Otaku Translation: Lone Adventure V4C10

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The floor of the hidden chamber was covered in twisting, bizarre symbols that formed a circle around its edges. At the center of this circle, the same cryptic script shaped an inverted pentagram. Shackled to the heart of the star by a thick iron chain lay a boy, no older than seven or eight, his frail body bare and pale as marble. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow—he had fallen unconscious. Above him hovered a faint name tag, identifying the child as Philipe, the only son of Prosecutor Faseli. Retrieving him from Valor Fortress was one of our many objectives on this perilous mission.

From the magic array—a fusion of the circle and pentagram—emanated a pulsating crimson glow, suffused with an indescribable aura of malevolence. The light throbbed rhythmically, dimming and brightening like some sinister heartbeat. A strange premonition gripped me; I couldn’t shake the feeling that its flickering was tied to the boy’s life force. It felt almost instinctual: this evil construct was slowly draining the blood from the child, siphoning it for purposes too dark to fathom.

Scattered around the boy were five ancient pages, each inscribed with unfamiliar runes and bathed in a faint, holy luminescence. These sacred artifacts aligned perfectly with the points of the pentagram, forming the core of the ritualistic design. They were none other than the Lost Chapters of the Holy Codex, another crucial objective we’d been tasked to retrieve. Together with the boy, they completed the central nexus of the arcane configuration.

To my untrained eye, it seemed the array possessed an uncanny ability—to meld the sanctified energies radiating from the temple’s relics with the pure vitality of the child, corrupting their essence into something grotesque and unholy.

Upon discovering the room, Long Triangle didn’t rush to rescue the boy. Instead, he meticulously examined the chamber's layout. Just as I prepared to dash inside and save the child, Long Triangle yanked me back, pointing toward several stone slabs near the entrance.

At first glance, these stones appeared unremarkable. But upon closer inspection, they stood slightly higher than the surrounding floor, smoother, free of dust, and devoid of moss—a subtle but unmistakable clue.

“There’s a trap here,” Long Triangle whispered, gesturing toward the wall opposite the door. Embedded along the upper edge of the wall were rows of steel tubes, each tipped with razor-sharp crossbow bolts. Even without further explanation, I could imagine what would happen if I’d charged ahead blindly—I’d have been perforated before I took three steps.

This was where Long Triangle proved his worth as a rogue. He pulled out a set of peculiar tools from his pack and knelt down, carefully tinkering with the mechanism beneath the stones. After a few tense moments, he rose confidently, stowed his equipment, and gave us a self-assured nod.

“It’s all clear now. Safe to proceed.”

To demonstrate, he stomped firmly on the suspicious tiles.

But then came a soft click beneath his boot. Before anyone could react, the slightly raised slab sank into the ground, triggering a deadly barrage of arrows. With piercing shrieks, the bolts shot through the air like vengeful spirits. Thankfully—and though it feels cruel to say so—I must admit we were lucky. Long Triangle’s bulky frame blocked the entire doorway, ensuring every single bolt embedded itself harmlessly into his ample gut while leaving those behind him untouched.

As it turned out, only the first four arrows struck true, ending our orcish rogue companion swiftly. The rest were mere overkill. In the face of such lethal precision, Long Triangle barely managed a strangled cry before collapsing lifeless to the ground.

The scene unfolded so abruptly that his smug expression hadn’t even faded when he dropped dead. We stood frozen, stunned into silence, like statues carved from shock. The air grew heavy with irony-laden stillness.

“I think…” Longbow Sunshot murmured, staring at Long Triangle’s rigid corpse, “he should’ve practiced disarming traps more thoroughly…”

“Still…” I said, stepping firmly onto the now-safe tiles, “…he did manage to deactivate the trap.”

“I… missed the warning…” Long Triangle groaned as he stirred back to life under Clado the Tauren Shaman’s healing spell. His first words were laced with shame and embarrassment: “…It said the trap wasn’t fully disabled…”

Four pairs of disdainful eyes greeted him—Clado included, despite not understanding his language. The tauren shaman’s keen insight left little room for misunderstanding.

Once revived and restored, Long Triangle threw himself into inspecting every inch of the chamber’s entrance. He scrutinized each brick with obsessive fervor, as if hoping to uncover—or perhaps create—a secondary trap just to redeem himself. Alas, reality disappointed him. Beyond the initial deadly mechanism, there were no other hidden dangers lurking within the room. Defeated, Long Triangle reluctantly declared the area secure and abandoned his efforts.

With the all-clear given, I sprinted into the magical array, slicing through the chains binding young Philipe. Cradling the unconscious boy, I carried him swiftly out of the chamber. Though freed from the array, he remained alarmingly weak, showing no signs of waking. I doubted whether Longbow’s restoration spells would be effective.

Just as I began tending to the boy, a plume of black smoke erupted from the array. A shrill voice cackled menacingly: “Who dares disrupt my summoning ritual? Foolish interlopers! You shall suffer torments worse than death!”

Evidently, the array served yet another purpose: alerting the caster whenever disrupted and transporting them back instantly.

The voice was chilling, sending shivers down my spine even before I fully processed its words. I think we all knew who it belonged to—none other than the fiend who had seized this mausoleum as his lair, a place from which he orchestrated unspeakable horrors. He was the ruler of these vampires, their dark overlord.

What struck me as odd, though, wasn’t just the raw menace in his tone—it was how eerily familiar it sounded. Raspy and grating, yes, but still… something about it tugged at the edges of my memory. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d heard it somewhere before.

A strange intuition crept into my mind, unbidden yet insistent: I knew this vampire monster. Not just in passing—I knew him well.

As the smoke coalesced, a tall, gaunt figure emerged, cloaked in a voluminous high-collared mantle. As the haze dissipated, his features sharpened, and recognition dawned.

“Vermin and prey! How dare you desecrate the grand ceremony welcoming the Apocalypse King’s return!” the vampire leader snarled, turning to fix us with fiery red eyes filled with wrath and malice.

That ghastly, pallid face belonged to none other than the esteemed patron of the dwarven master smith Robert Wilanster, the governing official of Valor Fortress. It was Lord Menewal—a nobleman I once admired and owed gratitude to. Yet now, standing before us, he wore the visage of a monster.

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