The Holy Kingdom. The Theocracy.

It was a nation that worshiped the continent’s one true god—the Goddess.

They wielded a power called Divinity, not Aura. They rejected the very notion of Grand Masters, the continent’s heralded champions, and dismissed Aura as a heretical force.

And yet, the Empire and other nations did not dare ostracize them.

The reason was simple: the Almighty One. Faith in Anatrasha, the Goddess of Beginnings, was woven into the fabric of the continent.

Because nearly every human believed in her, the Holy Kingdom commanded a unique respect.

And then there was Divinity itself. The power of the goddess, they claimed… a grace she granted her most devout followers.

Whether this was divine truth or clever doctrine was anyone’s guess, but its effects were undeniable.

Its healers mended wounds beyond the reach of conventional medicine and drove back the Demonkin with specialized rites, making the nation wealthier by the day.

It was why we had summoned a cardinal from the Holy Kingdom when Lea fell ill. 

That the man was promptly expelled after his efforts failed was a testament to his impotence, but that he had been summoned at all spoke to the power the name of Divinity held.

But how, exactly, had he been driven out?

The thought struck me now for the first time. I’d never cared to learn the details, not before my regression and not after.

I had never imagined I would have reason to visit the Theocracy.

I should ask.

I turned to Lancelot, who rode beside me.

He met my gaze with a scowl. “What are you staring at?”

This bastard grew more insolent by the day.

“Is the pain back?” he pressed, his voice sharp with concern. “I told you to stay in the carriage. Stubborn as ever, getting on a horse just to make things harder for everyone.”

“I’m fine,” I said, my tone clipped. “And I don’t need a carriage. Now, be quiet. Your nagging is more draining than the ride.”

“Hmph. Try to show a little concern, and that’s the thanks I get.” Lancelot grumbled, his lips pushing out in a childish pout.

Despite the sharp words, his worry was genuine.

I couldn’t decide whether to thank him or throttle him.

With a faint sigh, I shook my head. “Enough. I have a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“When Lea was sick, a cardinal came to see her. Correct?”

“He did, yes.”

“I want to know how he was driven away.”

“Hmm…” Lancelot closed his eyes, searching his memory. A moment later, they snapped open.

“Ah!” A flash of recollection lit his face. “Damn, how did I forget that whole mess? It’s only coming back to me now.”

“What happened?”

“It was chaos. You know how arrogant those Holy Kingdom bastards are. He was strutting around, going on about being a cardinal this and a holy man that. His Grace the Grand Duke endured it all, of course. For Lady Lea.”

“And then?”

“As you know, the treatment failed. His Grace was disappointed but prepared to send them away with courtesy. But after the failure, the man went mad. Started raving.”

Lancelot clicked his tongue in disgust. “Called her a demon. Said she was tainted by a demon’s seed, that she was a harbinger of disaster… Every vile accusation you can imagine.”

“The absolute madman.” The word was a quiet verdict.

Even bedridden, the Grand Duke was once one of the continent’s most feared men. His rank was that of an Imperial Duke.

A mere cardinal had no right to slander his daughter. Not unless he had a death wish.

No, not even then. He wouldn’t have been granted a clean death for such an offense.

Lancelot’s next words confirmed it. “Naturally, His Grace lost his temper. The cardinal abandoned his entire retinue and fled for his life. Every last attendant was put to the sword.”

Lancelot drew a thumb across his throat. The man just had to make a joke of it.

But that wasn’t what mattered.

I looked away, closing my eyes. The cardinal had failed, insulted the duke, and fled the North after losing all his men.

“Hmm…” This was a disaster in the making.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the carriage where the fallen Grand Duke lay. We were heading to the Holy Kingdom for treatment—for him and for me—and we were already on hostile terms with one of its most powerful men.

I saw no favorable outcome.

“Do you know the cardinal’s name?”

“His name…” Lancelot paused, thinking. “Ah. I believe it was Key.”

“…Ugh.” I pressed a hand to my throbbing temple and let out a heavy sigh.

Key Dupron. He was the very man whispered to be the next Pope.

* * *

A carrier pigeon fluttered onto my offered wrist.

“Thank you.”

I stroked the bird’s head, untied the note from its leg, and unfolded it.

Key Dupron is a radical, with ties to the Empire’s Second Prince. His power base is solid; they call him the next Pope. Are you picking a fight with the Holy Kingdom now?

P.S. When do you intend to strike the Artezia Duchy?

A message from Lexa.

I’d neglected my correspondence while in the Demonic Realm; it must have just arrived.

I did need to strike Artezia. Everything I did now was another step toward their final destruction. Though I had been sidetracked, my thirst for vengeance had not faded.

And now, knowing their ties to the Demonkin, my preparations had to be flawless.

For that, I needed the Holy Kingdom’s help.

“And yet…”

I let out a soft sigh and detached the small pouch of medicine fastened to the note. I folded the paper and tucked it away.

