Chapter 78: The Altar of Storms

Denise reminded him from the side, “That’s generally how it works, but once you reach the Southern Realm, it’s not calculated that way—it only counts as Fifth Rank.”

“The Holy Light Church’s doctrine makes it clear: mortals can never become true gods. The ranks of the true gods are supreme and beyond measure.”

“Once a person reaches the Saintly Rank, they no longer concern themselves with levels. That’s why all the great human heroes through history are simply called ‘Saints’ now.”

“If you ever get the chance to travel south, be careful not to let anything slip, lest misfortune befall you for a careless word.”

Her mischievous side surfaced again. “So even if you become a true god one day, you’ll only be Liosse, not Liodin.”

In the Imperial High Tongue, the names of saints take on the suffix ‘-sse,’ while those of true gods receive ‘-din’ as a mark of reverence. Yet the Imperial High Tongue is really just a form of the ancient language, and only the Holy Light Church still adheres to this tradition. Outside their circles, few care for such conventions—certainly not northerners, who would never call their ancestors ‘Tirdin.’

By now, the party had finished packing and was ready to set off.

The slain dire wolves were left on the riverbank, with only the best patches of fur and a few fangs taken as trophies for the adventurers. Old Pete also took a chunk of wolf liver, planning to fry it up for everyone that evening.

Huggins strode up to Leo and said gravely, “Leo, the road ahead gets even more dangerous. If you don’t want to be part of this, you can bow out now.”

Denise added, “That’s right, your job as a guide is basically done. If you turn back here, you can still return safely on your own. If you go forward, you’re with us to the end.”

To be honest, the wolf attack had left Leo a bit shaken; such formidable magical beasts were far beyond what an ordinary person like him could face.

Yet Leo was reluctant to retreat.

Unlike the reckless adventurers he’d seen in movies, the Firefly Adventuring Party was strong and experienced. They weren’t a band of greedy fools blundering blindly into danger.

Traveling with them, his life was at least somewhat protected.

Danger always walks hand in hand with opportunity. Turning back now would be safe, but perhaps he’d spend the rest of his days tucked away in the mountains as a militia captain—at best, winning Olivia’s hand and inheriting Urian’s frontier knighthood.

Besides, a gold coin a day—over ten thousand in daily wages—surely risking his life a little was only reasonable?

“No, I’ll go on with you,” Leo refused directly. “What happens on the Wolfdriven Plains matters to me too. Even if I weren’t with you, I’d still be out here scouting.”

Huggins nodded. “Alright, then. You’ll be responsible for protecting Denise—stay alert at all times.”

Continuing on, Lynch, who was scouting, found some gnoll tracks, but they never actually encountered the creatures.

After crossing two mountain peaks, the group finally arrived beneath a stone pillar.

From afar, these pillars looked like thin candles standing among the mountains. Up close, however, they were massive—each at least twenty meters in diameter.

Denise stepped forward and studied one of the pillars, but found nothing.

At last, she said in disappointment, “They really are just weathered stone columns.”

Lynch and Fischer, nimble and agile, had already climbed atop the pillars to investigate. When they descended, they shook their heads as well. “No sign of anything man-made.”

“That’s not surprising. If the ruins of the Courtyard were so easy to find, it wouldn’t be us who found them,” someone remarked.

Just then, Barrett, who’d been sitting on the cliff edge enjoying the cold wind and the view, suddenly shouted, “Look over there—what’s that?”

The group hurried to the edge of the cliff. Down among the mountains, halfway up a sheer cliff, they saw a scattering of ancient man-made stone pillars.

Only a few of the pillars, each more than ten meters tall, were still mostly intact. Behind them, colossal statues had been carved into the rock face, but huge vines had burst from the cracks in the stone, destroying nearly everything.

Broken walls and ruined tiles bathed in the setting sun gave off an air of desolation and decay.

After a while, Huggins judged, “Orcish architecture. Judging by the scale and style, this might be a Storm Altar.”

“The Storm Altar is where the orcs hold their rituals—only hero-tribes among the orcs have the right to build such an altar.”

Among orcs, the term “hero” refers to those who have reached the Saintly Rank. Any tribe with a Saint is a hero-tribe.

Smaller tribes simply lack the resources to cultivate a Saint. Almost every hero-tribe among the orcs is a large community with a population in the tens of thousands.

Which meant that even if this wasn’t the legendary Courtyard ruins, it was at least an orcish city-state!

“Come on, let’s take a look!” Barrett, excited, slung both pack mules over his shoulders and started down the mountain.

The others exchanged glances and followed. Though orcish ruins were nowhere near as rare as elven ones, they were still a significant find!

The orcish Storm Altar stood halfway along a cliff in a great canyon. Unless one stood atop the mountain or ventured into the canyon, it would remain hidden.

The party camped there that night, enjoying old Pete’s expertly fried wolf liver. Not until the next day did they find a path to the cliff face.

They reached the cliff by way of a man-made trail.

Here was a clearing three or four hundred square meters in size, where massive stone pillars lay toppled and entwined with withered vines. The stone foundation beneath the pillars rose several meters above ground but had been pierced and ruined by thick vines, now reduced to a heap of rubble with hardly a place to step.

These pillars were only the gateway to the altar; the main structure was inside the cliff. The collapsed columns and gigantic statues almost buried it entirely, but a few pitch-black holes remained visible.

Fischer, the smallest of them, crawled into one hole and emerged moments later. “No danger,” he reported.

Huggins considered the opening, then looked at Barrett. “Barrett, you stand guard and wait for us to come out.”

“Oh…” Barrett nodded in disappointment. The hole was just wide enough for one person; were he to widen it for his bulk, the whole thing might collapse.

The rest set down their packs, took only their weapons, and squeezed into the hole to enter the altar.

After crawling four or five meters through the cramped passage, Leo suddenly found himself in a broad, open space.

He stood, then helped Denise steady herself as she emerged behind him. Denise raised her staff, conjuring a bright light.

A sphere of magical light floated up, illuminating the entire interior of the altar.

The inside was unexpectedly vast, as if the whole cliff had been hollowed out.

Sadly, it was completely empty—barren and silent, stripped even of the most basic sculptures and decorations, like a warehouse that had been cleared out.

Denise muttered as she examined the space, “This can’t be right. The Storm Altar is sacred to the orcs. Even if looted, the basic structure should remain. Here, there’s not even a mural!”

They walked to the end of the altar. Before them was a stone wall, with nowhere else to go.

A massive crack ran diagonally from the upper left down to the lower right corner of the wall.

The whole surface, from floor to vaulted ceiling, was at least twenty meters high, as if cleaved by a single mighty stroke. At its widest, the rift was a full meter across, vanishing into unfathomable depths.

Within the great altar, this was the only thing that remained.