"My Lord... My Lord... My most revered, supreme Lord..."

A heartrending wail, like the sorrowful weeping of a ghost, reverberated through the forest, now returned to an eerie calm.

The priest's eyes were vacant as he sat slumped on the ground, as if his very soul had been drained away.

"My Lord... Why have you abandoned me? Why have you taken back Your love for me? Did I do something wrong? Was I not devout enough? Is it because..."

"It is very simple."

An indifferent voice broke the silence, yet it struck the priest's heart like a tolling bell, profound and resounding.

"Your Lord does not love you."

"..."

The priest’s trembling body suddenly froze. He cast an empty gaze at Moen, then dropped his head low and stared at the holy scripture in his hands.

The scripture had once been filled with divine words he had received over the years—commands and messages conveyed by the gods he so revered, proof of their greatness, their supremacy, their love for him and the world.

But now, the yellowed pages were blank.

Had they been erased along with the divine grace, taken away as well?

"So... that’s how it is."

The priest's fingers softly stroked the now-empty pages.

—The holy scripture was no longer holy, nothing more than a useless, tattered book.

He had nothing left.

The divine... had never loved him.

The divine... did not love mankind.

"So, I’ve been deceived, haven't I? Deceived by the very Lords I’ve worshipped with unwavering devotion all these years."

"Ugh..."

At that moment, it wasn’t just the priest’s faith that shattered—his heart seemed to break as well.

Scalding blood gushed from his throat, spraying onto the scripture in his hands, staining it crimson. The last glimmer in his eyes faded and disappeared.

For someone as devout as he was, what could be more agonizing than being abandoned by the gods he worshipped?

This kind of pain and despair was a hundred times worse than death.

The priest’s body went limp, collapsing to the ground.

Lifeless.

...

"Did... did he just die from sheer anger?"

After cautiously observing for a while, confirming that the priest was truly dead and not feigning death, Moen carefully approached, lowered his head, and looked into the priest’s lifeless eyes, which still reflected a lingering despair.

"I didn’t even start a lecture yet, and he just spat blood and dropped dead?"

"This is what happens when you idolize the wrong celebrity."

Moen sighed, shaking his head.

"Kid, those dark gods are nothing but crafty and deceitful. You’re way out of your depth trying to handle them."

To be safe, Moen extended a hand and rummaged through the priest’s belongings but found nothing. Other than the already faded long robe on his body, the priest didn’t even carry a spatial magic artifact.

Hmm?

As if noticing something, Moen pinched an unbloodied corner of the priest’s once-treasured scripture and flipped through it back and forth.

Occasionally, sparks flickered at his fingertips. After a careful investigation, Moen quickly arrived at a conclusion.

It truly was just an ordinary, worthless book.

It wasn’t some remnant left behind after the god of love devoured the divine grace. From the beginning, it was nothing more than a cheaply mass-produced blank book—the kind you could buy in a marketplace for less than ten Emil, usually used by clerics to transcribe religious texts.

There had never been any actual scripture.

Nor any divine revelation.

Everything was just his pathetic delusion.

And that delusion ultimately brought a real calamity upon him.

"I see," Moen murmured, closing the book and tucking it back into the priest’s arms. With a trace of pity in his tone, he remarked, "Just a lunatic, after all."

...

"So... it’s finally over?"

After hastily digging a pit to bury the priest, Moen felt the long-awaited peace settle in. He plopped down on the ground with a heavy exhale.

When the priest had suddenly started praying, Moen had braced himself, thinking he might have to face yet another “thrilling” encounter with a newly introduced dark god.

Nearly scared him enough to wet his pants.

But it turned out to be the god of love.

Thank goodness it was the god of love.

As expected of the god of love.

This divine’s cautiousness—only acting when more than eighty percent certain of success—this ability to flee immediately when the situation took a bad turn, this carefree attitude of taking what they wanted without bearing any responsibility... no other dark god could possibly compare.

Even if you asked others, they'd surely admit they couldn’t measure up.

"Still, the cost was a little too much this time."

Moen checked himself over and confirmed that Crimson Flame had already healed most of his injuries. Yet, the hollow feeling within him, as though he’d been completely drained, prompted a sigh of exhaustion.

If you tally it all up, he’d been fighting nonstop for quite a while now.

And each time, it was a life-or-death battle requiring him to give everything he had against far superior opponents.

The mere thought of it was absurd.

Other protagonists at least got to engage enemies in a structured, progressively escalating manner, right? Why did he have to deal with opponents so absurdly powerful right from the start?

