{Chapter: 63: Certain Death}
The moment his spear—formed entirely of demonic mana—made contact with the ashes, a sharp jolt surged through it. The weapon, unable to resist, became the conduit, channeling the holy essence directly into his body. He barely had time to react.
The consequence was immediate and catastrophic.
The arm that gripped the spear was the first to feel it. Her fur blackened and peeled away like wet parchment under flame. Skin bubbled, then melted. Muscle turned to slush. Sinew snapped like violin strings. Bone cracked and buckled under a force that didn't strike—it unmade.
It wasn't a fire. It wasn't magic in the conventional sense.
It was faith incarnate.
A divine scourge that punished evil not by force, but by purity.
Carla bit down a scream, sweat breaking across his forehead as he felt her body unravel. Her knees buckled, but she didn't fall. He couldn't afford to fall.
The wound was spreading. Fast.
Without hesitation, without a second thought, Carla drew a blade from his waist with her remaining hand and brought it down—hard. A brutal arc of steel bit into her own flesh, cleaving through shoulder and bone with a wet, meaty crunch.
His severed arm fell, hissing as it hit the ground. In a flash, it sizzled and boiled into a bubbling pool of crimson blood and black steam. The air reeked of sulfur and sanctity, a paradox that made his head spin.
He staggered back, coughing as the heat washed over his face. His vision swam. For a moment, everything blurred—light and sound merging into a dizzy haze.
Instinct told her to move. He obeyed.
Stumbling to the side, barely holding himself upright, Carla gritted his teeth, the pain crashing down like waves against his mind. His shoulder was a mess of raw flesh, blackened skin, and a gaping wound that pulsed with every heartbeat.
He hadn't even caught his breath before his enemies pounced.
The warriors of the Radiant Church didn't give him a chance. They were relentless, methodical in their approach. From all sides, they doused his wound with blessed potions and holy water—torture disguised as mercy.
The pain was blinding.
It felt like his nerves were being skinned, his soul clawed at from within. Carla dodged where he could, but there were too many. Every contact with blessed liquid was a new agony, and he could do nothing but endure it. There was no victory here—only survival.
His eyes, bloodshot and filled with hate, turned toward the distant battlefield.
There, not far from the chaos, the sheep-headed demon, Richard Woz, was cornered.
He stood with blood-soaked fur and a wheezing breath, barely able to lift his sword. Before him stood James—the young knight in silver armor, the banner of the royal family emblazoned on his chest. His blade gleamed with both sunlight and discipline.
"Uncle," James said softly, his tone neither cold nor kind, merely resolute, "I'll give you one last chance. Lay down your weapon. Stop this madness. Surrender."
His voice was calm. Respectful. But unyielding.
Everyone watching could feel the weight of those words.
Richard, once a proud warrior and father, coughed, the sound thick with blood. His hand trembled around the hilt of his sword. He looked at James—not as a knight, not as a nephew—but as a boy he had once cradled in his arms during palace feasts, a boy who used to chase butterflies in the royal gardens.
"James..." Richard's voice was hoarse, full of sorrow. "I only wanted to save my daughter. That's all I ever wanted."
The knight's expression tightened. His blade dipped slightly, not in weakness, but in compassion.
"You know that even if the demon saves her," James said quietly, "it won't be the kind of salvation you imagine. She won't be your daughter anymore. Just a shell. A puppet. That's what demons do—they twist love into chains and use it to shatter people from the inside out."
Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the cries of battle in the distance.
"...Maybe," Richard said, smiling bitterly. "But I still want to try. Even if I fail. Even if it kills me."
James closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the knight was gone. In his place stood a warrior of the crown—one who bore the burden of justice.
"I cannot allow it, uncle. For the safety of the kingdom… for the people… I won't give you that chance."
He raised his sword and took a step forward, his stance shifting into the unmistakable form of the royal family's secret sword art. A graceful, yet deadly flow of energy surrounded him—elegant but precise. Regal, but ruthless.
"I'll end it with my own hands. At least you'll die by bloodline, not by executioner."
Richard laughed softly, the sound pained but honest.
"Then I'll trouble you... my prince."
He raised his own blade, mimicking the stance. His balance faltered slightly. Blood dripped from his left thigh where a deep wound was still oozing. His breathing was labored. His grip was uneven. He knew the truth as well as anyone.
There was no winning this duel.
But there was pride. There was honor.
He was not fighting to win.
He was fighting to say goodbye—to his daughter, to his home, to everything he once stood for.
His usual smile appeared on his face and he also assumed the same posture.
Same swordsmanship, similar strength, but Richard knew very well that he had no chance of winning from the very beginning because his injuries did not allow him to win.
Their blades clashed.
The ringing steel echoed like a bell of judgment. A dance began, both elegant and brutal—two generations of the same bloodline facing each other not as family, but as duty and desperation.
In James' every swing was a sorrow he could not express.
In Richard's every parry was the fading heartbeat of a father's love.
However, facing the intact James, Richard did not think there was anything wrong with his behavior. Instead, he was very happy with his style.
Be cautious and don't leave any chance for the other party.
He is a suitable candidate for king, at least better than myself who is often indecisive.
---
After more than a dozen intense and deliberate exchanges of swordplay—each blow heavier than the last, each movement laced with emotion more than precision—Richard Woz finally slowed his pace. Blood seeped from his many wounds, dripping down his armor like a gentle rain, painting the cracked stone beneath his boots in dark crimson.
