With a wet pop.

A dagger plunged into a body.

Crimson blood splashed out, reflecting dozens of equally dumbfounded faces.

Whether it was the saintess candidates and their knights, the prodigies taking part in the trial, or the supporters flocking around Freya, they all froze at the sight.

In their bright little eyes, great bewilderment surfaced.

Some even immediately suspected they were under an illusion, snapping their gaze to Arag, who was trailing not far from Moen.

But Arag vigorously waved his hands with an innocent face.

Not me, I didn't do it, don't accuse me!

"What are you doing?"

Let alone the others, even Moen—who had been on guard against Freya all along—felt his mind go blank instinctively for a few seconds.

Because no matter how he thought about it, the very first thing Freya did when she suddenly made her move... was actually to drive a blade into her own knight?

What the hell is this?

Opening by sacrificing a teammate?

"Bryan, my Bryan, does it hurt a lot?"

Freya ignored Moen's question for the moment and yanked the dagger out of Bryan's body; more blood poured forth as if without end. She was doing something utterly horrifying, yet the smile on her face remained so gentle.

"Don't worry, it won't hurt for long."

"Cough, cough."

Bryan clutched his wound and, weakly, half-kneeled before Freya.

He raised his head; on that ghostly pale face surfaced an indescribably complex expression.

Shock, horror, bewilderment... then acceptance, and within that acceptance, a trace of unspeakable pain.

"Lady Freya... have you chosen this path after all?" Bryan's voice trembled.

"No helping it, Bryan, this is the only path."

"It shouldn't be like this... it shouldn't be like this... I..."

Bryan seemed to want to say something, but his bloodless lips suddenly pressed tight, helplessness in his eyes.

At last, with a soft sigh, he let go, letting the blood drip.

Freya's palm tenderly brushed Bryan's cheek. She raised her head and swept her gaze over everyone; in the end, that gentle look fell upon Moen.

"Can you still not tell what I'm doing?"

She said softly:

"In words you can understand, it's that... I've defected."

Clang—

In the next instant, thunder rumbled.

A sudden gale whipped up the thin blood mist around them.

While everyone was still mired in incomprehension at the scene, a razor flash of steel had already crossed the not-so-great distance to... Freya's neck.

Freya's supporters hadn't even reacted; the blade needed only the lightest sweep and this candidate called the closest to the saintess would be instantly beheaded, a beauty snuffed out.

However, the blade stopped before that slender neck, leaving only a thin trail of blood on fair skin and going no further.

The same bloodline appeared on Moen's neck; his face turned grim:

"The Death-Contract Writ!"

"Yes, the Death-Contract Writ."

Freya tilted her head slightly, making the arc of her swan-like neck even more graceful.

"Mr. Moen, if you kill me, your own head will roll at once too. Of course, with the speed of teleportation magic and the Church's techniques, within a few seconds they might still be able to put your head back on."

"But once you're eliminated, you can't do anything at all—including protecting your beloved little saintess."

She offered no resistance, merely smiled at Moen, yet that flawless smile was nauseating in Moen's eyes.

Moen snapped his head around to look at Margarita.

She was the one who had produced the Death-Contract Writ back then...

But Margarita only shook her head with a strange look. "Nothing to do with me."

Moen did not move the blade away from Freya's neck and continued asking:

"But you signed the Death-Contract Writ too, didn't you? Why are you fine!"

The Death-Contract Writ had been brought out precisely because Margarita didn't trust Freya—the saintess candidate with the most supporters—so Freya's signing of it had been heavily verified; there was no way to play any tricks on that.

And Moen's move just now had confirmed the writ's effect.

Yet earlier, Freya had clearly stabbed her own knight, and nothing had happened.

"Of course I'm fine, because I won't hurt anyone."

Freya lowered her head: "Right, my Bryan."

"Of course."

Growing ever weaker—unable even to stand—Bryan showed a fervent, adoring smile:

"Lady Freya would never hurt me. This is her love for me."

"..."

Damn!

This freaking works too?

What kind of simp superpower is this?

Moen's eye twitched; he snapped his gaze to Margarita again.

Margarita gave a wry smile:

"This was to prevent friendly fire."

"..."

Moen was taken aback, then realized.

If the Death-Contract Writ's curse triggered merely upon harming someone, then Arag—who pulled that boneheaded maneuver earlier and accidentally hurt quite a few people—would have been sent away already.

However, Bryan's sky-breaking simp soul was clearly an exception. After Freya showed such aberrant behavior, even the dullest would keep their guard up against her.