When he thought about the individuals he’d faced—one ridiculously strong figure after another, each surpassing his own tier by a significant margin—it made him question his bad luck. For someone like him, whose greatest ambition was simply to survive and cling to the coattails of beautiful ladies, was this really necessary?

What level was he even at? Merely a lowly third-tier warrior, incapable of wielding magic. How could he possibly win? Just months ago, he had been a delicate young aristocrat whose strength didn’t even outmatch a maid’s!

"Still... compared to the crises I’ve faced before, you all aren’t nearly as terrifying," Moen muttered, curling his lips in what might have been mockery or self-deprecation.

The surging divine power from earlier had obliterated swathes of towering trees and scoured away the top layer of fertile soil. Reclining against the now-soft sand, Moen gazed up at the deep blue sky and the gradually gentling white clouds.

As they traveled further south, the temperature had become especially pleasant.

"Should I continue heading in the direction where Lea disappeared, or stay here and wait?"

"If the enemy was so determined to press forward, we should be near the forest’s edge. If Lea escaped successfully, it’s only a matter of time before reinforcements arrive."

"As for Barton... that idiot is too stubborn to give up easily and probably hasn’t returned yet."

"Well, for now, I need to rest and recover as much strength as possible."

Feeling his eyelids grow heavier, Moen slowly closed his eyes.

Drowsiness overcame him, and his consciousness began to fade.

But just before complete darkness descended, Moen’s peripheral vision caught a faint wisp of mist.

Hm?

Something was wrong!

A sharp instinct suddenly jolted within his mind, instantly snapping Moen awake.

He shot up, eyes wide with vigilance, scanning his surroundings.

The forest remained tranquil as ever.

Too tranquil.

The faint mist he had noticed earlier could easily be passed off as residual energy from the dissipation of divine grace. It seemed inconspicuous, not unusual at all.

But...

Why does it feel like I'm forgetting something?

Moen grabbed his head and sank into deep thought.

The foreboding sense of danger intensified, darkening his expression. He quickly drew Elizabeth, his blade, and tapped its edges together.

Crackling like a spark, the alchemical field unfolded, enveloping him completely.

The alchemical field’s primary function was to isolate auras, but that wasn’t its only capability.

It could also isolate certain negative effects—if there were any.

"...Wait."

As the field solidified, a sudden realization struck Moen's mind like a flash of light.

His pupils contracted sharply as he began counting on his fingers.

"The priest and the hyena are dead. Barton went after Lea. But there was supposed to be one more person. That’s right, they were a group of four..."

"The last one is the mage..."

"Mage Fular!"

Moen’s head snapped up, and as he remembered the name, the faint mists in the forest stirred abruptly, billowing forth as if stirred by a gale.

Yet, no wind swept through the forest at this time.

These mists were powered... by magic!

Immense, building magical power—a spell of great potency that had been silently prepared this entire time without Moen detecting even the slightest hint of it.

Simultaneously, a voice slithered forth from within the swirling mists.

"Oh, my, so you finally noticed?"

"But it doesn’t matter now; it’s far too late."

"Have you prepared your last words, Moen Campbell?"

There was a thread of hatred in the voice, laced with the satisfaction of impending revenge. Moen's sharp gaze darted around, trying to pinpoint its source, but the voice was erratic, impossible to localize.

"So... that earlier effect—magic too?" Moen's expression darkened.

He had indeed been too engrossed in his battle with the priest before, but could he really have been careless enough to entirely forget the presence of a living person?

This must’ve been due to some kind of magic, triggered at the exact moment he had relaxed to confirm the priest's death and let his guard down!

"That’s right, it was magic," Fular’s voice chimed in, seemingly in no rush to act.

"A spell that erases one’s presence, quite a niche little trick, wouldn’t you say? It’s virtually useless in face-to-face combat, but if, like earlier, your attention is wholly drawn by someone else, this spell shines as a godlike ability!"

"Truly... I let my guard down," Moen admitted through gritted teeth, gripping his blade tighter.

Since Fular had initially been incapacitated and had always lacked presence in the group of four, coupled with his fierce clash against the priest, the spell's effects had been staggeringly effective.

So much so that he subconsciously banished her presence from his mind entirely. She had been crafting her spell right under his nose, and he hadn’t noticed a single thing!

It was true—when it came to group battles, the top priority should always be killing the mage.

What a missed opportunity.

Just one step away...

"But do you believe that’s enough to deal with me?" Moen's gaze sharpened as he turned toward the new direction of Fular’s voice, his lips curling into a cold smile.

"You watched my fight with the priest clearly, didn’t you? What makes you think that even with an opening move in your favor, you’re any match for me?"

Scarlet flames flickered in his eyes, lending his features a commanding and formidable air.

No matter what, Fular’s threat level should be far lower than the priest's...

