Otaku Translation: Lone Adventure V4C9

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A roaring mountain of molten fire erupted before our stunned eyes, its fiery surface bubbling like a cauldron of liquid wrath. Streams of lava rolled out in waves, each lick of flame devouring the earth beneath it, turning everything it touched into a fiery wasteland. The molten stream moved slowly but inexorably, leaving behind nothing but scorched ruin. Any vampire unfortunate enough to come into contact with it barely had time to scream—a single shrill "squeal" was all they could muster before disintegrating into ash. This inferno wasn’t just destructive; it was utterly merciless. The vampires’ bodies crumbled under its fury, vanishing without even a wisp of smoke, leaving only the faint stench of charred flesh lingering in the air.

If that weren’t enough, Black Aurora’s final touch—the seemingly innocuous Gust Strike—sealed their fate entirely. The spiraling winds above the volcano churned restlessly, drawing up great gouts of magma from the heart of the inferno and flinging them high into the air. The molten droplets rained down across nearly the entire hall, a dazzling yet deadly cascade of fire. Far from being gentle or forgiving, this rainstorm of burning embers extinguished the last vestiges of hope for any vampire still alive. What had once been a vast, open chamber now felt suffocatingly small, offering no refuge, no place to hide. The bloodthirsty creatures were exposed, writhing helplessly as the fiery rain consumed them one by one, their dying shrieks drowned out by the hiss of flames.

In this sacred temple dedicated to the Death God, there seemed to be only one spot untouched by death: the space around our fire mage, Black Aurora. Neither the rivers of lava nor the showers of flame dared encroach upon this tiny sanctuary where we stood, dumbfounded, watching the apocalypse unfold before us.

Long after the last vampire’s scream had faded, none of us spoke a word. Perhaps it was the sheer shock of what had just happened, but a profound sense of awe—and yes, fear—gripped me tightly, making my breathing shallow and uneven. My companions stared at Black Aurora with the same disbelief, their minds undoubtedly racing with the same question mine was: How could an ordinary mid-tier mage, barely level thirty, unleash such a devastating spell?

Strangely, Black Aurora looked more astonished than any of us. His mouth hung open so wide it seemed in danger of unhinging, and a thin line of drool trickled down his chin unnoticed. He appeared worse off than the rest of us combined, as though he’d been blindsided by his own magic. If anything, the terror etched on his face suggested he might have been more frightened than all four of us put together.

“Uh… uh…” He pointed at the piles of charred vampire remains scattered across the floor, then at himself, his eyes wide as saucers, filled with doubt. It was clear he couldn’t quite believe he was responsible for this catastrophe. We nodded back, equally bewildered. For several moments, he simply stood there, frozen like a statue, before finally shrugging resignedly, accepting that yes, somehow, this was his doing.

Explaining what had just transpired took considerable effort on Black Aurora’s part. He resorted to a mix of dialects—what he called “Shanghainese” and “Japanese,” peppered with something Long Triangle disdainfully referred to as “pidgin English.” To top it off, he punctuated his explanation with elaborate hand gestures reminiscent of martial arts moves. Piecing together fragments of what we understood, we managed to cobble together a rough idea of what had happened—though much of it remained speculative at best.

The gist of the story went something like this: By sheer coincidence, Black Aurora had once helped an unnamed legendary mage complete an exceptionally difficult task. This mage, brilliant but eccentric, had conducted a magical experiment involving his pet parrot. Specifically, he swapped souls with the bird. Unfortunately, in his haste—or perhaps absentmindedness—he neglected to open the cage door beforehand. Thus, when he transformed into a parrot, he found himself trapped inside the cage, unable to reach the potion needed to reverse the process. In essence, he’d devised a perfect method for imprisoning himself, not unlike a carefree bachelor impulsively deciding to get married.

Black Aurora stumbled upon this mage’s remote hut during one of his adventures. Crucially, he did two things: first, he endured the parrot’s incessant squawking long enough to take its claims seriously (a feat requiring either immense patience or extraordinary naivety); second, he opened the cage door. While this may sound absurd, completing the task earned Black Aurora a reward: the ability to cast a level-one-hundred spell despite being far below the required level. That spell, as we now knew, was “Infernal Pyre.”

Under normal circumstances, casting such an advanced spell would’ve been impossible for our elven mage. The requirements were staggering: twenty times the usual casting time—a duration long enough for a frail mage to die multiple times over; zero tolerance for interruptions or movement during the incantation; and most outrageously, consuming 120% of his maximum mana pool. Unless he somehow bled magic from every pore, generating that extra 20% should’ve been inconceivable. Moreover, attempting to drink a mana potion mid-cast would’ve disrupted the entire process.

These prohibitive conditions meant Black Aurora had never actually witnessed the full power of the spell he theoretically possessed. One could imagine how frustrating that must’ve felt—akin to suffering from constipation: knowing you have something within you, yet unable to bring it forth.

But fate intervened. We happened to have Clado, a shaman-mage hybrid, whose Soul Totem restored mana without interrupting the casting process. With this crucial boost, Black Aurora’s pent-up reservoir of magic finally found release. Once unleashed, it surged forth like a dam breaking, turning the tide of battle in a spectacular reversal of fortune.

Regardless of how accurate our interpretation was, one undeniable truth remained: we were alive. And not only that—we’d leveled up. This miraculous reality alone left us marveling at the unpredictability of life and destiny. As we busied ourselves recovering our strength and preparing for whatever lay ahead, I kept my sword drawn and my eyes sharp, scanning the empty expanse of the Death God’s chamber for potential threats. Despite my vigilance, no attack came—not even a whisper of danger disturbed the eerie silence.

Meanwhile, Longbow Sunshot entertained himself by hunting down rats and bugs scurrying out from among the corpses. Swinging his staff like a madman, he gleefully smashed them flat while shouting, “Eradicate pests, leave no survivors!” Clearly, his insatiable bloodlust hadn’t abated.

Eventually, it was Long Triangle who broke the monotony of our aimless waiting. Investigating a statue of a Death Messenger, the orc rogue discovered a lever hidden in its mouth. Acting on instinct, he pulled it, revealing a chain concealed within. As he tugged repeatedly, a stone wall beneath the massive Death God sculpture began to rise with a grinding creak. When the lever finally locked into place against an iron ring embedded in the corner, the heavy gate fully retracted, unveiling a hidden circular chamber beyond.

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