Became the Patron of Villains

At Alon’s words, everyone’s jaws dropped in disbelief.

Even Wise Ashgul, his eyes framed by deep wrinkles, was left speechless.

So was the swift Syrkal, who still regarded Alon with cautious wariness.

Even Evan, who had been absently examining one of the giant monster masks in the corner of the tent, froze in place.

Reinhardt, who had been surveying the surroundings with the same casual disinterest as Evan, was no exception.

All of them stood there, gaping.

The words that had just come out of Alon’s mouth were utterly incomprehensible to everyone present.

Among them, Reinhardt in particular stared at him with an expression that screamed, What in the world did he just say?

Though Reinhardt currently looked unkempt—having spent long stretches training in the jungle and moving between camps—he still recognized the being Alon had spoken of.

The Receiver, Basiliora.

A savage and enormous serpent, it was both the ruler of the eastern region and the deity worshipped by the Thunder Serpent Tribe.

Many expedition teams avoided conflict with the tribe for that very reason—because Basiliora stood behind them.

Yet here was Marquis Pallatio, boldly declaring his intention to subjugate Basiliora in front of the very tribe that revered it as their god.

Is he out of his mind? Reinhardt thought, staring at Alon in genuine disbelief.

Of course, he already knew Alon wasn’t ordinary.

He had heard the rumors and had even witnessed some of Alon’s feats with his own eyes.

But no matter how extraordinary, the idea of subjugating Basiliora was sheer madness—something beyond arrogance.

That monster...?

Reinhardt recalled the one time he had seen Basiliora.

Its massive tail had casually swept through the jungle, snapping dozens of trees like twigs.

Its body had towered over the treetops, leaving a sight so vivid Reinhardt could never forget it.

And yet, as he looked incredulously at Deus—who stood beside Marquis Pallatio and calmly nodded in agreement—his disbelief only deepened.

“...What did you just say?”

For the first time, Wise Ashgul frowned, abandoning his usual calm.

“Those are words that, no matter how esteemed you may be, cannot be taken lightly,” Ashgul said, his voice edged with undisguised hostility.

But Alon remained unfazed.

He had already anticipated this reaction.

He spoke the words he had prepared in advance.

“Then will you keep living like this?”

“...What are you trying to say?” Ashgul asked.

“I’m asking if you’ll continue offering your people to that god,” Alon said bluntly.

“How... how do you know about that?”

Ashgul’s shocked expression gave him away—an unspoken admission of the truth.

But Alon didn’t pause.

“Remember this, Ashgul. The god you worship will never stop demanding human sacrifices—not until the Thunder Serpent Tribe is utterly destroyed.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?” Ashgul challenged.

Without hesitation, Alon replied, “There’s no need for certainty. You already know, don’t you? You know it won’t stop.”

His next words cut even deeper.

“If the Thunder Serpent Tribe aids me, I’ll get rid of it for you.”

Ashgul fell silent, unable to respond.

Alon said nothing further—not because he had nothing left to say, but because there was no need.

His purpose here was twofold: to force the Thunder Serpent Tribe’s chief to confront a truth they had long ignored, and to offer them a chance for change.

After a moment of tense silence, Ashgul finally spoke.

“...Will you give me a day to consider this?”

“I’ll wait,” Alon replied.

And with that, their first meeting ended—leaving the promise of tomorrow hanging in the air.

As Alon left the tent with his companions, he glanced back briefly to see Syrkal’s pupils trembling uncontrollably.

Without another word, they exited the shrine.

*****

“Marquis.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“...Are you really planning to capture that so-called god?”

Upon returning to the lodging assigned by the Thunder Serpent Tribe, Evan immediately spoke up.

Alon nodded calmly. “Yes.”

“...Wait, you’re serious?”

“I am.”

“Sometimes I really don’t understand you, Marquis. But... are you sure you don’t need to explain yourself more? Judging by their reaction, they didn’t seem too pleased with what you said.”