Including her supporters: they simply thought Freya had a high chance of becoming the next saintess and placed their bets early; they weren't true simps.

In his peripheral vision, those supporters were clearly in wait-and-see mode amid the abnormal situation before them. Even that flamboyant ugly beefcake from before, seeing Moen's blade at Freya's neck, only let his eyes darted nervously and made no move.

However...

Precisely because of that, the unease in Moen's heart grew stronger.

Knowing full well she had no effective means of attack, Freya still launched an assault, even if the first victim was her own holy attendant knight.

But it was exactly this glaring abnormality...

"What exactly are you trying to do? What's your aim? And you said you've defected? Who are you representing? Or..."

Ding.

Golden chains suddenly snaked out from beneath Freya's feet, binding her tight.

The others made their move. They couldn't harm her directly, but at least they could restrain her actions and stop these baffling moves.

Yet even with her delicate body bound so tightly by cold chains, Freya's smile did not fade in the slightest.

"Oh my, oh my, Mr. Moen, everyone, don't look at me with such scary eyes."

"I said it: I won't hurt anyone."

"I just need a bit of cooperation from you all..."

In an instant, Moen's heart clenched.

Because that familiar premonition of death exploded in his mind; almost before his thoughts could react, his body moved on instinct.

A blade aimed at a vital spot brushed past Moen. He snapped his head around and saw... the flamboyant ugly man in a tight white formal suit.

"You..."

Are you a simp too?

Moen instinctively wanted to blurt the question, but before he could, he saw that the flamboyant ugly man also looked utterly incredulous.

"I... am not... I didn't... I didn't intend to... but... I can't control it."

He stared at his hands gripping the weapon, both trembling, terror flooding his eyes.

But in the next moment, the terror in his eyes turned to dread.

With a wet pop, he lowered his head in confusion.

A blood-stained tip of a blade poked out from his chest.

"Cough... cough..."

The flamboyant ugly man coughed up clots of blood and painfully turned his head.

What he saw was a familiar, yet equally dazed face.

It was his companion.

A companion he lived and worked with day and night, bound by deep feelings.

"Wh-why? Didn't we agree... to go all the way... to use the money we earn here... to travel together? Did you... choose Freya?"

"No... I don't know..."

The other beefy, jowly man had tears of pain at the corners of his eyes: "But I can't control myself."

A red line appeared across the jowly man's neck, and his head fell to the ground.

Almost at the same time, a pure white glimmer rose, wrapped his entire body and head, and vanished from the spot.

The Death-Contract Writ's curse had been triggered.

And the teleportation scroll was triggered as well.

But it wasn't over yet.

Puff.

Puff.

Puff.

Puff.

More sounds of blades piercing flesh rang out. In pain, people looked back to see a face they knew.

Senior Fannie stared in confusion at Senior Vicky behind her.

Arag looked in horror at Seville behind him.

Even Faye lost her usual languor, slowly lowering her head to stare blankly at the spear that ran through her body.

"Cough... cough... Little Thunder?"

Faye frowned, her face pained:

"If you think the pay I offered is too low, just say so. I can raise it. Why resort to something this extreme?"

"No... I'm not."

The adventurer called Thunderlance lost her coldness; childlike bewilderment surfaced:

"I can't control myself, I can't..."

Veins throbbed at her forehead, the muscles in her arms spasming as if she were constantly fighting something.

But the outcome was already set.

A red thread appeared on her neck, and pure white light flared as well, wrapping her up.

In that instant, Moen's eyes flew wide.

Because at the instant Thunderlance vanished, Moen saw, tucked among her hair, something utterly at odds with her usual cold demeanor... a small bouquet.

Pale yellow flowers, now speckled with blood, all the more eerie; clearly pinned in her hair, yet as if rooted in soil, they swayed, swayed with the breeze.

"Flowers?"

Moen's thoughts cleared all at once.

[Mr. Moen, do you want my flowers?]

Moen snapped his head around, looked at the crowd, and asked, "You guys haven't all accepted Freya's flowers, have you!"

"Flowers?"

Most people showed bewildered expressions.

But that was all within Moen's expectations, because the majority here refers to those who, after the sudden backstabbing by their companions just now, were gravely wounded yet still remained here—the majority that was now less than half of what it had been a moment ago.

As for the remaining small portion...

Moen's gaze fell on the flashy, ugly man who had just ambushed him; the bouquet of fresh flowers on his chest was so fresh and dewy it looked ready to drip.