Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai

Chapter 92

Nick forced his breath into the Stalking Gait to keep his composure—it wouldn't do to let the fae frighten him into recklessness. His senses stretched outward, feeling for the slightest disturbance in the air, the faintest pulse of magic that might reveal the entity that had taken the sword.

Unfortunately, he found nothing. No matter how hard he forced himself to sift through the static created by the tiny particles of air in the ground, they disclosed nothing about where the creature had gone. It was as if it had never been there at all.

One major disadvantage of being the attackers this time is that they possess far better knowledge of the terrain. This is clearly fae magic, but I would find it difficult to track it even if it were a regular spell. I just don't know where to

The brook was real. The water was moving, rippling, carrying tiny leaves downstream. It wasn't an illusion. But something else was wrong.

Nick glanced at the men around him—and his stomach dropped.

They were walking straight toward it, as if they couldn't see it. None of them hesitated, not even Eugene. Their expressions were blank, and their eyes unfocused.

A ding echoed in his mind.

[Blasphemy] is protecting your mind from an ongoing mental attack.

[Blasphemy] is protecting your mind from the effects of a Domain.

Nick's breath hitched as he realized they had finally reached the dungeon.

He could see it now. The thin mist he'd sensed before was present here too, though surprisingly hard to notice in the sparse light. He was so preoccupied with sudden attacks that he hadn't even noticed when the ambient mana started to gradually change, and now they were in the thick of it.

"STOP!" Nick yelled. His voice rang through the trees, sharp as a whip crack.

Nothing happened. The men kept walking.

Nick chose to abandon subtlety since he had no time for it. He lifted his wand and unleashed a powerful shockwave of wind.

The blast rippled through the group, breaking their momentum and sending several men roughly on their asses.

Eugene blinked, coming to an abrupt stop. Others staggered, as if suddenly awakening from a dream. The priests were the first to shake off the compulsion and begin praying, though it didn't seem to accomplish much beyond calming them.

Nick didn't waste time weaving a wind current around those who had yet to wake, dragging them back. "Away from the water! Now!"

Eugene's expression darkened as he realized what had happened. He grabbed the nearest soldier and pulled him back, seeming to need just a little help to break free.

The others needed more support, and Nick provided it, holding some of them upright as their minds battled against the foreign intrusion, while others only needed a second shock to shake it off completely.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then finally, Eugene turned to Nick. His face was pale, and he appeared shaken by what had nearly happened. "That was almost bad."

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Nick nodded, exhaling shakily. "Yeah. It was." No one argued this time, as they all knew just how close they had come to falling in a trap.

Unfortunately, they weren't given any more time, as the brook started to churn.

The waters twisted and roiled, as if boiling from within, frothing and crashing against the banks in a wild, unnatural turbulence. The rhythmic trickle of water had vanished, replaced by an ominous gurgling.

Nick barely had time to pull the last soldier away before they began to rise.

Figures crawled from the depths, pulling themselves up the banks in grotesque silence.

Their bodies were molded from strands of dark seaweed and sandy clay, twisted into human forms. Their movements were jerky and wrong, as if something was trying to mimic the motions of men but failing just slightly.

And then Nick noticed that they weren't just humanoid. They were them.

Each warrior, each adventurer, even the priests—every single one apart from Nick himself had a distorted twin stepping onto dry land, its shape molded into a warped mockery of their own.

Eugene's eyes flickered across the creatures before his jaw set. "Another trick. They think they can rattle us."

With a single swing of his sword, flames burst forth in a scorching arc of fire that roared from the blade.

The attack instantly obliterated two of the clay creatures, their bodies cracking and collapsing into steaming puddles. The water behind them hissed and bubbled, rising in a thick cloud of vapor.

Still, despite the unusual nature of the enemy, these were skilled fighters. The adventurers reacted first, immediately closing in before the creatures could build any momentum.

A heavily armored warrior with a spiked mace slammed his weapon down onto his twin's head. The clay mockery crumpled at the impact, its torso folding in on itself, but it didn't die—it simply writhed, trying to reform.

Another adventurer, dual-wielding curved knives, hacked into his double's limbs. The movements were crude, vicious, and most of all, effective. They were not scions of storied martial houses, but they had built a powerful arsenal of skills, and they wouldn't be defeated by mere illusions and golems.

The soldiers went next, operating like a well-oiled machine. Three men engaged a single foe, interlocking their shields to corral their enemy into position before a fourth thrust a glowing spear through its chest. The clay creature shuddered, but it didn't fall immediately. Its form shifted as if trying to repair itself.

The soldiers didn't let it. The moment it faltered, their swords came down together, cleaving it apart.

The rangers at the rear were already firing. Enhanced arrows, tipped with flame and piercing magic, streaked through the battlefield. Each shot tore through the clay creatures, whose bodies reacted poorly to the enchanted projectiles.

The priests added to the chaos, raising their hands and unleashing bursts of holy fire. The flames latched onto the creatures like oil, burning hotter than they should have.

Nick stretched his senses wide with [Wind God's Third Eye]. He felt it all: every movement, every shift in battle, every cry of exertion or pain.

The moment someone was at risk of being overwhelmed, he was there to help. A twist of his wand, and a roaring [Wind Burst] crashed into a clay monster that had nearly blindsided a distracted archer.

Another flick of his wrist—and a second blast intercepted a struggling swordsman's copy, sending it tumbling into a priest's waiting flames.

Nick's mind throbbed in warning, but he ignored it. This was what he was meant to do.

His father was moving now, carving a path of destruction toward his own copy. It was bigger than the others—taller, denser, and stronger. Where the lesser creatures shuddered under flame and steel, this one advanced undeterred.

It swung a heavy clay fist, and Eugene barely dodged in time, rolling under the blow before bringing his sword up in a scalding arc.

Flames bit into the thing's torso— but unlike its kin, it didn't react.

Eugene narrowed his eyes, evidently taking it as a challenge.

A thrust to the ribs—nothing. A slash across the throat—nothing. A downward strike to the skull—the head cracked, but the creature didn't falter.

Nick clenched his teeth. It was tanking blows that should have ended it, and with how quickly they were moving, he couldn't find an opportunity to help his father. Then, with great speed, it lashed out.

Eugene barely blocked in time. The impact sent him skidding backward, boots dragging furrows in the damp earth.

He adjusted his grip, pumping more power into his blade, which flared brighter, hotter. "Let's see how much heat you can take. I'll cook you like a pot."

With a burst of speed that eclipsed what he'd shown so far, he closed the distance and drove his sword deep into the monster's chest.

For a moment, Nick thought it would be enough. The same attack had taken down a fae, after all, and the dryad hadn't been able to endure it for even a moment.

The clay creature shuddered, then melted. Its body collapsed into a flood of shifting mud, sloshing and reforming before Eugene like living tar.

Nick's breath hitched. No.

Eugene barely had time to react before the mud wrapped around his arms, his chest, and his throat.

Nick saw his father's eyes widen—And then the clay consumed him.