Alon’s tone was casual. “They’ll likely accept.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because they probably don’t want to keep offering human sacrifices anymore.”

Evan clicked his tongue. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Exactly.”

“But still, do you really think they’ll go along with your plan that easily? Sure, it’s a barbaric practice—but for tribes where human sacrifice is ingrained in their culture, they might not even realize it’s wrong.”

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Human sacrifice was considered an unspeakable act anywhere that followed even basic moral law.

However, in isolated tribes like the Thunder Serpent Tribe, with little contact with the outside world, it was plausible they lacked the moral framework to question it.

Still, Evan was mistaken about one thing.

“The Thunder Serpent Tribe wasn’t originally a tribe that offered human sacrifices. They’re being forced into it.”

“...Forced?”

Though Alon didn’t know every detail, he was certain of two things:

First, the Thunder Serpent Tribe had not practiced human sacrifice in the past.

Second, the one enforcing it was their supposed guardian, Basiliora.

“...Wait, then why wouldn’t they accept your proposal?” Evan asked, puzzled.

Alon didn’t answer right away—but Reinhardt did.

“Obviously, they’re afraid of what’ll happen if they fail. Isn’t it easy to imagine? If they’re being forced into sacrifices, they’re probably doing it to avoid being wiped out.”

“That makes sense, but wouldn’t it be better for them to just escape to somewhere Basiliora doesn’t exist?”

“They clearly can’t escape. Something’s stopping them—that’s why they’re enduring it,” Reinhardt replied.

Alon gave him a long, thoughtful look, impressed.

Despite his rough, bandit-like exterior, Reinhardt had accurately read the situation.

“Correct. The Thunder Serpent Tribe cannot leave. More precisely, they’re trapped here. Basiliora’s keeping them under surveillance to make sure they can’t escape.”

“Oh.” Evan let out a small sound of admiration.

Puffing up slightly under Deus’s approving gaze, Reinhardt then frowned as if ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) realizing something. “Wait. Why do you all look so surprised? Is it that shocking I figured this out?”

“Well...”

“...Because your brain works faster than your looks suggest?” Deus quipped.

“Oh, that’s—cough—uh...”

Evan nodded enthusiastically, then cleared his throat awkwardly when Reinhardt shot him a glare.

Quickly changing the subject, Evan asked, “Uh, anyway, why won’t Basiliora let the tribe leave?”

The urgency in his tone caught Alon’s attention.

“Because of their faith, most likely,” Alon thought.

Basiliora relied on the tribe’s faith as a source of power—fully aware of how much it strengthened him.

To Basiliora, the tribe wasn’t a protectorate; it was a wellspring of faith.

The problem was that Basiliora had realized fear and human sacrifice generated even more faith than protection ever could.

“And surely, the chieftain knows that truth as well.”

Alon recalled Syrkal’s bitter voice in the game as she revealed the secret passed down from the previous chieftain about the sacrifices.

“I don’t know the exact reasons myself,” Alon said aloud, sidestepping further detail. The full story would take too long to explain. “Anyway, let’s wait and see.”

With that, he sat down.

*****

Three hours later.

“Is it really... truly possible to capture Basiliora?”

Alon looked at Syrkal, who had returned far sooner than expected. He had thought it would take a day or two for the tribe to deliberate, but she was back within three hours.

“Yes,” Alon replied calmly, nodding once.

“...My younger sister is the next sacrifice.”

It didn’t take long for Alon to understand why the decision had come so quickly.

“So that’s why the meeting ended fast.”

“Yes. If we act now, we can still save my sister.”

“It couldn’t have been easy to convince the others.”

“The chieftain and I agreed to take full responsibility.”

Alon paused, considering the risk she and the chieftain were taking. Could she really bear the consequences if they failed? He quickly pushed the thought aside and nodded.

Given Basiliora’s nature, the tribe was too valuable for the entity to simply annihilate. Their lives alone—hers and the chieftain’s—might serve as sufficient compensation.

But for Alon, failure wasn’t an option.

