Chapter 20: Betrayal (3)

A beastman clad in plate armor was bound to a cross.

He was one of the rebels under Maximilian, the former mercenary guild branch leader, allegedly plotting to overthrow the existing order and seize Mosul for themselves.

Of course, none among those gathered here truly believed that.

Shing… The King of Mosul drew the sword at his waist.

A purple aura, crackling like lightning, enveloped the blade.

“Ugh, ugh…!”

The beastman, weighed down by heavy armor and gagged, saw the purple-glowing sword descend on his left side with forcibly open eyes. His eyelids had been rigged to prevent closing.

A horrific scene. Despite being tightly bound, his agonized thrashing didn’t cease.

The smell of burning flesh soon filled the small banquet hall, his screams piercing the night sky.

Only after several demonstrations did the man’s struggles end.

Death. And a silence as heavy as death followed.

“…It works.”

“Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

Medeya bowed in respect.

Tolland, demonstrating the power of a swordmaster, observed the purple aura wrapping his sword without effort, unlike that first night.

The aura moved as he willed, precise to the millimeter.

It could thicken or thin to near-invisibility.

Wielding it felt effortless, like an extension of his body, not a mere weapon.

This is Hokhma’s blessing…

Serving a new god meant achieving what he once thought impossible.

That first night, when he awakened the aura, there were no mistakes like before.

Tolland didn’t rampage like a boy newly aware of his power.

The King of Mosul felt joy at reaching his lifelong goal under divine blessing, yet also a hollow emptiness.

So easy… Too long he’d been ignorant, unable to achieve it.

He even felt a flicker of anger toward the King of Bers for only now revealing this path.

“Enough. Leave. Do your duties.”

The steward Regart and the knights, who’d witnessed the king’s prowess, withdrew.

Since proclaiming himself king, Tolland’s demeanor had naturally shifted to that of a ruler. Perhaps he’d always had the makings of one.

Worries about the Emperor, who never summoned or interfered, had vanished from Tolland’s mind.

With Mosul as its base, his kingdom would flourish. The King of Bers had made an unbreakable promise to support him fully, sworn in Hokhma’s name.

Just as Tolland had once aided the King of Bers to his throne, now it was his turn to be helped.

“Congratulations on reaching such a realm, King of Mosul.”

“It wasn’t difficult.”

Conversations through the crystal orb were now unhindered.

Concerns about eavesdropping had long been resolved.

Medeya, more than a mere “gift” from the King of Bers, was exceptionally useful. Her skill in disrupting communication systems with Eden and nearby cities surpassed most mage tower wizards.

Previously, crystal communication with the King of Bers required complex preparations.

Now… Tolland thought of Medeya, likely performing some arcane ritual in his chambers.

She’s still useful. Until a replacement appears, I’ll let her be. Let that cunning snake think what she will. Use me as you please—I’ll use you just as much.

“Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention…”

“What is it?”

“I sent some people to your kingdom. We need a few sacrificial offerings too.”

“Why not tell me sooner?”

“Slipped my mind—court duties, you know. You won’t hold it against me, will you, King of Mosul?”

“…Fine. Name your number. Since you’ve helped, I’ll provide.”

“Haha, I knew you’d understand. I heard you’ve rounded up plenty of beastmen. I won’t ask for much—just half. No more, no less. That’ll do.”

“Agreed.”

The King of Bers, after idle chatter, slipped in his true intent when Tolland was weary, extracting reluctant agreement before cutting contact.

Tolland, watching the crystal orb, fell into thought.

As Medeya said, offering sacrifices had elevated him to the swordmaster realm again.

But what guaranteed it would last forever?

Would the sacrifices’ efficacy persist? What if the supply ran short?

He considered mastering the swordmaster’s power without divine aid, but knew his own mediocre talent.

If such a path were possible, he’d have achieved it long ago.

He summoned the witch.

“There’s a way.”

As expected.

Tolland listened eagerly to the new method she proposed.

***

“How could this happen…?”

Natalia, an ordinary priest of the Elon Sect, nearly felt her heart stop at the sight of Maximilian’s ravaged state.

It wasn’t just a figure of speech—her pounding heart took time to calm as she averted her eyes from the horror of human cruelty.

Elon, show me your will…

“How is he? Can he be healed?”

It was Priest Moriah.

