When the soul within the prisoner was purified, the glow in the lantern in his hand quickly dimmed as well.

All the demon hounds suddenly went still, as if turning back into statues.

"Is it over?"

Someone, still shaken, took the wand in his hand and carefully poked a demon hound.

No response.

Nor any sense of magic flowing.

They really weren’t moving.

It really... is over.

"We... we survived!"

Many people seemed to go limp, slumping to the ground, showing the joy of having escaped with their lives.

They had been through a fierce battle at death’s edge, a hopeless predicament, and the brutal sight of companions having great chunks of flesh and even limbs torn off by the savage demon hounds before being teleported away.

And... that damned deadweight teammate.

Those who were still here now were all overjoyed, some nearly moved to tears.

"Hooray!"

A dark figure suddenly sprang up in a kip-up and cheered with delight.

"It's over, I won't be eliminated; my sacrifice worked! Long live the Goddess!"

"Worked my ass!"

Beside him, Seville, whose eyebrows had almost been singed off by the explosion, was gripping his sword with trembling hands, itching to run this pig of a teammate through on the spot; the others nearby looked none too kindly either:

"Bastard, you almost got everyone killed, you know that?"

"Hehe."

Arag, lucky to be alive, scratched his cheek; a glint flashed in his eyes, then he gave a bashful grin:

"In the end it turned out fine, didn't it?"

Seville rolled her eyes, ignored this useless fool, and swiftly turned his gaze to the blond figure standing at the very center of the stage.

Fallen into a daze.

As expected, he really is handsome.

If only I could...

At that thought, Seville suddenly bit his lip.

Handsome he was, but that pert and adorable, buxom maiden at his side was such an eyesore.

Yet she did look quite a match for that handsome, dashing man.

Still, that Lea is to become a saintess; I should still have a chance, right?

...

"Tsk tsk, you’re really something, Duke’s son."

Moen had just come down from the prisoner when the stubbled swordsman Paul sidled up with practiced familiarity, grinning as he slung an arm over Moen’s shoulder:

"From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were anything but simple. You look soft-skinned and delicate-looking, but you feel like a lion at rest. My intuition doesn’t lie. So, how many monsters did you kill last night?

Don’t tell me three or five—I won’t buy it."

"Eleven."

Moen glanced at him and said.

"More or less."

"Eleven, huh. I only got nine."

Paul’s eyes lit up. "Interested in comparing notes later..."

"Paul!"

"Reta!"

Before Paul could finish, two angry voices cut him off.

He turned, bewildered, to find his saintess candidate Margarita and Anne beside her, both flustered and furious, immediately issuing an order to their knight:

"Kill him for me!"

"Huh?"

Paul froze.

He still had his wits about him and of course wasn’t about to act.

But Reta, who obeyed Anne completely, let out a roar and came thundering over, stamping footprint after footprint into the ground.

Ignoring Reta for the moment, Paul looked at Moen, his expression odd:

"Did you do something just now?"

"No, I even praised them earlier."

"Praised?"

"Yes."

Moen said solemnly:

"I said they were big."

"How did you put it?" Paul asked curiously.

"Four aces."

Moen said calmly:

"You look like a card player too. Isn’t that big enough?"

Paul: "..."

It is big enough.

But the way he used it...

Paul clapped Moen on the shoulder in admiration and gave a thumbs-up:

"Impressive. After this trial ends, we might just become friends."

At these words, Anne’s face twisted instantly, and Margarita’s deep, noble features darkened terribly.

Paul slunk back to stand before Margarita, plastered on a fawning grin, and tried to give her a shoulder rub, only to have his hand slapped away in utter disgust.

As for Reta, when he was still a few steps from Moen, he halted at Anne’s command.

The Death Contract Writ was still in effect; if Reta truly attacked Moen now, he too would die under the terrible power of the curse.

So at this moment, though seething with the urge to kill, they could do nothing.

"This grudge, this old lady will pay back sooner or later!"

The haughty loli gnashed her teeth, her chest heaving with rage; in all her life, she had never been insulted like this.

Twice, no less!

...

"Congratulations."

Shaking off the death glares from Anne and Margarita, Moen heard a crisp clapping.

Freya lightly patted her small hands together, her smile still gentle and saintly, without a hint of flaw:

"After this, I’m afraid no one will call you the princess’s pampered pretty boy or a pushover to be kneaded at will anymore. After this trial, the name Moen Campbell may spread across the continent."

"Then I have to thank you for that."

Moen shrugged.

"Me?"

Freya blinked. "I don’t quite understand what you mean, Mr. Moen."

