I Became the Martial God's Youngest Disciple

Charon’s home was the Sinking Swamp, one of the empire’s Forbidden Zones. It held the highest concentration of undead in the entire empire.

The swamp’s deadly reputation stemmed from an ancient kingdom that had fallen there long ago, but Charon cared little for history. What captured his attention were the undead wandering the swamp—some clad in lavish, expensive clothing.

The swamp stretched across more than 30% of the empire’s eastern territory. The authorities never sent purge forces to clear it for one simple reason: no one had discovered a way to eliminate the swamp completely for centuries.

The swamp was divided into three regions: the Outskirts, the Mirelands, and the Deep Fen. Contrary to popular belief, the Outskirts were not as perilous as the rumors claimed. The empire’s greatest ranger, Hyde Woodjack, kept his cabin there. Monsters and beasts prowled the area in abundance, fitting for a Forbidden Zone. This meant the creatures at the Outskirts possessed unusual strength.

Charon recalled the toughest and most grueling hunt of his life. He was twelve, and winter had settled in. His opponent was a crocodile known in the Outskirts as the Predator. Though smaller than an average crocodile, barely larger than young Charon, it made up for its size with cunning.

It would be a mistake to assume that small size meant weakness. In the swamp, where the law of the jungle ruled, the opposite was often true.

The Predator’s white scales and golden eyes marked it as different from others of its kind. Even now, the memory made the scar on the bridge of Charon’s nose throb. At that time, Charon’s condition could be described as grim: a shattered left forearm, open rib fractures, multiple bruises, heavy bleeding, and impaired judgment and cognition from prolonged sleep deprivation.

Charon had been at the age where most kids would cry even after a fall. Yet Charon’s eyes had only deepened with resolve. He had told himself he was still in better shape than his prey. After all, the Predator had lost its tail to one of Charon’s traps and lay on its side, its guts spilling from a gaping wound in its belly.

After four brutal days of combat, Charon had emerged victorious. This success had not come from any inherent human advantage but from the Predator’s nearly impossible endurance.

The decisive advantage was simple: Charon had prepared thoroughly. He had gathered detailed information on the Predator’s size, traits, and attack patterns. He had scouted its nest and set countless traps along its known routes. He had even built hidden shelters where no one could find him.

Because Charon had coated the Predator’s body with a scent during the first attack, he could track it relentlessly until the end. He had packed beef jerky to stave off hunger and water in a canteen to quench thirst. Pain offered no distraction or obstacle to him.

Things are better than back then, he thought, judging by his battered state. He bore a skull fracture, a crushed eyeball, and a dislocated left shoulder blade. None of these injuries were fatal enough to end him immediately. Despite being attacked indiscriminately, Charon’s remaining eye tracked Perist’s movements.

Did she dodge? No. It was a mistake on his part.

Charon bit his lip in frustration. He had moved too soon. As his injuries piled up, his mana and energy drained by the second. He’d been afraid that if he waited any longer, even a clean hit wouldn’t land if his condition worsened.

Maybe he should’ve been more patient. Should he have closed the distance slowly and waited for a clearer chance? Had he rushed in unprepared?

These are pointless thoughts. It was already over. Instead of dwelling on regret, Charon focused on the present. His sword had pierced Perist’s right shoulder, severing tendons with precision. She would no longer flail wildly like a pianist hammering the air.

He clung to that hope. He hoped her erratic behavior wasn’t just the result of drunken madness.

Hopefully, these bizarre gestures were the only way of issuing commands to the dolls. Losing an arm meant her control system was broken.

”Ha, haha... P-pain! Is this pain? It feels far more real than I imagined...!” Perist babbled, her face pale. She clutched her pierced shoulder, then raised her blood-soaked palm to her face. Soon, her features were smeared with blood, resembling someone who had committed a cannibalistic act.

Crazy woman... The moment Charon cursed inwardly, a wave of cold surged through the room. Seren had unleashed an ice storm.

Charon, who had been pinned under a doll and nearly beaten senseless, finally managed to rise.

Seren asked, ”Are you okay? I did my best to control the direction.”

”Sufficient,” Charon said, gritting his teeth as he slammed his dislocated shoulder back into place.

Seren clicked her tongue in disbelief. Did he not feel pain at all? Yet the way his brow twitched when the joint snapped into position said otherwise.

”Are you both alright?”

Evan appeared then. Though he looked the most overwhelmed, he was surprisingly in the best condition. He didn’t look too tired, let alone hurt.

”The dolls suddenly feel like a chaotic mess. I think it’s because Charon disabled one of her arms,” Evan said sheepishly, noticing Charon’s scrutinizing gaze.

Charon sighed, relief mixing with exhaustion. The odds had seemed fifty-fifty, but his guess had been correct.

Seren murmured coldly, ”The odds have tilted. Can the two of you still fight?”

Charon felt a bit of discomfort at Seren’s tone, but nodded. It was no time to argue. ”Of course.”

