I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World
Chapter 136: The Quest Part 1

Chapter 136: The Quest Part 1

"We go deeper."

The words hung in the air like a silent decree, dampened only by the thick, humid stillness of the swamp.

Inigo wiped a smear of blood off his cheek and looked ahead—where the murky water narrowed into a shaded, unnatural passage. Thick reeds lined either side, rising like a tunnel of green spears. Beyond that, the terrain rose slightly, and what appeared to be black stone poked through the bog. Not natural rock. Carved. Shaped.

A temple.

"Eyes sharp," Inigo said. "This is their nest."

The team reorganized quickly. Sark and Hal led the front, blades drawn, their boots squelching in the mud. Feron stayed behind them with a hand-axe and his utility pouch, ready to deal with traps. Lyra took rear guard, while Meryl, Brenna, and Lio covered the flanks, all weapons loaded and silent.

They moved slowly now—through brackish water that rose to their waists, around trees twisted like tortured limbs. The sunlight barely pierced the canopy here. Everything stank of rot and decay, yet something in the air felt... charged. Magical. The hairs on their arms stood up.

Meryl, whispering: "This place is wrong."

"No talking," Lyra replied firmly.

Still, she couldn’t deny it. The trees looked sick, but not just from disease—warped, as if they’d grown under a curse. Some leaned toward the temple like worshippers kneeling. The vines were no longer just vines. Some pulsed. Others bled when brushed.

It took them half an hour to reach the outskirts of the structure.

The temple itself emerged from the swamp like a ruin drowned in time—black stone, covered in moss and glowing with faint green veins. Crude totems surrounded the exterior: bones lashed together, hanging scales, and writhing carvings of serpents etched into the pillars.

Feron murmured, "We sure this wasn’t here before?"

Inigo ignored the question. "Lio. Eyes up."

Lio climbed one of the nearby roots, balancing like a cat as he pulled out his compact scope. He scanned the visible portion of the temple.

"No sentries," he said. "But... there’s movement. Shadows inside. Something’s watching us."

Lyra nodded. "Then let’s not keep them waiting."

They moved in, stepping carefully across the crumbling stone platform that ringed the temple’s base. Feron disabled two traps immediately—pressure plates linked to concealed spear pits. Whoever had built this place didn’t expect survivors to come knocking.

Inside, the air changed again.

No longer humid—it was cold.

The main chamber stretched high into a dome of woven stone and root. The floor sloped downward toward a dark pool in the center, where a glowing statue stood—half-serpent, half-woman, carved in obsidian. Coils wrapped around her base like a throne. Crystals pulsed around the edges, providing a sickly green light. All around, smaller shrines bled old blood and bone dust.

Brenna whispered, "This place is... it’s feeding on something."

"Inigo," Lyra said. "Smell that?"

He did. Burnt incense. Magic.

Then—clatter.

From the side chambers, shapes stirred. Lizardmen stepped into view, slower than before, heads low, eyes glowing faintly green. Their skin was decaying—corrupted.

"They’re not alive," Hal muttered. "Or... not entirely."

Inigo raised a fist. "Positions!"

The team snapped into their practiced triangle: heavy at the front, skirmishers to the sides, fire support at the rear.

Meryl opened fire first.

Her SAW barked three bursts into the first undead Lizardman. It staggered but kept walking, limbs dragging like a puppet.

"Shoot the head or the heart!" Inigo shouted.

Brenna loosed a vial—holy oil she’d crafted—onto another. It burst into flame, and the creature shrieked, crumpling into ash.

Sark charged the one that got too close, his hammer cracking bone and scale with a single upward swing.

But for every one that fell, another came.

From the shadows, Naga acolytes slithered into the room—three of them. These weren’t fighters. They were chanting. Building something.

A spell.

Inigo pivoted. "Lyra! Suppress them!"

She was already drawing, loosing two arrows in rapid succession. One struck an acolyte’s throat, the other clipped a spell crystal. The chant faltered.

Lio darted through the columns, tossing alchemical dust into another’s face. It hissed and fell back, clutching at its eyes.

For several tense minutes, the battle waged in confined chaos—stone echoing with cries, bullets, steel, and shattered scales.

Then—

Silence.

Only the crackle of fire and the soft drip of blood remained.

They stood, surrounded by corpses, half-lit by the unnatural glow of the temple.

"We’re close," Lyra said. "This was a guard post."

Inigo agreed. He stepped toward the dark pool at the center, his boots splashing as he approached the statue. At its base, an offering bowl lay—filled with rotting meat, snake fangs, and fresh eyes.

And next to it—footprints.

Large ones.

"Back into formation," he said. "This was just the threshold."

Sark wiped his blade. "You think the high priestess is deeper in?"

Inigo nodded grimly. "There’s a stairwell under this platform. It descends. Likely to the heart of the temple."

Hal knelt to examine the floor. "Yeah. There’s dried blood leading down. Something—or someone—was dragged."

"We move in two," Lyra said. "Quick drink. Reload. Regroup."

They obeyed.

Brenna distributed water flasks and handed out her remaining oil bombs. Feron replaced the fuses on his smokes. Meryl reloaded her belt. Lio passed a faint smile to Hal, who looked pale but steady.

Inigo drank, then looked at each of them.

"This next fight isn’t just a battle," he said. "It’s the real test. I don’t care how strong the enemy is—if we stay calm, work together, and move as one... we win. We always win."

A moment of stillness.

Then nods.

Weapons were checked.

Belts tightened.

And together, they turned toward the stairwell that led into the bowels of the temple—toward the priestess and whatever horror waited beneath.

Their feet thudded against worn stone steps, each one deeper than the last. Torches hissed in the gloom. The air grew colder.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Whatever waited below had been the source all along—the origin of the plague, the twisted curse, the reason this place pulsed with death.

And they would end it.