“Then let’s discuss what needs to be done.”

He began outlining the plan to Syrkal, whose expression was resolute.

*****

Jenira.

The younger sister of Syrkal, the Thunder Serpent Tribe’s strongest warrior.

She had just turned sixteen and was about to undergo the coming-of-age ceremony, earning her tribal name alongside others her age. But now, she stood alone atop the temple roof, gazing at the rain as it fell in heavy drops.

Dark clouds, streaked with gray, deepened as twilight approached. Jenira glanced down at her hands.

In her palm rested an apple.

It was her last meal—a gift from her beloved sister. Syrkal had handed it to her while shedding tears for the first time in Jenira’s memory.

Jenira stared blankly at the once-vivid red apple, now dulled like the gray sky above. Syrkal had told her to eat it, but she hadn’t.

No—she couldn’t.

Despite her hunger, despite her love for apples, she couldn’t bring herself to take a bite.

The moment she did, she felt, would mark the end. Eating it would mean being alone. The fear of that final moment kept her from tasting even a single piece. She knew this was her last meal.

It’s pointless.

Jenira wasn’t naive. She knew that holding onto the apple wouldn’t keep her sister by her side. She knew it wouldn’t stop what was coming.

She wanted to run.

The impulse blazed through her mind—but her body wouldn’t move.

Running would only make her sister the next sacrifice. She knew that all too well.

So she stood still, watching the gray sky darken further into night.

Until—

“!”

Ku-gu-gu-gu—!

She saw it.

Something enormous gliding toward her.

The great god she worshipped—the one she had never wanted to face.

...Death had come for her.

Smashing through the trees with sheer size, the massive serpent—the Receiver, Basiliora—slithered effortlessly around the colossal altar. Its enormous eyes locked onto her.

That reptilian pupil, larger than her entire body, bore straight into her.

“Ah—”

Terror overtook her. Her body trembled uncontrollably.

The apple slipped from her hands, landing in the rain-soaked ground.

Her mind screamed for survival.

I want to live. I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.

The thought repeated endlessly, burning in her mind.

But deep down, she knew.

No matter how much she begged or cried, no one was coming to save her. Her death was already decided.

And so, all she could do was stand there and weep silently.

The Receiver, savoring her fear, opened its gargantuan jaws—large enough to swallow a house in one bite—to devour her.

But then—

“Arctic Freeze.”

A voice rang out.

Crack, crack, crack!

Everything atop the altar froze solid.

The ground.

The rainwater pooling underfoot.

Even the apple Jenira had dropped.

The rain falling from the sky froze midair, every drop suspended in ice.

And then—

From the edge of the altar,

Step, step—

A man walked forward, unfazed, his expression indifferent as the frozen rain brushed against him.

In one hand, he held a swirl of grayish-white magic. Floating beside him was a rectangular block of iron, roughly half his size.

As he ascended the stairs, he muttered something too quiet to catch.

Then—

CRAAACK!

The rectangular mass twisted unnaturally, reshaping itself into a massive spear.

The god, the Receiver Basiliora, instinctively felt danger. It tried to close its gaping jaws, but—

They wouldn’t close.

Inside the cavernous, ash-gray maw, bright violet threads crisscrossed wildly, forcing it open.

The moment it realized this, Basiliora’s massive, coiled body convulsed.

RUMBLE!

With a single twist of its colossal frame, the entire altar shook as if struck by an earthquake.

Yet the man remained undeterred. He calmly climbed the remaining steps, passing Jenira—still frozen in fear—before stopping in front of the god.

With a quiet murmur, he raised his hand, fingers forming a gun-like gesture.

“Pierce.”

He spoke the final word.

BOOM!

A massive bolt of lightning struck.

The iron spear shot forth, piercing through Basiliora’s upper jaw with an earth-shattering impact.

And then—the god fell.

Basiliora, pierced and defeated, tumbled down the altar, its divine majesty shattered.

Jenira, frozen where she stood, could only stare blankly at the man who had brought down her god.