And then, as though fate had finally delivered its final decree, James' blade pierced through Richard's chest with solemn precision. Not a wild strike, nor a flourish of arrogance—it was a clean, honorable blow. Right between the ribs and straight into the heart, deep enough to bring death, but gentle enough not to desecrate the man he once admired.
Richard's eyes widened for a moment as the pain hit him, but instead of agony, there was peace. Blood slowly trickled down the side of his mouth as he leaned forward, whispering in a voice only James could hear, carried on the trembling wind of his final breath.
"James… you are truly excellent. We all saw it, you know—your uncles, myself. Even if we never spoke of it aloud, we understood what happened to Arles. Your father was no longer the man he used to be. His mind… it had already crumbled in lust. He was a king in name, but his actions would've doomed the entire principality."
James' hands trembled ever so slightly as he held Richard up by the hilt of his own sword.
Richard continued, even as blood bubbled in his throat. "What you did… it was painful, yes, but necessary. You didn't kill a father—you saved a kingdom. That's what many of us believed."
He coughed, body shuddering, but the smile on his face never faded. "Don't worry about the others. Even if they pretend otherwise, they've seen the results. You brought order to chaos. You restored hope where there was despair. We may not say it, but we see you. You will be a good king. Better than any of us."
James's heart clenched. The words, though comforting, weighed heavily.
"And your mother…" Richard's voice was faint now, barely audible. "No matter how deeply she blames you—ten years, twenty years—even hatred is rooted in love. One day, she'll understand. One day, she'll forgive. So lift the burden from your heart… and live."
"…Goodbye, uncle," James whispered, voice cracking ever so slightly.
He gently helped Richard to the ground, kneeling beside him and closing his eyelids with reverence. The once-smiling face of Richard Woz now rested in eternal stillness.
—the world paused to mourn what could never be undone.
Around them, the battlefield was eerily silent. The clang of steel, the cries of the wounded—all had faded, replaced by the solemn hush that follows death.
James remained still, staring at the lifeless body, searching his own heart for the emotions that refused to rise. Relief? No. Triumph? No. If anything, it was grief. Not just for Richard, but for everything that had been lost.
Not far from this quiet death, the situation had reached its climax.
Carla, the demon in mortal guise, staggered amidst the broken remnants of battle. Holy water hissed on his skin, burning away his strength with every drop. Potions—blessed, enchanted, purified—had been splashed onto his wounds, melting away his vitality like acid on flesh.
He gritted his teeth, rage and desperation swirling in his eyes. His movements slowed, dulled by exhaustion and the overwhelming holy energy invading his body.
The last blow came not from magic, not from divine invocation—but a simple thrust. A sword, unremarkable in appearance but wielded with purpose, pierced through his eye socket and drilled deep into his brain.
There was no final scream, no dramatic declaration. Carla simply fell backward, his body crumpling to the floor with a dull, wet thud.
Cheers erupted in the basement. Safi and her companions cried out in triumph, hugging one another and shouting in joy. It was over—Carla was dead. The demon had fallen, the nightmare vanquished.
Or so they believed.
Elsewhere, far from the Colosseum's blood-soaked chambers, a beggar stirred on a forgotten street corner. He was thin—almost unnaturally so—with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes that glinted with a malicious gleam. Ragged robes hung off his frail frame like forgotten memories.
He sat up slowly, brushing dirt off his sleeves, and turned his gaze toward the direction of the battlefield.
Then he spat.
A disdainful expression twisted his lips. "Fools," he muttered in a low, gravelly voice. "Low-tier mongrels who can't even detect a soul… You dare celebrate?"
Because that beggar… was Carla.
Or rather, what was left of him.
In that brief moment of death, he had done what few demons dared—he had severed his physical form to escape annihilation, leaving behind the shell as a decoy. It was a gamble, one that cost him the majority of his power, but it had worked. For now.
Even in the depths of that basement, surrounded by holy relics and sanctified weapons, Carla had sensed a greater threat. A force beyond the mortals. An eye, watching from beyond the veil of reality.
He had felt it… That untraceable gaze. A pressure on his soul that promised destruction, not through violence, but inevitability. It was not Safi or the others that terrified him. It was that presence.
That is why he fled. Why did he allow them to believe they had won? Survival demanded sacrifice.
Now, as he limped toward the outskirts of the city, every movement felt like fire in his limbs. His magical core was shattered. His essence was unstable. He needed time. Solitude. A place to hide and recover.
But then… he stopped.
His steps froze mid-stride, a shiver crawling down his spine.
He smelled something. Something familiar. Not through his broken human senses—but through the keen instincts of his demonic soul. A scent he hadn't encountered in eons, one that twisted his very core in dread.
He slowly raised his gaze.
And there, above him, silhouetted against the pale moon, was a figure.
Floating among the clouds, the being's posture was calm—too calm. They stood with casual grace, leaning against nothing, as if the very air obeyed their will.
They looked down at him—not with hatred or anger.
But indifference.
As if Carla were no more than an insect crawling on the edge of a table. Something beneath even contempt.
Carla blinked. His demonic vision pierced through the illusion, seeing past the flawless human disguise to what lay beneath. He saw the true shape—the form of a being that had no need for theatrics. No need for lies.
Something worse.
And then… Carla understood.
This was the being that had altered his magic circle. The one that had manipulated the sequence of events behind the scenes. The one whose hand had always been on the scales.
He was never the apex predator. Never the puppet master.
He was prey.
A tremor ran through his bones.
"I… I'm going to die," he whispered.
There was no doubt in his mind. No delusion of escape. The way that was being looked at him—it wasn't just a judgment.
It was a verdict.
And Carla was already condemned.
Carla was absolutely sure of this.