huh?” Samael suddenly interjected.
Thaleia froze, turning to glance at him, then at the crowned raven—and chuckled softly.
“How far have the adventurers gotten into your dungeon?” she asked with a smile. “You’ve even sent your demon raven scouts this far—almost to the doorstep of the Adventurers’ Guild outpost. Things must not be going well.”
The crowned raven snorted, and with a sudden rustle, its folded crest spread open like a fan, revealing hideous blood-red eyespots. It looked quite irritated.
“The third ring,” it muttered reluctantly. “Happy now, you schadenfreude half-blood girl of Ronowe? Can you go now? I’ve no time for your nonsense—or your pursuers. I’ll let you go this time—what’s the deal with that talkative follower of yours, anyway? A demonized human mage? A demon elite warrior? One of your father’s trusted lieutenants? Nether-copper equipment, fine—but what kind of lunatic warrior wears a full set of sealed Nether-copper armor? That’s not made for the living. If he were an armored skeleton warrior, then how could an undead construct be speaking on its own?”
“None of your concern,” Thaleia replied.
“Good. Then get lost.” The crowned raven folded its crest back down. “And stop provoking me. My Earth-Devouring Worm hasn’t eaten yet today—and even though the Guild outpost maintains anti-worm warding formations, a groundquake attack can still reach from afar. Want to be hit by one?”
“We’ll leave soon—just need some time. During that, we’ll stay clear of each other. How about that?” Thaleia said. “We won’t take advantage of the chaos to meddle with your dungeon, and we won’t tell the other demon monarchs about this. But you must also keep our presence a secret.”
“Fine! Then it’s settled. You don’t interfere with my battle against the adventurers, and I won’t leak your whereabouts to Setika or Marna’s lunatics. Leave my lands soon, and don’t stir up trouble. Let’s pretend we never saw each other—like the northern winds of Londoran brushing past the white bones of the Kanna Plains—silent and indifferent.” The crowned raven swayed its crest poetically as it spoke.
“However, if you dare meddle in my war against the adventurers, don’t blame me for being merciless.”
“Understood,” Thaleia said.
“I’ll be watching you. You’d better leave before I change my mind.” The raven nodded haughtily, cackled again, spread its wings, and soared toward the horizon above the Adventurers’ Guild outpost.
Thaleia let out a breath of relief.
“This went better than I expected…” she murmured with a faint smile.
“You two seem to know each other?” Samael asked. “He didn’t seem that hostile.”
“You could say we’re acquaintances. My father once helped him, and he repaid the favor. They even worked together as allies a few times. So he remains neutral toward us,” Thaleia recalled. “But demons rarely hold long-term loyalties. My father was a special one—too naive, too kind, too idealistic, too trusting of his friends. That’s why he…”
She sighed softly.
“That demon king seems rather overwhelmed lately,” Samael remarked. “Why do adventurers always love to torment demon kings?”
“High-level adventurers love delving into dungeons. The dungeons built by demon monarchs contain far denser spiritual energy than ordinary demonlands. The materials and loot are of higher quality—and sometimes they even stumble upon the monarchs’ treasuries, armories, or vaults of Relics of the Gods. Anyone with the ability wants a share of the spoils,” Thaleia explained.
“Then why don’t the demon kings just move away—to some desolate wilderness far from the Adventurers’ Guild?” Samael asked, puzzled. “If my home were crawling with pests, I’d move out too. But on the map you drew, every dungeon seems built right beside adventurer strongholds—as if they want to be bothered.”
Thaleia chuckled softly.
“You still don’t understand demons, Samael. To demon monarchs, adventurers aren’t pests,” she said, “but livestock in a farm—fish raised in a pond.”
“You think their treasure vaults were built from their own conquests? Those high-grade weapons and artifacts—do you think the monarchs forged them all by themselves?” She laughed lightly. “Of course not. The spoils, riches, and powerful gear all come from the corpses of dead adventurers—gathered little by little, forming vast hoards. The adventurers’ remains serve as materials for undead constructs, and their essence feeds the dungeon’s spiritual ecology.”
“It’s a perfect, open-ended trap—a transparent balance of power. Both sides get what they want. The demon monarch lays the bait in plain sight but hides the killing blows within the labyrinth. The adventurers, blinded by greed, are just fish drawn to the hook by the glint of bones.”
“Varak’s situation isn’t truly dire—just a temporary imbalance caused by a surge in local adventurer strength. Once he slaughters a few waves of high-level adventurers and weakens their ranks, things will return to the usual rhythm of breeding and fishing.”