Usually holed up in the city’s only library, rarely appearing at the sect, he was still a high priest with significant authority in Mosul.

In the past, he’d taught, standing before ordinary and apprentice priests like Natalia.

The memory of him basking in the adoring gazes of young female apprentices lingered vividly despite the years.

They plucked out his eyes while keeping him alive…

Then and now, Natalia couldn’t understand the man before her, her superior and mentor. Whenever he sought her, trouble followed.

She shook her head.

Her long, tawny hair, neatly tied, made her resemble a noble’s maid.

In truth, female priests in the sect weren’t much different from such maids.

Natalia knew well of priestesses treated as concubines for the sect’s higher-ups.

Fortunately, such cases were rare in Mosul.

I can’t read him.

Glancing at Moriah, who’d brought this near-corpse “old friend,” she examined the wounds.

Horrible.

It was a miracle he was alive.

She cleaned his filthy body and trickled lukewarm water into his mouth, but he didn’t seem alive.

His name… Maximilian, was it?

Moriah, stepping out briefly to fetch clothes and fresh bedding, returned with an armful.

Such care was extraordinary.

For a high priest responsible for Mosul’s Elon Sect to cherish someone so much?

A hunch struck Natalia—she had to save this “Maximilian” at all costs.

“It looks hopeless.”

In the face of possible and impossible, Natalia stood before the impossible again. Life never yielded easily when she wanted it most.

“Is that so…?”

“I’d appreciate honesty, Natalia. Can you tell me when my friend will return to Elon? I already suspect. I swear I won’t blame a capable devotee like you for this.”

He already knew…

Natalia disliked Moriah’s gaze.

More precisely, she hated his piercing eyes, as if seeing through every secret one might hide from parents, children, or lovers.

She couldn’t understand her peers who giggled and fawned to catch even a glimpse of his “kind” gaze during lessons.

Moriah hid his true nature.

His faith in Elon, his adherence to teachings—all lies.

Every moment he played the benevolent priest, Natalia knew he exhaled falsehoods as naturally as breathing.

Her ability to see through his true-like lies sparked an unprecedented reaction.

Moriah chose her as his successor, binding her with invisible chains of faith and obedience, making her a sacrificial lamb for the sect.

That her fellow priests couldn’t see Moriah’s deceit seemed unnatural to her—blindness, she once thought.

And that belief hadn’t changed.

“Miss Natalia, how long can my old friend endure?”

“…!”

Avoiding his gaze, she was caught off guard when he lowered himself to meet her eyes.

Elon’s golden eyes.

It felt like facing the golden gaze of Elon, the horned god of verdant forests, sending chills through her.

“A day… maybe past midnight if he’s lucky, but likely not…”

“I see.”

Even facing his friend’s impending death, Moriah maintained his usual calming expression.

“Let’s talk for a bit.”

“As you wish.”

“Don’t look so resentful, Natalia. I value your abilities, yet you shun me so… It hurts, even if I don’t show it.”

“Words from someone who wouldn’t bleed if pricked…”

“Haha, I like that about you. Honesty is rare. The hardest of the sect’s teachings to follow.”

“So, what do you want to say?”

“When you get older, tracing your past becomes life’s joy. You’ll understand when you’re my age.”

“Oh, is that so…”

Natalia sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat.

Moriah, cradling a hot teacup with his dying friend before him, seemed more terrifying to her than a soldier spilling blood.

“Priest Maximilian was my first disciple. A talented man, like you, Miss Natalia.”

Slurp… Natalia was glad she only pretended to sip her tea.

Otherwise, she’d have spat it out or scalded her mouth.

“Like you” and “talented” explained why Moriah gave her attention he withheld from others.

Oh, I see. That’s how it was…

Brother Maximilian.

She looked at the eyeless “old friend,” lamenting that this was their first and last meeting.

Elon…

Did Maximilian feel this way too?

Did he also find hearing Elon’s divine voice unsettling?

Now, she’d never know.

A living corpse who couldn’t speak or see couldn’t answer.

“Natalia, I want to hear Elon’s oracle.”

Moriah spoke. She nodded.

Setting down her teacup, she closed her eyes, slowly and carefully severing all external connections.

Before her, a peaceful, endless green meadow unfolded.

“My precious servant.”

Elon spoke.