"Leaving aside those two saintess candidates who were about to make a move, if Miss Freya hadn’t held back, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have had the chance to put on such a show."

Moen smiled.

"Naturally, I should thank you."

"Are you mocking me for deliberately holding back?"

Freya pouted slightly. "I’m not like you; I’m not the fighting type. Besides, I even gave up a precious item, and Bryan did his part too. How can you say that, Mr. Moen?"

"Not the fighting type, huh?"

Moen’s gaze flickered as he suddenly looked at the pale man in black behind her.

Moen hadn’t gathered much intel on Freya’s combat ability, but whether from newspapers or various tales, this "Shadow Wraith" of a divine attendant knight was notorious for his ferocity—a powerhouse who dared to take on magical beasts head-on at a very young age.

Yet up to now, he’d only been hiding in the back using magic, like some middle-parted, suspender-wearing poser.

"Hmph."

Perhaps noticing Moen’s gaze, Bryan snorted coldly, said nothing, and quickly merged into Freya’s shadow.

That cold, simping-like gaze, however, was still prickingly sharp.

"By the way."

Freya lightly swept her long hair aside to block Moen’s line of sight; with a twist of her wrist, she produced a bouquet from who knew where.

The pale yellow blossoms carried a sweet fragrance, just like before.

"Opportunities are rare—let me ask again, Mr. Moen, do you want my flowers now?"

"No."

Moen replied expressionlessly.

"I see."

Freya stroked the delicate petals and sighed:

"What a pity."

...

Moen returned to Lea’s side, looking at her slightly pale, pretty face.

"How do you feel? You okay?"

"I’m fine."

Lea stroked the crystal in her hand and shook her head. "I’m all right."

She was about to say something when she felt a figure draw close and lean lightly against her.

A familiar, lingering scent enveloped her.

"Hm?"

"Ahem, took a lot out of me."

Moen gave a few dry coughs and said stiffly,

"Let me lean a bit."

"Okay."

Lea looked at Moen, suddenly winked playfully, and leaned toward him as well:

"I think it took a bit out of me too."

"...Then lean together?"

"...Mm, together."

...

"Now... can we pass through the gate?"

After a brief rest, someone suddenly said this.

The quiet crowd stirred again.

Only this time, no one was eager to rush ahead; all eyes involuntarily fell on the two figures at the very front, who seemed, from overexertion, to be leaning lightly against each other for support.

After everything just now, the two of them had earned the right to stand at the front of everyone.

"Then let’s go."

Moen and Lea exchanged a knowing glance.

Moen bent down, picked up the lantern, checked it briefly, and, confirming it was just an ordinary lantern, flicked his fingers; the lantern lit again.

He lifted the lantern and walked in front.

Lea followed closely behind him.

After they passed through the golden gate, the saintess candidates and their knights went next, followed by the others, filing in orderly.

After the fighting just now, and with the Death Contract Writ in effect, no one was inclined to make trouble at this point.

The lantern lit the darkness; after a stretch of passageway, there was a staircase leading upward.

As they walked up the stairs, Lea at Moen’s side suddenly asked softly:

"By the way, Moen, you don’t seem to like Miss Freya, do you?"

"Something like that."

"Why?"

"Intuition."

Moen answered, "I feel there’s something about her that makes me uncomfortable."

"I see," Lea nodded.

"What is it?"

Moen looked at her. "Is there a problem?"

"No... I just think... Miss Freya is a remarkable person."

"Hmm?"

"Isn’t that what the newspapers say? That she cured a plague in a southern country and saved many people."

Lea looked full of admiration. "Someone like that should be a good person, right?"

"A good person?"

Moen smiled and, taking advantage of the instant when the lantern’s glow flickered and darkness returned, quickly pinched the girl’s exquisitely soft little face. "Who can ever say for sure?"

"Hmph."

Lea puffed out her cheeks and huffed:

"Anyway, Moen, you're not a good person."

"Sure, sure, I'm the bad guy; that's universally acknowledged; everyone says so."

Moen was about to crack a few jokes, but suddenly cut himself off, because light appeared on the stairs ahead.

They had reached the end.

The two exchanged a glance and quickened their pace.

Soon, endless light descended. After a brief moment of adjusting to the brightness, they took in the entire scene before them.

And then... they fell into silence.

"Are we there? Are we there?"

The crowd behind them quickly poured out, and after seeing clearly what lay before them, they too fell into silence.

A deathly silence.

A long while.

At last, the cool-headed Margarita was the first to recover. She looked over at Moen beside her and asked, her expression solemn:

"Mr. Moen, can you tell me..."

"Where is the person we're supposed to save...?"