Chapter 33: What are you here for~

On the church pew, Orlando pulled the hood of his linen cloak lower, covering most of his face.

“Wei.”

He lowered his voice.

“Are you sure this works?”

Wei sat next to him, also wearing a linen cloak, but a few tufts of white hair stuck out from under the hood, the ends a striking dark red in the dim church light.

She had her hands in her cloak pockets, legs crossed, sitting more arrogantly than she had in the café.

She clearly wasn’t here to pray.

“Shut up.”

“Want me to shove a bomb in your mouth?”

“……Fine.”

The church was mostly empty.

Several rows of candles flickered on the altar in front, their flames casting the stained-glass saints in shifting light and shadow.

A few scattered worshippers sat on the pews, some dozing with heads down, others murmuring prayers.

The air smelled of wax and old wood, warm and drowsy.

They sat for fifteen minutes.

Orlando’s eyelids started to droop.

Last night, he’d turned into Olivia and scarfed down carrots in the mess hall, then been scared half to death by Prunier when he got back to his room.

He hadn’t slept well at all.

Now, sitting in this warm church, drowsiness rose like a tide from his feet.

His head began to nod randomly.

Just as he was about to fall asleep completely.

The church door swung open.

The heavy oak door creaked, and light from outside flooded in, casting three long shadows on the floor.

The sound made Orlando’s drowsiness vanish instantly.

The first person through was someone in a black cloak—a Winter Night Church deacon.

The hood was pulled low, and where a face should be, only a slowly writhing black mist was visible.

It was the same as the one that had appeared at the lord’s manor earlier.

But Orlando wasn’t watching him.

He was watching the two people behind him.

Two men in Urske military uniforms.

Black wool caps pulled down to their eyebrows, the cap emblem bearing the Tsar’s double-headed eagle.

The black uniforms were cut precisely, with dark red trim on the collars and cuffs.

The lower halves of their faces were covered by black masks, leaving only gray eyes visible behind goggles.

The goggles reflected the candlelight, revealing nothing.

Short swords hung from their belts, sheaths black and unadorned.

The two Urske soldiers followed the deacon, their steps synchronized, sounding like a single person walking.

After entering the church, they paused at the door.

Their gazes swept the entire building—left to right, right to left.

Orlando pulled his hood down a little lower.

He ran through the situation in his mind.

A Winter Night Church member appearing in Rantesti City was strange enough.

But at least earlier, it could be explained as them looking for the ruins.

Now Urske soldiers were here too.

Regular army.

In uniform, armed, swaggering into a church inside the Eldron Empire.

Bringing military personnel on a diplomatic mission didn’t make sense.

Unless this wasn’t a diplomatic mission at all.

The deacon walked to the altar and murmured a few words to the priest.

The priest was a gaunt old man with sparse white hair and round glasses.

He nodded after hearing the deacon, then looked past him at Orlando and Wei sitting in the pews.

He walked over.

His footsteps scraped softly on the stone floor.

“You two.”

His voice was hoarse, with the kind of gentle but unyielding tone characteristic of clergy.

“Please leave.”

Wei looked up.

Under the hood, her red pupils fixed on the priest, and a smirk curled her lips.

“What’s wrong, Father?”

“You go ahead and talk.”

She leaned back against the pew, pulled her hands out of her pockets, and crossed them on her knees.

“We’ll pray. No need to disturb each other.”

The priest’s lips moved, but before he could speak—

A Urske soldier walked over.

His steps were heavy, boots striking the stone floor with the kind of uncompromising pressure typical of northern soldiers.

He stopped in front of Orlando and looked down at him.

Behind the goggles, his gray eyes swept from top to bottom—linen cloak, lowered head, indistinct face.

“You two.”

“Can’t understand orders? Why aren’t you leaving?”

Orlando didn’t move.

“We’re praying.”

He kept his voice as calm as possible.

The soldier reached out.

His hand was large, wearing a black leather glove with worn knuckles.

