Chapter 53: TRAITOR OF HUMANITY

Lightning God walked across the ocean’s bed with an air of calm control, each step measured, unhurried. Though countless tons of seawater pressed from every direction, he radiated his own force — a subtle but unyielding divine pressure — that parted the weight from him like an invisible shield. Not a single ripple disturbed his pace.

His expression was steady, but somewhere behind the cold gleam of his eyes was a faint thread of worry. As a demigod, he had no need for air; his body had long since begun its transition from mortal to divine. The crushing depths, the absence of light, the eerie quiet — none of it hindered him.

"Geralt," a voice echoed through the still water.

He turned toward the sound.

Perched atop a colossal arch half-buried in the seafloor sat a young woman whose beauty was as chilling as it was strange. Her skin was porcelain-white, but dark veins crawled beneath it like cracks in fragile glass. Her eyes, sharp and ancient, studied him without warmth.

"What exactly are you doing here?" she asked, her tone cutting through the silence like the edge of a blade.

"Hah... not used to hearing my first name," Geralt replied, a faint smile curling his lips. "It would be nice if you called me Lightning God like everyone else does."

"Don’t be stupid," she said flatly. "You’re not deserving of the title ’god.’ Just a lizard pretending to be a dragon."

Her words struck without hesitation, without care for whether they bruised his pride.

Geralt chuckled lightly, though his gaze sharpened. "First you insult me, then—"

"Did you find the key?" she interrupted, appearing beside him before he’d even finished the sentence. She moved so swiftly that the water itself seemed not to notice.

He didn’t startle, but the slight pause before he answered betrayed that her sudden approach had caught him off guard. "Classic Medieval," he said. "First, you talk down to me. Then, you remind me why you can get away with it — by showing just a sliver of your strength."

Medieval’s lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "Hmm? You seem upset. I like that. Maybe it’ll stop you from coming here again. Stay in your own little world where you can play god however you like."

"Yeah... don’t think so, my dear. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do." Geralt’s smile returned, sharper this time, as he strode toward the arch.

Passing beneath it should have brought him to the other side — but instead, reality shifted. The seafloor, the water, even the faint traces of light vanished. He stood in a place of absolute blackness, a void where no shadow could exist because there was no light to cast it.

"What?" Medieval’s voice floated from the dark. "You’re not going to try and brighten the place with your lightning?"

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. "Give it a rest, Medieval. That was only the first time."

The memory came unbidden. His first time here, he’d done exactly that — conjured lightning to illuminate the abyss. But the darkness was no mere absence of light. It had swallowed his lightning in an instant, hungrier than any beast, and then, as if emboldened, it had begun to drain the very power from his body. He would have been consumed entirely if Medieval hadn’t intervened.

She seemed to recall it too, her tone edged with lingering regret. "I should have left you to die. If I’d known you were just a manipulative, self-serving bastard..."

"Yeah, you should have," he said with a faint smirk. "I’ve heard it a thousand times. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

Geralt let instinct guide him, each step carrying him deeper until the darkness took shape. From the void emerged a colossal throne of black stone, jagged and imposing, radiating a presence so overwhelming it bent the very air — or whatever passed for it here. Around it stood countless Abyssal beings, their forms twisted, some monstrous, others eerily human.

Upon the throne sat a figure cloaked in shadow, his features concealed, his authority undeniable. Even Geralt, prideful as he was, knelt immediately.

"My lord," he said, voice low with reverence. The man before him was the God of the Abyss — the strongest being in this realm, the creator of gods themselves, a force capable of annihilating Blue Star with a single strike.

The god’s ambition was boundless: control, domination, the universe itself. Yet the rules of the dungeon bound him here, unable to leave without a certain key — a key stolen by two meddling demigods, the Highborns, before he had even awakened. Their theft was a wound that had never healed.

"Geralt," the god’s voice was calm, but it carried the weight of mountains. "What news do you bring me?"

"Forgive me, my lord," Geralt said, bowing his head lower. "I have yet to find it. But I believe it lies with their son. It is only a matter of time before I confirm this."

"Then take it from him, by any means necessary. I do not tolerate failure."

"Of course, my lord. But..." Geralt hesitated, carefully choosing his words. "His parents’ names and fame protect him well. To act openly would draw suspicion from others, as you instructed me to avoid. I will need to proceed... discreetly."

A pause. Then, "Very well. But do not fail, Geralt. Disappoint me, and your end will not be one you can imagine."

"I will not fail you, my lord."

The god lifted a single finger and pointed at him.

A foreign force surged into Geralt’s body, raw and violent. It tore through him like wildfire, demanding a scream — but he bit it back, his jaw clenched, body rigid. This pain was a price, and he would pay it gladly.

"That is enough for now," the god said. "Bring results, and I will grant you your wish — I will make you a god. Remember who gave you your strength... and who can take it away."

"Thank you, my lord," Geralt said, bowing once more before withdrawing.

---

Back at the arch, Medieval sat where she had been before, legs folded beneath her, watching him approach.

"Your strength has increased again, huh?" she said, her voice dry. "What a bummer."

Geralt smiled faintly, black lightning crackling around him like a living thing. "And you don’t seem happy about it, Medieval. Why is that?"

"Don’t show off in front of me, boy," she replied, rolling her eyes. "I became a god with my own strength. And I did it faster than you did with someone else’s help."

"That’s not an answer to my question."

"As if you don’t already know, you annoying bastard."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I do."

Her gaze hardened. "An Abyssal being that doesn’t want to dominate others... That’s what I am. I won’t do to humans what was done to us. I grow stronger for revenge, not for conquest. That’s how I’ll live until my last breath."

She turned away, her voice colder now. "So leave, traitor. You’ve become something like him — a puppet, a betrayer of your own kind."

Geralt’s smile lingered, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.