Chapter 435: Offensive

“Salvation Lord, such great swagger.”

With a sweep of his wide sleeve, the Pope took the supreme scepter into his hand. At the same time, the Sanctum roared; the sea of Holy Light surged upward swiftly. An unseen power sealed the sky above the Holy City. Ordinary people heard only that first thunderous boom, and then sacred chanting—they assumed a miracle had arrived early, and one after another they closed their eyes devoutly in prayer.

Once the cover was complete, the Pope looked expressionlessly toward the blood-colored great mirror—yet his gaze seemed to pierce through it, meeting from afar the eyes of some presence a thousand li away.

“I thought that after your last failure you would be a bit more honest. But what you’ve done still disappoints me so.”

The Pope rose slowly, and at once the sea of Holy Light heaved in ten-thousand-zhang waves:

“How many times do you intend to do such utterly meaningless things before you’re satisfied?”

“Satisfied? Heh-heh...”

From within the blood mirror came an aged voice:

“Your Holiness, the ‘satisfaction’ you speak of—do you mean that I, fully knowing the truth, should sit by and do nothing before the ending that approaches?

“Or do you mean I should let the Church—who knows everything yet drinks poison to quench its thirst for the sake of its station—lead the whole world to destruction?”

The voice sneered:

“Your Holiness, I am not as selfish as you.”

“Truth? Selfish?” The Pope answered with a cold laugh as well:

“How do you know the ‘truth’ you’ve seen is truth at all? In the end, you and I are but worms of this world. What we see and hear is only a corner of all things. Besides, with what you’ve done before, to hear the word ‘selfish’ from your mouth—such hypocrisy truly opens my eyes.”

“Seems neither of us can convince the other.”

Another gentle sigh came from the blood mirror.

“In the end, only by walking to the road’s end can we know who is right and who is wrong.”

“Why bother with false courtesies here.”

Said the Pope:

“I’ll personally set a gravestone for you at the road’s end, apostate.”

“Ha... I’m truly looking forward to it, Your Holiness. When that time comes, I hope you’ll grant me, as in the past, a cup of the Holy City’s finest spring tea. I have missed it dearly these years.”

Boom!

Over the Holy City, that blood-red great hand clenched again. In utter disregard for blaspheming the lofty deity above, it smashed down toward the radiantly shining Aimier Cathedral!

“Laughable.”

A majestic rebuke resounded. The merciful statue of the Goddess burst forth in immeasurable light and blocked the assault of the crimson hand.

At the same time, a holy cross descended from above, cutting through the sea of light.

Like a spear that judges the guilty, like a long nail that seals the darkness, the cross of Holy Light fell from the heavens and nailed fiercely into the blood-red hand.

Blood surged and turned to smoke and dust.

Flames rose and burned away sin.

The sinner’s wails were drowned beneath the sacred chant, and countless people sang the God’s great deeds!

Holy, holy!

In the name of the Goddess, purge the profane!

Countless pitch-black cracks crawled across the crimson hand. It trembled, as if it might collapse at any moment.

The figure within the blood mirror swayed slightly and let out a faint groan filled with pain.

“Sigh—”

Another sigh.

The figure’s gaze fell upon the still-incomplete blood mirror, filled with deep regret.

A meticulous plan, calculations long in the making—and yet, in the end, who knew where the error had crept in. The ancient relic he used to project his power was missing a vital piece.

No, not only missing—the one who held that ancient relic, the Fourth Seat who ought to have been crucial to the plan, had completely lost contact.

Most likely dead.

With him, perhaps there would have been room to try a little more.

Incomplete power could not shake His Holiness the Pope.

A pity.

...But not entirely a pity.

Because the plan’s setbacks were, from the start, within the plan.

In that case...

Creak.

The crimson hand suddenly flipped over, five fingers spreading. It pressed down against those searing crosses of Holy Light, forcing them, and cast a vast shadow upon the ground.

Then—stasis.

The blood that formed the great hand roiled at speed and, in an instant, precisely picked out a minute flaw—so small as to be negligible—as if it knew all of this intimately. Under the double seal of the grand barrier and the Sanctum, it forged yet another seal.

It was like a black umbrella hanging in midair, barring all that should not enter.

Its target was... the lone figure upon the Holy Carriage.

“Thirty seconds.”

He said:

“Kill her.”

And so, within the shadow, killing intent surged.

...

“This is the ‘little, no-threat terrorist group’ you were talking about?”

Muen, horrified, pointed up at the boss-level crimson giant hand overhead and roared at Lin:

“You call this ‘little’? ‘Terrorist group’? Isn’t this some super underground force on the verge of destroying the world coming to make trouble? Shouldn’t your Church update its rating system?!”

“This is merely a simple terrorist attack. At least to the Church, it’s nothing serious. Just do what you should do.”

Expressionless, Lin flipped up the hem of her nun’s habit, drew a sharp dagger, and struck true at a ferocious figure lunging from the shadows.

Huge-bodied, fanged and clawed, bristling with hair like steel needles—beastkinized.

And from those scarlet eyes, they had clearly been driven to full blood-frenzy by drugs, stripped of reason, turned into machines that knew only killing.

Muen had no time to admire the long legs beneath Lin’s habit. Blades flashed, his figure flickered, and amid flying blood, beastkin heads thumped to the ground one after another.

Even so, he had underestimated how many of these beastkin had crawled out from who knew where.

The enemy was clearly well prepared. In the instant that crimson giant hand sealed this place and cut off inside from out, a massive horde of monsters surged in like a tide.

For a short while Muen was encircled by beastkin. Even with time acceleration, he found himself a bit stretched thin.

