Chapter Ten: Into the Heart of the Mist (Seeking Your Votes and Support)

Deep within a forest shrouded in mist, there stretched a vine reaching toward the horizon—its destination unknown to all.

At that moment, four figures moved slowly through the dense woodland.

“Boss, at this rate, I’m afraid our potions won’t hold out much longer!” one of them finally spoke up.

“We’ve barely traveled any distance, and already a third of our supplies are gone. The deeper we go, the greater the drain—and we still have to return,” another replied.

“Exactly. Without even engaging in combat, we’re losing health so rapidly. If a fight breaks out, we won’t last a moment!” The other two wore equally troubled expressions.

A heavy sigh escaped Ockodin’s lips.

Despite all their preparations for this mission, it seemed they were still ill-equipped.

“I’m beginning to wonder if that broker tricked us,” Keld said with suspicion, casting a wary glance around. He never trusted that man.

“With the Tower of Magic as witness, if he’s deceived us, I’ll make him pay when we get back!” Zeus’s eyes blazed with ferocity.

“Calm down! Don’t get so worked up,” Ockodin quickly soothed him. If Zeus lost his temper, things could spiral out of control.

“Let’s press forward a bit more. If we still can’t find the target in the central zone, then we turn back,” suggested Sargas.

They couldn’t afford to keep draining their resources like this.

Once, by a twist of fate, these four had entered a low-dimensional mythic realm, where they wrested divine essences from its inhabitants. Since then, they had gained a fraction of godly power and had renamed themselves after those deities. Their path was now set: to hunt gods and claim their divine might.

This time, it was the broker who tipped them off about the existence of divine essences in this world. They spared no expense to use items that guaranteed entry, even lowering their ratings by dragging in a low-level player to reduce suspicion.

For them, levels and ranks were mere illusions; only divine essences and powers truly mattered.

“Agreed. Let’s push forward another ten thousand health points’ worth of distance. If we find nothing, we’ll retreat to Fairy Tale Town for rest and resupply,” Ockodin decided firmly.

“If that fails, we’ll sweep the surrounding subordinate realms. There must be something to gain,” he added.

Unlike others who wandered clueless, they were seasoned god-hunters, entering well-prepared. Yet even they had underestimated the mist’s toll—its natural health drain almost breaking their endurance.

The four pressed onward.

They knew another godlike entity dwelled nearby. Regardless of its power level, anything touched by divinity was no ordinary foe.

Hence, they advanced cautiously, which explained their slow pace.

Suddenly, from the depths of the fog came a haunting melody.

The four instinctively halted.

“Divine Death Power!” “The scent of death!” Sargas and Zeus exclaimed simultaneously. One wielded death’s power by origin, the other thunder’s divine might—both attuned to such forces.

Ockodin and Keld’s eyes brightened with excitement.

“The target must be close!”

They had hunted gods too many times to be afraid at the first sign. Instead, they thrilled at the prospect of a fight.

They recalled entering a realm where gods clashed in endless war. There, they formed alliances, toppled rival pantheons, and seized divine powers and weapons. Their victories paved the way to their current strength.

Now, fully alert, they prepared for battle.

Ockodin, bearer of war’s divine power, excelled at commanding the field and empowering allies. Clad with the mighty Dragonheart Sword of Victory, his imposing stature radiated authority.

That sword was forged from spoils won after slaying the Norse god Odin’s projection, combining the Spear and Sword of Victory with a demonic blade—especially effective against deities.

It had earned many triumphs during their god hunts.

Zeus wielded a simpler arsenal: a long spear named the Spear of Victory and a round shield once belonging to the god Zeus himself. The spear was forged by fusing remnants of the trident, lightning spear, and underworld fork after devastating the Greek pantheon.

Sargas carried the Angelic Sword, a trophy from destroying the angelic civilization. He could summon angelic phantoms, though his death power called forth fallen angels. Despite this, these phantoms granted vital buffs and healing, making him the team’s support.

Keld wielded the Immortal Sword, obtained alongside Sargas during the angelic civilization’s destruction. It granted him immortal vigor and a thirst for blood. When an enemy’s health hit a critical threshold, his sword could execute a lethal strike, killing regardless of remaining vitality.

Their conquests in the low-dimensional god wars had forged the foundation of their prowess.

The four moved in practiced formation: Zeus with shield at the front, Ockodin commanding the center, Sargas and Keld flanking him.

The ominous sounds grew nearer.

Through the mist, pairs of blood-red eyes openly watched them.

Ignoring the watchers, the four focused on the source of the sound.

Now certain of their quarry’s presence, they quickened their pace, no longer wary of stirring trouble.

Nearby, a towering vine stretched toward the heavens. Upon one of its branches sat a figure, gently swinging small feet and singing leisurely.

A sweet, clear voice drifted forth, though the words remained indecipherable.

This was the scene when Ockodin and his companions arrived.

Upon the skyward vine sat the target they had sought.

“Divine Death Power!” Sargas declared confidently, recognizing the kinship of such power.

Their gazes burned with intensity as they fixed upon the small girl. They cared little for her identity or abilities—only for how much divine power they could claim.

To hunt as many low-level gods as possible, they had long suppressed their own power to accumulate strength steadily. Only by building such a foundation could they ascend swiftly and avoid fading into obscurity after promotion.

“Mortals!” The figure’s voice rang with authority.

“You have trespassed!”

“Hmph!” Zeus’s temper flared. Without warning, he hurled his Spear of Victory.

The girl did not dodge or move, causing the spear to veer off harmlessly.

Zeus merely drew it back with a shrug.

The girl, wearing a tattered red hood, slowly rose from the vine.

Her eyes transformed into pure black voids, devoid of whites, and an aura of death enveloped her.

At once, divine power surged from the four hunters, forming shimmering shields.

Only divine power could counter divine power.

Divinity was scarce, and unlike native gods who gained strength through worshippers, these wanderers had no way to cultivate followers within the Tower of Magic.

Denied the righteous path, they turned to plunder.

Thus, they roamed dungeons and hunted gods to amplify their might.

“Ignorant mortals, death is your inevitable fate!” The girl’s eyes unleashed a beam of pure death energy.

Before it could strike, Zeus raised his shield, blocking the attack.

“Hey, Little Red Riding Hood, aren’t you getting a bit cocky?” Zeus taunted.

“Do you really think that wearing a red hood makes you the Big Bad Wolf?”

“Wolf?” The girl’s expression shifted, hatred freezing her gaze.

“You all deserve to die!” she snarled, pulling on a gray robe.

The garment was crudely sewn, with loose threads and rough edges.

As she donned it, the red hooded girl transformed into a towering gray wolf.

“By the gods, Little Red Riding Hood actually has a gray robe that lets her become the Big Bad Wolf!” Zeus exclaimed.

With a furious howl, the great wolf leapt from the vine and lunged at him.

In her heart, the wolf was a forbidden curse, and this man’s repeated mention of it was unforgivable.