High School of Demon Hunting

Chapter 1603: Chapter 347: Fall of the Fishman

As an ancient magical creature, the fishman possesses both the wizard’s acute sensitivity to magic power and the beast’s innate instinct for danger. So when the shadow of the Black Mountain Goat fell into Professor Garcia’s gaze, the scales on its arms and the dorsal fin under its robe felt a tremendous fear before its mind could react.

Its scales stood upright, its dorsal fin braced, and the old fishman momentarily forgot to breathe.

At that moment.

Crack, crack, crack.

Several totems that had been worshipped by the Lake Bell Fishman Tribe for countless years emitted ominous cracking sounds. The lingering spirits in the totemic objects were issuing warnings to the devout followers.

Professor Garcia struggled to turn its neck, looking at the nearest piece of turtle shell, upon which crude strokes depicted scenes of fishmen battling Krakens—this was the strongest totem of the tribe.

But at this moment, a faint, dark red flame was rising from the turtle shell, slowly burning in the pitch-black icy lake water. Above the flame, slender, jumping tentacles could faintly be seen, chaotically flailing in all directions.

An indistinct wailing from the totemic spirit echoed faintly within the flames.

The elder priest, carrying the turtle shell, rolled its eyes back, its face twisted in pain, and its scales bristled, fish fins quivering uncontrollably. This state lasted only briefly before the slender tentacles above the flames merged together into the shape of a shadowy hand, lightly stroking the turtle shell and the elder priest’s body, soothing its raised scales back into submission.

Professor Garcia’s face was filled with terror.

In its ears, a chaotic and tumultuous prayer filled the air. The elderly professor could confirm that it didn’t know the language in which these prayers were voiced, but terrifyingly, it could fully comprehend their meaning:

”l’ebumna syha’h n’ghft” (In the eternity and darkness of the abyss)

”Ya na kadishtu nilgh’ri” (I know nothing)

”Y’ai ’ng’ngah” (I call upon Him)

”stell’bsna Shub-Niggurath” (I implore the Goddess of Dark Harvest)

”NIGGURATH!” (Supreme Mother, the Mountain Goat of the Forest who spawns countless offspring)

The dark red flames danced and flickered, weaving line by line of strange, otherworldly inscriptions. Professor Garcia suddenly realized that these were likely the very prayers being sung by those voices.

The hymns were majestic and grand, the prayers tranquil and benevolent, yet their tone was paradoxical—what the ears heard and what the eyes saw presented two extremes. Before him, the dark red flames and slender tentacles birthed infinite terror, grief, despair, madness, and even deathly silence, resembling the deepest layers of Hell itself. Faintly visible amidst the horrifying scene were countless corpses of divine spirits, rising and falling.

”NIGGURATH!”

Nicolas!

”NIGGURATH!”

Nicolas!

The old fishman knew this name; it belonged to a very ancient and immensely powerful being in the depths of the starry sky, far surpassing even the two vice chancellors of the First University.

But precisely because of its immense power, this ancient being, along with other wanderers of the starry sky’s depths akin to Him, has been made taboo by the Mage Alliance, labeled as the Elder Gods. Any wizard who chants their true names risks being seized by Danghag’s law enforcement team and locked away in the deepest recesses of the Black Prison.

For any wizard who praises their true names or gazes upon their forms will inevitably and uncontrollably be twisted into fanatic followers.

”NIGGURATH!”

Nicolas!

”NIGGURATH!”

Nicolas!

The priests carrying the tribe’s totems, being those who frequently communicate with divine spirits, were the first to succumb to that overwhelming power, kneeling amid the murky silt, rasping and loudly chanting the true name of the Mountain Goat of the Forest who spawns countless offspring.

Next were some of the tribe’s radical fishmen, whose minds were obsessed with breaking the binds wizards had placed upon their fishman kin, willing to use any forbidden power. Upon encountering the greatness of the Elder God, they submitted without resistance, yielding to the darkness and the dark red flames.

”NIGGURATH!”

”Boom!”

”Ding ding ding!!”

The tribe’s elder and Professor Garcia simultaneously slammed their magic wands heavily, activating the enchantments hidden within their wand tips.

The elder’s wand tip emitted a crisp sound from its silver ring, awakening many elders whose minds had slipped into chaos.

Professor Garcia’s wand-tip octopus leapt from the top of the wand, its tentacles twisting in the frigid lake water, performing a mysterious dance used in rituals, releasing bubble after bubble. Inside the bubbles were translucent seals, rising and drifting, surging toward the priests carrying the totems—the old fishman dared not act against the Black Mountain Goat but sought to rescue its own kin.

Slender tentacles stretched forth from the dark red flames, capturing the seals within the shadows without causing the slightest ripple.

”Run!”

The tribe’s elder fishman’s whiskers swayed as it turned its back to Professor Garcia, rasping in a low voice: ”Take them ashore! Seek shelter from the school!!”

”Run!!”

As elders of the tribe, long past their days of boiling blood, Professor Garcia and the other old fishmen, like the elder, understood what mattered most at the moment.

They all bowed deeply toward the elder.

If those who had already fallen could not be saved, then those yet to succumb must be protected. Professor Garcia flicked its wand, conjuring a stream of water that wrapped around Iseni and several other younger fishmen who were somewhat dazed but retained a bit of clarity in their eyes, propelling them like arrows into the depths of the tribe.

A series of fierce magic fluctuations erupted behind them.

The old fishman couldn’t resist glancing back.

The elder had already used its wand to shatter every totem carried by the priests and had simultaneously enchanted to snap the necks of every fishman lost in the chorus of prayers. Its body radiated radiant blue light as it charged toward the followers of Nicolas.

The deceased fishmen spread their arms and sank slowly into the water.

The Black Mountain Goat tilted its head, revealing the half of its face charred and aflame. Even from a distance, the dark red muscles and intertwining blood vessels of the goat’s face were vividly etched into Professor Garcia’s mind—

The massive goat eye, devoid of eyelids, resembling a bulb glowing with endless ghostly light, stared fixedly toward the cluster of blue light surging in its direction with what appeared to be a trace of curiosity.

The old fishman had never thought that even a divine spirit would harbor curiosity toward ants.

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In Professor Garcia’s eyes, the Black Mountain Goat did not realize the extent of destruction its presence had unleashed upon this insignificant, conservative fishman tribe.

In truth, it had no intention of understanding.

Because at this moment, it had more crucial matters to attend to.

In the Forest Goods Market in the northern district of Beta Town, when the Black Mountain Goat first laid eyes upon those robed wizards and saw the strangely vague threads of destiny entwining them, juxtaposed against the immense and oppositional Power of Destiny, it immediately recognized that these wizards were beyond its ability to resist.

Indeed, the wizards were profoundly weak, seeming fragile enough to be blown away by a sneeze.

But the power hidden beneath those black robes was as vast as galaxies, capable of distorting time and causality with ease. If it did not wish to be entirely expelled from this world, it needed to find a sufficiently safe haven before this power descended upon it.