Damn it!

How had these things been smuggled into the Holy City without a trace? Were the gatekeeping Knights eating for nothing?

Or...

Were there moles for the enemy inside the Holy City too?

Muen’s expression darkened. Conspiratorial as it seemed, that really was the best explanation for the situation.

The larger the organization, the less it could be a single iron plate. It was normal for fat rats to breed in the dark corners.

But after a brief thought, Muen quickly gathered up those messy threads.

Thinking about that did no good now, and ferreting out traitors for the Church wasn’t within his job description.

What mattered was that he had also heard what that aged voice said... thirty seconds.

He seemed able to hold out only thirty seconds. Within those thirty seconds the enemy would try to assassinate Liya, while on their side he needed to protect her for thirty seconds—long enough for the Church to break through the crimson hand’s seal.

It sounded extremely short. If he weren’t in an accelerated state, thirty seconds would pass in a mere blink.

But in a crisis like this, the slightest relaxation of a single second could send events spiraling beyond repair!

He had to hold them; he must not let these beastkin approach Liya’s Holy Carriage.

Yet what worried Muen now was not this horde’s numbers, but... what was hiding among them.

He didn’t believe the enemy, after such elaborate preparation to assassinate Liya, was relying on brainless beasts.

“Praise °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° the Goddess...”

Just then, while Muen was besieged by beastkin, a solemn hymn suddenly arose.

A sacred aura spread with the singing. Under the orderly chant, immaculate Holy Light swept forth; warm radiance blossomed from the ground like petals, as if it were the burgeoning vitality at the dawn of all things.

Yet that gentle warmth, in this moment, turned into a cold, pitiless rain of light, delivering icy punishment to the profaners without mercy.

The beastkin wailed and shrieked, nailed to the ground by the light-rain. They struggled feebly while their flesh was seared by Holy Light and their blood steamed away in the heat.

Feeling the pressure suddenly ease, Muen glanced back in surprise.

He saw, under Lin’s direction, the nuns and clergy who served as the Saintess’s ceremonial guard lifting their sacrificial sacred implements together and chanting the hymn in unison.

Holy brilliance rose from them like fireflies.

Right—Muen came to himself—those chosen to take part in the Saintess’s succession ceremony could hardly be mere ordinary nuns and clergy.

Though they looked as fresh and unblemished as flowers, they were in truth devout believers of the Goddess, graced by her favor and able to wield the power of Holy Light.

They had blocked the beastkin assault.

High Sister Lin stood at the center of the formation, leading the hymn. Unlike the earlier sharpness of flipping her skirt and flinging a knife, now she was bathed in Holy Light, appearing exceptionally serene and pure.

Perhaps noticing Muen’s gaze, Lin suddenly turned and looked at him.

The hymn continued; naturally she could not speak.

But her calm eyes alone let Muen understand her meaning.

Go to Her Highness the Saintess. She said.

“Heh, at the critical moment, not so stiff after all.”

Muen nodded with a smile, then, without hesitation, darted toward Liya’s Holy Carriage.

As the gauze veils drifted, he seemed to glimpse that anxious silhouette.

—Deeply worried about the development of events, yet, as the enemy’s target, afraid that any move might trigger unforeseen change, so she chose to watch for the moment.

Pure kindness, tempered by reason; she would not rush into foolish, self-righteous salvation. Very much Liya’s way.

Thinking that, the corner of Muen’s mouth lifted... Don’t be afraid. Your Knight is coming, right now, to—

But the instant Muen set foot on the Holy Carriage, his motion froze, and the curve at his lips slowly flattened.

He did not go to Liya’s side—though she was within arm’s reach—but abruptly turned toward the other side.

Amid the flying gore of beastkin, a figure wrapped in a wide black robe stood there at some unknown moment.

The hymn-chanting formation seemed not to have noticed him at all. The rain of judgment brushed past his side without causing the slightest harm.

“So you’ve finally come out, the true—hiss—”

A stabbing pain ripped through Muen’s head.

It was as if some terrifying force were trying to wrench his soul straight out of his body. Even Muen, long inured to pain, found it hard to bear.

The world suddenly shed its colors and turned a field of gray.

Only the black-robed one’s eyes—deep as black holes—were starkly clear in that gray vastness.

“This is... Illusion?”

Muen pressed his fingers to his temple; veins bulged on his forehead. “No—that’s... a mental attack!”

In agony that felt like it would tear everything apart, Muen braced himself against the Holy Carriage and forced his body upright.

Of course—thinking it through: to kill, in a short time, a Saintess who possessed Holy Light arts and the Church’s full technical support was indeed extremely hard on the level of flesh.

Even if you lopped off her head or pierced her heart, it might not kill her.

So they came up with a more direct method—erasure on the mental plane.

The mind is directly linked to the soul; the shattering of the mind means a maimed soul. Even with the Church’s power, for a soul already mutilated, there is no remedy.

Just like Brian before.

Therefore...

“Heh-heh... how dangerous. A moment’s carelessness and you might have succeeded.”

Though enduring searing pain, Muen suddenly laughed.

“Of course, that would be true—if I weren’t here.”

“But now...”

Muen slammed a fist down on the Holy Carriage, his expression turning solemn in an instant.

“I am here.”

“So...”

Creak.

Creak.

Within the fabricated mental space came a shrill sound of breaking.

The black-robed man looked up in shock—and met a pair of terrifying eyes.

Darker than his.

Deeper than his.

In the depths of those azure pupils, a black corona seemed to rise—turning with sovereign majesty, grinding all to dust.

Then it pronounced to him, cold and indifferent:

“Who do you think... you’re looking at?”