He grabbed the edge of Orlando’s hood and yanked it down.

The hood fell.

Orlando’s face was revealed in the candlelight.

Short brown hair, clean-shaven jaw, an adult male’s face.

The soldier stared at his face for a moment.

Then he withdrew his hand.

“I’ll ask again. Why aren’t you leaving?”

Orlando looked up at him.

Gray eyes behind the goggles.

A face covered by a mask.

The Tsar’s double-headed eagle on the uniform.

Then he glanced at Wei.

She sat beside him, legs crossed, hands folded on her knees.

Her red pupils were watching him.

Her lips were curled.

That smile meant—

“You know what to do.”

Orlando stood up.

He raised his right hand, fingers spread, and swung it in a full arc.

Smack.

The slap landed squarely on the soldier’s mask—not his face, since the mask covered it, but the spot between the goggles and the cap.

The leather glove and the fabric of the mask made a crisp, dull sound.

The soldier’s head jerked to the side, and his goggles went askew.

The church went silent.

The priest’s mouth hung open, eyes behind the round glasses wide as overcooked quail eggs.

The deacon turned, the black mist under his hood contracting sharply.

The other Urske soldier’s hand was already on his sword hilt.

The soldier who had been slapped slowly turned his head back.

The goggles were crooked, revealing a sliver of eye socket—pale skin, veins bulging.

His hand also went to his sword hilt.

Then Wei laughed.

“That’s more like it.”

She stood up from the pew, the linen cloak slipping from her shoulders.

When her right hand came out of her pocket, a throwing knife was wedged between her fingers.

The blade glinted in the candlelight.

Then she flicked her wrist.

The knife left her hand.

The soldier standing next to the deacon, whose hand was still on his hilt but hadn’t drawn yet—the knife flew in a straight line, the tip sinking into his throat.

Behind the goggles, the gray eyes went wide.

He opened his mouth, making a gurgling sound under his mask.

Then his knees hit the ground first, and he pitched forward, his forehead thudding against the stone floor with a dull sound.

The soldier who had been slapped drew his short sword.

The blade slid from the black sheath, glinting coldly in the candlelight.

He charged at Wei—his boots stepped past his fallen comrade, vaulting over his body, the short sword raised above his head.

But Orlando was faster.

He cut in from the side, his left hand locking onto the soldier’s sword-wielding wrist, his right hand grabbing the man’s arm and twisting him in the opposite direction.

Caught off balance by his own momentum, the soldier lost his footing, and the short sword slipped from his hand.

Orlando caught the hilt, reversed his grip, and ran the blade across the soldier’s throat.

A thin line.

The soldier clutched his throat and collapsed to his knees.

Under the mask, a hissing sound of air escaped, like a leaky bellows.

Then he pitched forward, his forehead hitting the stone floor, face to face with his comrade.

The deacon turned.

He bolted for the side door—the one leading to the back courtyard, which opened onto the street.

But Wei was already blocking his way.

She pulled the throwing knife from the fallen soldier’s throat, casually wiping the blood on his uniform.

White hair covered half her face, the dark red at the ends glowing under the candlelight like it had just flowed from a vein.

She looked up, red pupils fixed on the writhing black mist under the deacon’s hood.

“Yo.”

She twirled the knife between her fingers.

“Running where?”

The deacon stepped back.

Under the hood, the black mist surged violently, its edges constantly shifting shape—Winter Night Church people, their throats and faces likely no longer human.

Orlando came around from the other side.

He still held the short sword taken from the soldier, the blood on its blade still wet.

He and Wei flanked the deacon from left and right.

The deacon’s gaze—the mist—flickered between them.

“You.”

His voice came from within the black mist.

Low, hoarse, like sandpaper scraping metal.

“Do you know who you’ve killed?”

“Yeah.”

Wei tilted her head.

“Urske soldiers.”

She tossed the knife up and caught it.

“And a Winter Night Church deacon.”

The deacon was silent.