“I suppose I’ll have to shake things up.”

I held no fondness for Key Dupron.

How dare he speak to Lea that way? And how deeply his words must have wounded her gentle heart.

But the Grand Duke’s life depended on the Theocracy, so I couldn’t afford to meet the man with open hostility.

“Which is why I need this,” I murmured to myself, looking at the pouch in my hand. 

It contained a blue powder, a drug I had commissioned from Lexa. A compound of Demonkin remains and holy water.

I could not be certain of its effects… but it would be enough to ruin Key Dupron.

I carefully placed the pouch into my dimensional ring.

Making an enemy of Key meant making an enemy of the Second Prince, but I had no other choice. Time was short. This was the only realistic path.

And, of course, this was also for Lea. A punishment for his transgression.

He dared to attack what’s mine. He’ll pay for that.

I lifted my head toward the magnificent city walls, now drawing near. The Holy Kingdom, the nation blessed by the Goddess’s grace.

Key Dupron, the man poised to be the next Pope, would soon be branded a demon-worshiper and disappear.

Forever.

* * *

Meanwhile, at that very moment…

Paul, the deserter, stumbled through the mists of the Demonic Realm, his breath tearing from his lungs in ragged gasps.

While Louis Berg had fought the Demonkin, Paul had fled to the realm’s border, only to find a black, impassable wall. Worse, he had slipped and fallen from a cliff.

He should have run back toward the North. But fear, the coward’s fear of being caught, had driven him deeper.

A fatal mistake.

“Shit! God damn it all!” Paul cursed, forcing himself onward.

The black mist that had risen from nowhere was already corrupting him from within. He had never heard of such a thing. Why was this happening to him?

He prayed it was all a dream, a desperate denial of his reality.

“Nngggh!”

A sickening pop echoed as the muscles in his shoulder twisted, his human form warping into something monstrous.

It was the fifth transformation. His only saving grace was that he remained conscious. The other creatures he’d encountered had gone berserk.

If he changed like them, he would no longer be Paul.

“I’m going to make it back alive… I will make it back alive…”

He struggled onward, one agonizing step at a time, heading for another border of the Demonic Realm. He didn’t know if another black wall awaited him, but he had to keep moving. He had to hope.

But as he pressed on, a new dread settled in his gut.

The monsters were gone.

After cutting down dozens to get this far, the path ahead was unnervingly silent. It was as if this territory belonged to a master so terrible the other beasts dared not trespass.

A shiver traced its way down his spine. He shook his head.

“…Damn it all. The mist will eat me alive anyway.”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was what his friend Charles the gambler always used to say.

His boots sank into the damp earth, thudding with each step.

And then a voice cut through the silence.

“What’s this now?”

It was an annoyed voice, and it came from somewhere nearby.

Startled, Paul snapped his head around.

A voice. Not a monster’s cry, but human words. Relief washed over him at the thought of another survivor.

“Wh-who’s there?” he called out.

Of course, they could be here to capture him, but the possibility felt remote.

This place was a living hell, crawling with empowered monsters and a mist that turned men into demons.

No one would come here for a single deserter. The risk was too great.

Just as he thought that, a figure emerged from the fog.

“Me? I’m your daddy.”

The speaker was a boy, no older than a teenager. He stood amidst the pandemonium as if on a casual stroll.

A strange fear crept over Paul.

What… what is he?

He looked human, but he felt like something else entirely.

Trembling, Paul managed to speak. “M-my daddy?”

“That’s right,” the boy answered, his tone irritated.

He then reached out, his hand snapping around Paul’s throat.

“Ghk!”

It was impossibly fast. Paul choked, struggling in shock.

“Wh-whaaargh!”

“What are you even saying?” the boy asked, picking at his ear with a bored expression. “I might not have given you birth, but I can definitely give you death. So, that makes me the papa of your end. Right?”

What kind of madness is this?

Paul wanted to scream, but only silent gasps escaped his lips.

Just as his vision began to fade, the boy spoke again, though not to him.

“…You want me to bring this one? Really? No, I mean… it’s not that… Ugh, fine. I get it.”

The boy muttered to the empty air, then released his grip.

Paul collapsed with a thud, clawing at his throat as he sucked in air. He stared up at the boy in terror.

The boy sighed. “Oi. Our leader wants you to come with us.”

“Your leader?” Paul gasped.

“Yeah. Seems he’s taken a liking to you.” The boy muttered under his breath, “…Why he’d like a pathetic bastard like you is beyond me.”

He pulled a red gem from his tunic and tossed it to Paul. “Take this and follow me. The monsters won’t attack as long as you’re holding it.”

Paul scrambled to his feet, clutching the gem. Fleeing was impossible. Following was his only option.

“…W-what should I call you?” Paul asked, his voice trembling.

The boy shot him a look that said, What kind of idiot are you? but then sighed and answered.

“Martin Artezia. Call me Lord Martin.”

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