Chapter 86: The Curse Descends

Dimogorgon?

The entire squad looked confused upon hearing the name, yet an involuntary chill crept into their hearts. Still, none of them could recall anything about it.

Was this some mysterious figure, or perhaps the evil deity of a rising cult?

“Search failed. Maybe this person doesn’t exist? Perhaps it’s just some meaningless word,” the poet frog murmured. He had just tried both “Lore” and his knowledge skills in succession.

Zhao Xu frowned; his own check yielded the same result.

That name—he hadn’t heard it even during the legendary Demon Sealing War in his previous life.

But when he studied magic in the floating city, he had paid particular attention to matters of demons and devils. He had seen the name Dimogorgon—Lord of the Abyss, Demon Prince.

He recalled once asking Antinoia about it; she had scoffed, calling it nothing more than a schizophrenic two-headed baboon. Yet despite her mockery, she had still given him a few hints about Dimogorgon’s abilities.

Thinking of this, Zhao Xu took a deep breath.

Dimogorgon had followers in Arthur’s material plane, and those followers even wielded divine magic, though their power stemmed from the Abyss.

The Abyss housed some evil-aligned deities. According to Antinoia, Dimogorgon was a low-tier deity in the Abyssal pantheon—a demon lord, but formidable enough that even greater gods might not best him on his home turf.

Back then, Antinoia had been confident: if Dimogorgon ever dared set foot on the material plane, she’d kill him every time he came.

Why he could die and return again, Zhao Xu hadn’t pressed further.

If that was the case, then their quiet recitation of “Dimogorgon” might have drawn attention to their squad—like children’s fantasy tales, where speaking the “Dark Lord’s” name alerts him.

Zhao Xu wasn’t worried that Dimogorgon would bother assembling secret cults in Arthur to hunt them down; he feared the mine, or the dungeon ahead, might have some hidden contingency.

If noticed, those contingencies could be triggered.

After confirming nothing seemed amiss around them, the squad moved closer to inspect the altar.

“It’s an evil sigil,” Youyou said, gazing at the altar’s surface and pointing to the image of a forked tail.

At her words, the reassured mood faded, anxiety returning.

Dealing with evil gods was manageable—it was a matter of choice—but the Abyss and Hell, those stains never wash away.

“Should we destroy it?” Roy asked, encountering such a situation for the first time.

Usually, in town, they’d call upon priests of the true gods to handle this—a good way to earn favor. But here, far from civilization, all they could do was report it afterward.

“All right.” The room’s blood-red inscription had already unsettled Maple Leaf; he was itching to vent his anger.

He hefted his greatsword, about to strike the altar.

“Wait,” Zhao Xu called quickly. “Let’s check for traps first.”

Maple Leaf stepped back, heeding the warning. He hadn’t yet encountered dungeon traps, but their notorious reputation on the forums was enough—countless players had fallen victim.

“Right. Hill, you check,” Roy said, realizing the oppressive atmosphere had clouded his initial judgment.

Hill and the player Rainbow went up to search for traps around the altar.

Searching wasn’t a specialized skill; anyone of normal intellect could attempt it. Only Rogues, however, had the professional ability to detect high-difficulty traps.

After a thorough check, both shook their heads—they’d found nothing.

“Let’s spread out a bit,” Zhao Xu said, cautioning further.

“Listen to Midsummer,” Roy instructed.

The others retreated several meters, leaving Maple Leaf and Roy at the altar.

Roy stood ready with shield, prepared to block any arrows that might shoot forth.

Maple Leaf took a deep breath, raised his greatsword, and brought it down on the altar.

Bang.

The altar, abandoned for decades or perhaps centuries, broke with a single blow.

“Ah—!”

As the altar split, a flash of yellow light erupted, and Maple Leaf let out a cry of pain.

“Maple Leaf, what happened?” Rainbow rushed to his side, pulling the kneeling Maple Leaf back.

The once-stalwart fighter was now sweating, gasping, “My Constitution score dropped by six points.”

“Cursed?” Zhao Xu immediately deduced.

The group exchanged uneasy glances; even Roy, shield at the ready, took a few steps back.

It was as though the shattered altar was grinning at them.

“Maple Leaf?” Youyou hurried over to examine him—she was the only one present with medical skills.

Hearing “six points,” Zhao Xu understood what had happened.

The only relief was that Maple Leaf had merely suffered an attribute loss.

“How many points do you have left?” Zhao Xu crouched down.

“Only eight. I had fourteen before; now my Constitution modifier is minus one,” Maple Leaf explained between breaths.

Lowered Constitution directly reduced Maple Leaf’s hit points.

“Don’t worry, Maple Leaf. Like with the wraiths before, your attributes will recover,” Youyou comforted him.

Zhao Xu shook his head. “This is likely a bestow curse.”

Everyone looked to him. Roy, the highest level among them, suddenly had a bad feeling.

“Bestow curse is a third-level cleric spell and a fourth-level arcane spell. It has three effects; one is reducing an attribute by six points,” Zhao Xu explained. “The altar probably had a curse-type magical trap, triggered when Maple Leaf struck it.”

No one expected the altar to hold such a contingency.

That’s the trouble with magical traps—they can last for a hundred years without issue, unlike mundane traps that decay with time.

Zhao Xu examined the broken altar, noting nothing obvious on the wall behind it.

Still, he was certain something was off; people don’t set traps in altars without reason.

“If it’s bestow curse, the effect is permanent,” Youyou said, pale-faced.

Her words stunned everyone.

Losing six Constitution permanently—one might as well delete their character and start anew.

Only Maple Leaf’s warrior class, with a full D10 hit die at level one, could endure it.

If a wizard with ten Constitution and a D4 hit die suffered this, their HP would drop to one—falling with a mere touch.

Zhao Xu looked at the magical trap beneath the altar, knowing it was time to use his most basic trump card—

That item he’d pulled out when facing the druid, then tucked away again.