Orlando switched the short sword to his left hand and wiped the sweat from his palm on his pants.

“Not to be rude, but—”

“You Urske types crossed an entire continent to come south, brought soldiers into a church, and had the priest throw people out.”

He stared at the black mist.

“What exactly are you after?”

The deacon didn’t answer.

His gaze—the direction of the black mist—shifted to Orlando.

Under the hood, the mist churned faster.

“Who are you?”

He said.

“You answer me first.”

“You’re not in a position to ask questions.”

“Fine.”

Orlando tightened his grip on the short sword.

“Then I’ll ask differently.”

He took a step forward.

“You’re looking for the ruins, aren’t you?”

The deacon didn’t speak.

But Orlando knew he’d hit the mark.

The way the black mist contracted was more honest than any words.

Wei let out a soft laugh beside him.

“Give it up, rookie. Interrogation’s not your thing.”

She put the knife back in her pocket, then pulled a metal ball from her belt.

Fist-sized.

Pitted surface.

The fuse stuck out from the top, wound around her index finger.

“Let a professional handle it.”

She walked up to the deacon, looked up at the black mist.

Her red pupils curved into crescent moons.

“So what are you doing here?”

The deacon looked down at her.

Under the hood, the black mist writhed slowly, its edges extending a slender tendril before retracting.

“You think I’ll tell you?”

Wei tilted her head, white hair sliding across her eye.

She smiled—the kind of smile that sent a chill down the spine.

She held up the metal ball in front of the deacon, the fuse swinging gently between her fingers.

“You’ve got two choices.”

She raised one finger.

“First, I shove this thing straight into your mouth. Then you blow to pieces with your answers, and I’ll ask the next guy.”

She raised another finger.

“Second, you tell me where the ruins are. If I’m in a good mood, I’ll only blow off one leg.”

She paused.

“Your pick.”

The deacon was silent for a moment.

The black mist churned under his hood, its edges shifting shapes—as if struggling, or hesitating.

Then he let out a laugh.

From the depths of the mist came a low, metallic scraping sound.

“Little girl.”

“You have no idea what you’re messing with.”

Wei’s smile vanished.

She put the metal ball back in her pocket, then reached out, grabbed the deacon by the collar of his cloak, and yanked him down.

His face—the black mist—was pulled to eye level with her.

Her red pupils locked onto the writhing darkness.

“Messing with?”

She tilted her head.

“A demon?”

The black mist jolted violently.

“You think I’m afraid of that?”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“I’m not even afraid of myself. You think I’m scared of the thing you worship?”

Her hand released.

The deacon staggered back.

The black mist under his hood surged wildly, expanding outward at the edges—as if something was pushing from deep within.

“You——”

His voice changed.

No longer that low metal scraping, but something else—like something was crawling out of his throat.

The black mist poured from his hood, from the gaps in his cloak, from his entire body.

The mist spread across the stone floor, like a pool of living black water.

Orlando stepped back.

His silver dragon senses screamed.

Not the kind of scream that meant “danger,” but something more ancient.

The thing in that black mist—it wasn’t magic.

Not dragon breath.

Not any power he had ever seen.

It was deeper, colder, something that shouldn’t exist in this world.

Wei didn’t retreat.

She’d seen plenty on the battlefield.

She stood before the spreading black mist, her red pupils unblinking.

“Too bad.”

She said softly.

Then she pulled the knife from her belt.

Blade pointing down, she drove it into the deacon’s chest.

Black mist erupted from the wound, like puncturing a waterskin.

The deacon let out a hoarse gurgle—not a scream, more like a valve releasing pressure.

His body began to back away, stumbling toward the side door.

Just as he was about to escape, Wei didn’t give him the chance.

She pulled out the knife and stabbed again.

The deacon’s body finally gave out.

His knees buckled, and he fell backward.

The hood slipped off.

Black mist gushed from the collar like boiling water.

The mist spread across the floor.

Then it vanished, as if nothing had existed at all.