The guards were still trembling on the floor, unable to steady themselves, while Jacob remained upright, his eyes moving slowly from one priest to another as though he were weighing them, searching for some sign of intent, some indication of who among them would be the first to act. Yet none of them stirred; they stood like statues caught in hesitation, their gazes fixed but their bodies refusing to commit, as though fear itself had pressed them into stillness.

'They should be able to sense my rank,' Jacob thought as he let his attention sweep across the hall, noting the numbers, estimating the danger, 'and with this many they could overwhelm me with ease.'

A quiet voice calmly drifted through his mind, Yggdrasil's presence threading into his thoughts. 'They cannot feel your rank. That is one of the peculiar strengths of your mind. Its growth leans toward capacity, speed, and concealment. Only those above you in rank will see you clearly; the rest will find nothing at all.'

At that Jacob's lips curved into the faintest smirk. If they could not read his rank, then their silence was not hesitation born of caution alone, it was fear born of uncertainty, the suspicion that he was stronger than they could afford to challenge.

"I am not here to harm you," Jacob said at last, his voice steady, his words measured so as not to betray the strain in his body, "nor do I intend to demand anything beyond what I must." His gaze fixed on the priest at the altar, and he let the silence stretch for a moment before continuing, "three prisoners of rank ten were brought into the prison only days ago. Tell me, who among you laced their food?"

The moment he finished, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl that echoed awkwardly in the chapel's stillness, he remembered that he hadn't eaten in a few days. He cleared his throat, coughed lightly, and for an instant there was a faint heat on his cheeks before he set his expression back into its mask of composure.

The priest at the altar narrowed his eyes, his face darkening as he answered in a low, steady tone, "we are holy men, and we do not surrender our own."

Jacob studied him for a moment, knowing that with time he might have found another way to press, some angle from which persuasion could work or patience could yield the names he sought. But time was a luxury he did not possess; every second here was another second for pursuit to close in, and he could not afford stillness.

So he began to move back a step at a time, the two guards rising shakily and keeping pace behind him, while he raised his hands slowly, his focus sinking inward. The little mana he had managed to recover he pushed together, shaping it carefully toward the form of another fire rune, his thoughts cold and deliberate. If they would not yield the ones he sought, then the only choice left to him would be to burn the hall and everyone in it.

Was it cruel? Yes, perhaps, but cruelty had long ceased to be a concern for him. He did not take pleasure in killing, nor did he ever seek it, yet in this world the act of taking a life was no sacred threshold, it was a thing even children crossed without hesitation, and the notion of innocence was nothing more than a story people told themselves to feel safe, a story that did not exist in his family and certainly not in his blood.

"Last chance to save yourselves," Jacob said, his voice carrying evenly across the hall. No answer came. A few of the priests fell to their knees, their hands clasped together in silent prayer, while the others held his gaze with wordless defiance, neither yielding nor moving away.

"All sinners die in the end," the priest at the altar replied, and there was even the faintest smile on his lips, "we shall only die sooner."

Jacob's frown deepened as he readied himself to ignite the rune, the shape already forming beneath his will, when suddenly a voice cut out from among the crowd.

"If you use that, I will kill the one I bound my faith to."

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Another voice followed without hesitation. "I will do the same."

And then another, firm and steady. "So will I."

The priest at the altar fixed Jacob with a calm look. "Kill us and every person tied to us will die. Not only those rotting in the prison, but also the ones we've already released."

Jacob's hand paused mid-motion. He had not considered this outcome, though in truth he should have, because it was the obvious counter to his threat, and it struck him that they had likely been waiting for this moment, waiting for him to force their hand so that they could remind him of the weight he could not carry.

"I just have to kill you all first," Jacob said, though the words sounded more like a test to himself than a declaration.

The priest tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Can you?"

And that was the question, the one that dug deeper than he wanted to admit. Could he? He was rank ten, the same as them, and though they were no fighters, the balance remained. It stood to reason that he could not burn them all down, not before one of them acted, not before one of them severed a bond and killed far more than he could save.

He felt his hand tremble, and when he looked down at it the sensation was unmistakable, familiar in the worst way. It was the same rejection he had faced before, the same mocking resistance when he tried to force a rune to obey. And this time, just as then, he felt as though the rune itself were laughing at him.

His teeth clenched and his gaze hardened, but the silence in the chapel pressed against him like a weight. 'Why are you laughing?' he thought, as though demanding an answer might make one appear.

Of course, runes could not speak. They had no voices, no language he could understand. But even so, something seeped through the bond between them, not words but impressions, not thoughts but emotions so sharp he could not mistake them. Disdain. Pity. That was what the rune offered him in return, and Jacob could not decide which one cut deeper.

Jacob exhaled slowly, the sound heavy in the quiet hall, his hand pressed against the cold stone wall as though it alone held him upright. His legs trembled beneath him, and for a moment he thought they might give way, but when the weakness passed he straightened, raised his arm once more, and pointed at the gathered priests.

"I will kill you all," he said, his voice low but steady, "you should give up the ones responsible."

The priest at the altar did not flinch. "Do it, then. You have spoken long enough."

Jacob's eyes narrowed, the weight of his glare carrying more than his words, but at last he let his hand fall, turned on his heel, and said simply, "Let's go."

The two guards scrambled after him, relief plain in their hurried steps as they followed him through the chapel doors.

Behind them, the priest at the altar let out a breath so unsteady it nearly broke into a sob, his body swaying as though the strength had left him. Two of his brethren rushed forward to hold him upright.

"Praise the gods," he whispered hoarsely, then raised his voice. "Praise the gods for delivering us from that sinner. All of you, kneel and offer your prayers."

The crimson-clad priests obeyed at once, falling to their knees, their voices rising in hurried chants. None of them noticed, not at first, that Jacob had not truly left without doing anything.

On the chapel wall, faint lines of white light flickered to life. A rune sparked, drawing in the mana from the air, and those standing at the back of the hall were the first to notice the change. It was not sight or sound but absence, a suffocating weight that settled in their chests, as though the very air had been stripped of breath.

One by one, they felt it, until the entire hall was stifled by the void the rune created. The altar priest rose shakily, glancing about as confusion sharpened into fear, but the feeling only grew heavier, like an unseen hand closing around his soul.

"Everyone leave the chapel, now!" he commanded, his voice breaking.

And then, faint but clear, a single word reached them.

"Fire."

It was Jacob's voice. It came from outside, distant enough that he should not have been heard at all, yet every priest in the chapel felt it as though he stood beside them.

A moment later, the world roared.

From the wall at the entrance, a sea of flame burst forth with a fury that left no room for thought, swallowing pews, pillars, and priests alike. The altar priest's face drained of all color as the fire spread, the screams of his brothers rising and breaking around him until he stood alone, the last voice unclaimed by the inferno.

The flames rushed toward him, their heat blistering his skin, and in that final instant he reached deep within himself, to the countless threads of faith that bound him to others. He was their leader, the one who carried the weight of their devotion, among them he was connected to hundreds of people, and through that devotion he could reach them, all of them, no matter where they were.

A smile touched his lips as the fire consumed him, his flesh blackening under its relentless advance, but still he did not scream.

"I sincerely hope," he murmured, voice steady even as his body failed, "that one of those I take with me is dear to you."

And with that thought, he severed every bond he held, dragging each life into death with him, just as the flames closed in and erased him completely.

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