“You may think he’s desperate—but in truth, Varak could at any time command his Earth-Devouring Worms to collapse the tunnels, burying every adventurer alive.”
“But doing that would destroy two-thirds of his dungeon’s architecture and spiritual ecosystem. He can’t bear to ruin what he spent years building, and he fears that weakening his forces would invite other demon monarchs to invade. That’s why he’d rather endure a drawn-out tug of war.”
Samael pondered in silence.
The dungeon clearly held immense meaning for the demon race—an incredibly efficient and powerful way of survival.
Demons not only enhanced their power through the dungeon’s spiritual ecosystem but also trapped adventurers, harvesting steady gains from their deaths.
The demon ravens had already flown away.
Thaleia looked toward the giant tree laden with corpses before her.
“These corpses should still have some usable things…” She turned, glanced up and down at Samael, then grabbed one corpse by the ankle and pulled it down from the branch.
The half-dried, decaying body fell to the ground, its loosened leg joint snapping so that Thaleia was left holding only half a shin.
“Wh-what are you doing? Looting the offerings?” Samael instinctively felt uneasy—but then recalled the times in Dark Souls when he’d scavenged corpses for a nice set of gear. “I guess… looting bandit offerings isn’t so bad…”
His eyes gleamed as he looked at the corpse-laden tree. “So… are we looting the whole tree? Like a farmer harvesting his orchard in autumn?”
“No! Of course not. This corpse tree is something the Adventurers’ Guild uses to warn wasteland raiders. We can’t strip it clean—that’d draw too much attention.” Thaleia dropped the half leg. “But one or two corpses falling off? Maybe a raven bit through the ropes—perhaps it saw something shiny or wanted to eat in peace. That’s perfectly normal. No one will care.”
She tore a tattered gray cloak from the corpse.
“The cloak of a wasteland exile. It offers little protection, but it shields against sandstorms. For you, it’ll cover the gaps in your armor—so others won’t notice what’s beneath.” Thaleia draped the gray cloak over Samael, carefully adjusting the collar and hood.
“You don’t need more armor anyway. Nether-copper is incredibly strong. But its faint necrotic aura causes numbness and stiffness, chilling the body like death. Living beings who wear it suffer impaired movement and reactions.”
“That aura affects both enemies and wearers equally. And since the ancient spell for forging Ghost Knights has been lost since the Age of the Gods, even if demons find Nether-copper relics in ruins, they won’t use them—only equip their clumsy skeletal warriors with them.” Thaleia pulled the hood over Samael’s helmet as she explained. “Nether-copper is rare, and most humans can’t recognize it—but still, better to stay cautious.”
She crouched and stripped light leather armor from another corpse, stuffing it into the gaps of Samael’s armor to fill the hollow seams.
“That should do it…” She stepped back to take a look.
Now, Samael looked like a wandering knight in exile—ancient copper armor, draped in a tattered gray cloak, the joints filled with worn leather.
“Could use a little more,” Samael muttered as he tore fabric from the corpse and bound it around his gauntlets and joints, securing and hiding the metal edges.
“I’ll need some disguise too…” Thaleia tugged at her own crimson cloak, ripping the frayed edges even more, then scooped up gray dust from the ground and smeared it over her armor until she looked like a black-armored wanderer herself.
“If my past self saw me doing this, she’d go insane.” She chuckled under her horned helmet. “I used to hate armor—thought it was ugly and cumbersome. If I could ever wear dresses again…”
She stopped herself mid-sentence.
“They’re all beautiful,” Samael said.
“Hmm?” Thaleia raised her head.
“Armor is beautiful too,” Samael said earnestly. “I’m a Dark Souls player—I’m an armor fanatic. This slender design—its curves are so sharp and elegant. It’s like the Dancer’s armor from Irithyll Valley… so hot…”
Thaleia was silent for a moment.
“Oh—uh, sorry, my lady! Gomen nasai!” Samael blurted, bowing at a full one-eighty degrees.
“Enough, enough… let’s go.” She flushed beneath her helmet, feeling a little flustered—and oddly, her heart beat faster.
Halfway along, she paused and turned.
“Wait—you only like armor?” she asked.
“Yeah.” The Nether-copper knight nodded matter-of-factly.
“What about the person inside the armor?” Thaleia asked.
“If the armor looks good, that’s enough. I’m an armor enthusiast.” The Nether-copper knight replied. “Why do you look so disappointed…? My lady! Godfather, wait for me!”
He grabbed the edge of his gray hood to keep it from falling as he clanked after her, the Nether-copper sword at his waist bouncing and clattering against his hips like a cheerful battle drum.