Yet Moen only heard peals of mocking laughter in response.

"Yes, I saw it. Every detail."

"And to my utter surprise—to all our surprise—the infamous good-for-nothing son of a duke is actually a chosen of the gods. How unfortunate for us—our employer truly set us up for failure."

"Then..."

Moen narrowed her eyes.

"Heh, so what? Just because you're a God favored doesn't mean you're invincible. Quite the opposite, actually. Because of the fixed nature of your abilities, with just a bit of observation, it's easy to find a countermeasure," Fular sneered coldly, then continued:

"For example, judging by your behavior earlier, you don't seem to have any ranged attack methods. That terrifying flame of yours requires physical contact or at least close proximity to be effective.

Even if it can burn through anything, without a target, it can't do anything at all!"

"…Aren't you afraid that I might have other techniques I haven't used yet?" Moen fell silent for a moment, his voice turning cold and threatening.

"Of course I'm afraid," Fular replied, her voice as ethereal as ever, making it impossible for Moen to pinpoint her location.

"That's why I've already prepared spells for both attack and escape.

I'll probe first. If you really do have other terrifying moves as you suggest, I won't hesitate to flee.

But if you're just a lion whose blood is nearly drained, a beast already at the end of its tether..."

Fular's voice suddenly shifted, carrying a bone-chilling coldness mixed with excitement:

"Then that one billion will belong to me alone!"

"Don't worry, I'll make sure to settle old scores. Using dirty tricks and sneak attacks—you're not the only one who can do that!"

*Whoosh—*

As soon as Fular's voice fell, the mist surrounding Moen grew even more violent. Accompanying this suffocating transformation, bright points of light began to shine one after another, radiating an overwhelming sense of death.

Damn it, she's serious!

Moen's heart tightened. He couldn't afford the risk of more exposure, so he gathered a massive surge of crimson flames to defend himself desperately.

At the very least, block it for now.

If he couldn't block it, perhaps, relying on his physical durability and the restorative power of the flames, he might still stand a chance...

*Splurt—*

In the blindingly quick flash of a moment, before Moen's thoughts even had time to unfold, a distinct sound of flesh being torn echoed in the silence before the spell was about to be unleashed.

It was extraordinarily clear.

The crimson flames surged back into his body in an instant. Moen, utterly dumbfounded, looked down and frantically ran his hands over his body.

Huh?

It seemed he wasn't hurt...

And the spell—it hadn’t even been activated yet...

So what was that sound?

"Huh?"

At this moment, a strange, low gasp came from the mist.

Then, the fog and the magical glowing points before Moen began to waver and dissipate.

Fular's figure appeared.

She stood upright with her staff in hand.

The enormous magical energy still rippled around her, barely fading away.

But at this moment, she was looking down at her abdomen with an expression of utter disbelief.

Because from her abdomen protruded the half-length blade of a knife.

A blade formed of holy light.

"Splah—"

A fountain of blood gushed from her lips, as if costless. Her eyes remained bewildered:

"Wh-why..."

"B-because," a voice stammered behind her.

"Concealing presence, and using dirty tricks for sneak attacks... I... I can do that too."

The voice sounded delicate, even trembling, but Fular could feel that the hands gripping the blade were unnervingly strong.

She struggled to turn her head and saw an incredibly cute, soft-faced girl—a face she had never once considered a threat from beginning to end.

"You... Barton? But why... wasn't he..."

"He's already dead," Lea replied earnestly.

"I killed him."

With that, Lea, under Fular's aghast, ghostly gaze, pulled the holy light blade out in one swift motion and gave her a forceful kick, knocking her sprawling to the ground.

Before Fular could even register the renewed agony of her abdominal wound, she became conscious of a figure pressing down on her.

That figure was light. But for Fular, as a mere mage, there was no escaping the clearly enhanced strength pressing down on her.

She could only helplessly lie there as Lea planted herself squarely on top of her and then...

Raised the knife.

"Don't be scared, don't be scared..."

Blood stained half of the girl's face crimson. Fear and inner turmoil were evident in her eyes, but her grip on the blade remained unwavering. She kept murmuring under her breath:

"The books said, when facing bad people, you must finish them off completely."

"That's right, finish them off."

"Finish them off."

With that, the girl suddenly bent down and skillfully plunged the blade into Fular's heart.

Then.

She twisted it.

Forcefully twisted it.

—

Not far away.

Moen stood rooted to the spot, his mouth agape as he stared blankly at the scene playing out. A sudden shiver ran down his spine as he winced, his skin prickling with phantom pain.

"Weird... Why does it feel so natural, watching Lea stab someone like that?"