”Naturally.”

Seren nodded. ”Alright. I will hold back the dolls. That suits me best. Meanwhile, the two of you finish off the princess.”

There was no time for more talk.

With a sharp crack, the ice imprisoning the dolls burst apart all at once. Seren unleashed another wave of frigid air, and the cold bit into her silver hair, freezing the tips as it swept past.

Seren wondered how many times she had invoked the forgotten god’s blessing. She had lost count but knew only one or two uses remained. If she risked her life, she would likely manage to use it one more time.

Then three times at most, Seren thought, releasing the ice storm.

The chilling wave swept through the room, freezing the dolls that had just broken free once more. Watching them stiffen again, Seren suddenly realized her current weapon did not suit her power.

Ice and a rapier? Why had she chosen such an odd combination?

A large mace or even a simple club would have served her better. She needed a blunt instrument that could shatter frozen enemies.

She sighed. Why do such clear insights only come in the middle of battle?

Of course, if there had been no battlefield, she would never have considered how to kill efficiently. She would be a psychopath if she spent her daily life while thinking about how to kill people.

Seren couldn’t help laughing for some reason. Had the chill that froze her hair invaded her brain? She didn’t know the reason, but it didn’t really matter.

Seizing the opportunity Seren created, Charon and Evan burst into a sprint. For a heartbeat, it felt as if a smooth path stretched all the way to Perist.

It was a pity they could not fully shake off the chill. Their spines tingled and their movements slowed, but Seren’s blessing amazed them both. Freezing hundreds of enemies at once to halt their advance was a remarkable feat—even if they were merely dolls.

This means she can’t keep doing this forever. Charon read the limits of her power with sharp clarity. His eagle-like eyes locked onto the source of their troubles.

Perist slumped to the ground, blood seeping from her wound. Her once-neat hair was tangled, and her bright red eyes pierced through the curtain of dark strands.

A person’s expression revealed much, especially in a crisis. Despite the sizable wound on her shoulder, the helpless doll army, and two enemies closing in relentlessly, Perist’s gaze remained steady.

Therefore, Charon and Evan thought at the same time, She definitely has more in store.

Perist raised her uninjured left hand. Her pale fingers twitched as she whispered something under her breath.

Then, with a thunderous crash, the ceiling collapsed. Neither Charon nor Evan flinched, but as dust swirled, they caught a glimpse of a moving enemy and narrowed their eyes.

This doll... It was the articulated doll Perist had always carried—the one called Deathberry, or something close to that. Only now did they realize Perist’s whispered words had named this doll.

IIt looked a bit larger than before. If Perist hugged it now, it would be like holding a girl three or four years younger than herself. It wasn’t big enough to feel threatening, but Charon’s body tensed. Size didn’t matter; the Predator in the swamp had taught him that well.

Evan was horrified for a different reason. What is with this miasma?

The Young Dark Pope sensed something impossible. It sounded absurd, but the miasma swirling from the doll’s entire body was deeper and darker than all the other dolls combined. Despite the doll’s small size and lack of weapons, he could not let his guard down.

Despite this, Charon vanished in an instant beside him. When Evan finally registered what happened, Charon lay against the wall, his body in a miserable state. His sunken eyes made it clear the blow had knocked him out cold.

”What...” The word slipped out involuntarily. If the attack had targeted him instead, he would have crumpled like a battered squid just like Charon. He hadn’t felt a thing until Charon disappeared.

Evan’s tension only tightened. Desperately, he tracked every movement of Deathberry. Then a flash of silver caught his eye on the doll’s pale fingers.

Threads? Thin threads extended from Deathberry’s fingers, and one was stuck to his clothes.

Evan immediately tore off his shoulder guard and threw it aside. Immediately, his cloak snapped sharply to the right in midair.

Another silver thread shot toward him. Evan drew his sword and wondered for a moment if he should use his miasma. Then he steadied himself with a stern expression and responded with Raven.

Though it was dark, Evan did not miss the silver thread once he spotted it. The thread moved so fast that cutting it required exceptional sword skill.

It is doable, Evan thought confidently. He had trained in Raven for moments like this. Like a scavenger pecking at scraps, his swordsmanship was born from repeated failure and defeat others had dismissed. If he had to sum up this sword technique in one word, it would be tenacity.

His gaze followed the thread relentlessly as he swung his sword at the perfect moment. It was a flawless strike—impossible to improve upon. So it was no surprise when his body froze as the sword shattered like glass.

”What...” The unusual sight of a thread cutting through metal left Evan greatly dismayed. No matter how much training he had or the fact that he was a Young Dark Pope who had awakened the Memories of Evil, he was still just a sixteen-year-old boy. Talent and aptitude could not replace experience.

Bang!

Evan slammed into the wall.

Damn it. Just before slipping into unconsciousness, he wondered, Would things have gone differently if I had used my miasma from the start?