"Creeeak—"

A piercing sound, like the groan of rusted metal.

Under Narisji’s push, the massive golden gate slowly swung open.

Foul, murky air billowed out through the rasping, opening doors, carrying the stench accumulated by who knew how many years, and was then purified by the already-prepared Margarita, turning into a morning breeze that gently drifted past.

Behind the door was an abyss of darkness.

But apart from that, it seemed... nothing was amiss?

"Is it open?"

"What’s in there?"

"Is it safe?"

For a moment a clamor of questions rose as everyone crowded impatiently at the gate, itching for action, peering into the doorway.

Were it not for the binding contract, they might have already rushed straight in.

"Shall we go in first?"

Lea whispered in Moen’s ear.

With what she had contributed just now, she fully had the right to be the first through the door.

"Wait, I feel something’s off."

Yet Moen, inexplicably uneasy, stood at the edge of the gate and chose not to enter.

He looked left and right, frowning, and said:

"Haven’t you noticed something wrong?"

Amid the noise, some looked thoughtful, some grew solemn, but more showed a touch of disdain, thinking Moen overly cautious.

Moen ignored them, his gaze sweeping quickly—first over the golden gate, then into that dense darkness—eager to find the source of the anomaly gnawing at his mind.

At last, his eyes fell on Narisji.

Something occurred to him.

"You—you’re a mage, right."

"Of course I’m a mage."

Narisji stiffened slightly, then eyed him as if he were an idiot.

Dressed head to toe in the Tower of Origin’s garb—what else could he be?

A noble place like the Tower of Origin doesn’t produce mere brawny oafs who only rely on muscle!

"You’re not dual-trained in magic and martial arts?" Moen continued with his odd questions.

"No." Narisji was displeased, but for the sake of his being the Saintess’s candidate knight, he answered patiently.

"And you didn’t cast any blessing spells on yourself just now?"

"Defensive spells, sure—just in case."

"What about strength-enhancing magic?"

"Of course not. I don’t punch people—what would I need that for?"

"I see—so you really haven’t."

Moen finally stopped pressing, lifted his head, took in the imposing gate in full, and then... let out a wry smile:

"Since you’re not a fighter and haven’t used strength-enhancing magic, then as a frail-bodied mage, how did you... push open a metal gate this huge?"

"..."

Silence fell.

Everyone who had been itching to move froze; Anne and Margarita looked at each other, a strange light flashing in their eyes.

Narisji stared, his face slowly blanching.

Right—how had he pushed it?

"Ah..."

In that instant, as if answering his question, from beyond the gate, within the thick, almost tangible darkness, there came a low moan.

Hoarse, like the creak of withered branches rotting.

And yet so clear.

Next, the gate rumbled; where it had been opened only enough for two to walk abreast, it rumbled wide, fully thrown open, becoming a passage that would let everyone surge through.

The unbroken darkness lay exposed before all.

But no one advanced.

Tap.

Because in the darkness, footsteps sounded.

A dim yellow light glowed from a battered lantern.

A figure wrapped in rags, step by step, staggered toward them.

It was a gaunt figure; his limbs were pierced by forearm-length iron spikes, cold chains wrapped around the spikes, trailing back into the depths of the dark.

The chains scraped along, scattering sparks.

"Ah... O Goddess..."

The hoarse voice poured from the figure’s throat, yet by that dim lantern all could clearly see that his throat, too, was pierced through by iron spikes.

Not only did his wounds seep black blood; his eyes did as well. Scalding mercury had utterly eaten away his eyes, and molten steel had been poured into his ears.

And so he could only weep in pain, could only... keen. The sound was immeasurably forlorn, like the end of days descending.

"O Goddess... please forgive me... forgive my sins..."

A chill, sinister wind howled up; the fetid reek billowed out from the gate once more, but this time it was not murky air—it was a toxic miasma.

"Back! Back!"

Everyone scattered in a panic to avoid the miasma, and in the chaos could only let that figure step out of the dark and come beyond the gate.

"What on earth... is that thing?"

Though they had guessed there might be new traps beyond the gate, none had expected that what lurked in the dark was not a mere trap, but... a person—or rather... a prisoner.

"Goddess? He said ‘Goddess’? Did he do something blasphemous and get locked up here to stand guard?"

"Damn it, spare us the obvious crap. The question is what do we do now? This freak looks tough as hell!"

"To hell with it—blast the bastard first!"

A hot-tempered mage was already gathering mana to hurl a probing strike.

Boundless firelight exploded with a roar; though a hasty attack, with several joining forces its power reached something truly fearsome.

The tall, gaunt figure finally halted; in his hollow eyes flowed endless pain, as if savage flames were about to swallow him whole.

Yet all slowly realized in mounting horror that no matter how the flames burned, they could not so much as damage the tattered robe on the prisoner’s body.

They had long known it couldn’t be solved so easily, but the result still made their blood run cold.

"O Goddess... please forgive my sins... I will atone."

In his humble plea, the prisoner did not attack, but raised the lantern in his hand.

Within the lantern, a ghostlike flame wavered, as if summoning something back.

"We can’t let him continue!"

A cold, sharp shout rang out; sensing by instinct that something was wrong, Margarita had already launched her attack. At her side, Paul, heir to the Sword King, swept in, his longsword like lightning.

But someone was faster than they were. In a blur, a blond figure flashed to the prisoner’s front; a pure-white blade lit the somber face, its icy edge wrapped in sacred radiance, and it drove fiercely into the prisoner’s body.

One blade into the neck, one into the heart.

Both were vital points.

But Moen’s face changed quickly as well.

Useless.

The strikes had clearly pierced the vitals; he was pouring in holy light to sear away corruption—yet the prisoner still stood unmoving.

He still held his gaunt body erect, gently swaying the lantern in his hand.

Clink.

Clink.

At that moment, everyone couldn’t help but look back in terror.

Because in the other stretch of darkness behind them, heavy breathing suddenly echoed.

Not one.

Countless.