Flames surged upward.

Like dancing sprites, crimson flames flowed and shifted at Moen’s side, gradually igniting those complex array lines, climbing along the pitch-black wall of the gigantic tower toward the heights of the firmament.

Not scorching, nor blazing.

But when that light filled the entire space, what it illuminated were a million faces twisted in utter terror.

“Dark god?”

The old woman howled in a mad screech, “Another dark god? You actually colluded with a dark god too? You aren’t…”

“Relax, I haven’t colluded with a dark god.”

Moen said softly, “I’m just borrowing its power for a moment.”

The flames finally climbed to the massive amplification magic array atop the tower, and clusters of fire blossomed like midsummer lotus, seductively beautiful.

“Ah!”

Piercing screams rang out as flames that burned all things began to ignite on the malformed figures.

“I didn’t expect you to wield the power of a dark god as well!”

The old woman’s deeply wrinkled face suddenly twisted into a snarl, more aberrations erupting across her body. In the span of a few breaths, she had ceased to look like a “human.”

“But so what? So what if it’s the power of a dark god? It’s not the dark god in person. You’re still just a mere human, and you’re badly hurt, aren’t you—so weak even I can see it.”

“And I…”

“And we…”

The old woman raised her arm and cried out, “We are a full one million!”

The sea of mire raged.

Roared.

Surged.

A sky-high black tide swept up, as if to drown the world.

A colossal shadow loomed, gazing coldly down at the immeasurably small blond man.

What does a million mean?

If a town has a thousand people, then you must slaughter a thousand towns to reach a million dead.

If one million people each spat once, they might drown Moen outright.

Even if it were a million pigs lying here for Moen to butcher at will, it would keep him killing from dawn to dusk till he dropped dead, and still he wouldn’t finish.

And now, these one million had gathered as one; their anger, their roars, the mere aftershocks of it could grind Moen, this little pebble, into dust.

“Indeed, with just this, it seems a bit insufficient.”

Moen coughed lightly and unobtrusively wiped the blood from his palm.

His physical wounds had not fully healed.

The rejection from the alchemical core was still tearing at his body without pause.

As he was now, he could be said to be at his weakest—Lea might even be able to knock him flat with a single punch.

However.

Moen remained composed.

He even inclined his head slightly to that sky-churning black tide, as if in admiration of the might formed by a million souls gathered together.

Then he closed his eyes.

A practiced invocation.

“Black Book.”

[Here.]

In the depths of his consciousness, the black book, as if already prepared, awoke from its slumber; words of response surfaced upon its pages.

“Can you separate out the divine favor of the King of Wither?”

[Yes.]

The Black Book quivered gently. [But.]

[Are you sure you want to do this?]

“Certain. With no external interference right now, I can suppress the rejection temporarily. Do it.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Moen replied.

Toward that boon from the dark god, he felt no reluctance at all.

[...]

This time, the Black Book said nothing more. Accompanied by a rapid fluttering, a blank page detached itself.

Moen opened his eyes, and the page appeared in his palm.

It was no longer blank; an image had surfaced upon it.

It was a hideous, gigantic eye, halos unfurling—lifelike, ghastly, and majestic.

“Th-this… what is that?”

As the page appeared, the overwhelming black tide halted abruptly. The old woman’s ugly face surfaced at the very center of the tide as she shrieked in terror:

“No! You can’t!! You can’t do that!! That is… could that be?!!”

Realizing what the page in Moen’s palm represented, the emotion called fear spread through the entire sea of mire in an instant.

The old woman’s face turned fawning and base again: “Calm down, calm down, please calm down—we can talk. The one who saves us doesn’t have to be that girl. You can take your girl and go. We can choose someone else—we aren’t picky…”

“Not picky? That sounds like you’re reviewing a dish.” Moen’s gaze remained mocking as his fingers slowly caressed the page.

“No, even so, you cannot kill us. Do you know the consequences? Do you know what will happen if you kill us? We are a million people—that is the sin of a full million souls!

Even an executioner would be tormented by such guilt, let alone you.

I know you’re a good person. To travel with Her Highness the saintess, you must be good. Since you are good, please…”

“When,” Moen interrupted the old woman, speaking slowly, “did I ever say I was a good person?”

“Eh?”

“On the contrary, I’m no good person. I am the villain.”

Moen looked at the stunned old woman, looked at that million souls, and said softly, word by word:

“I am, in this story… the officially designated sole blond villain!”

With that, Moen slammed the page down onto the array lines beneath his feet.

Boundless crimson flame soared into the sky.

All the array lines and magic arrays were incinerated in an instant.

Because there is no magic that can amplify this thing—this authority that comes from the dark god itself.

Even if it’s just the tiniest portion.

“Behold, everyone.”

Moen clapped and shouted:

“The salvation you want, the sun you want, has risen!”

And so a sun, at the top of that black giant tower, truly rose.

Infinite searing light tore through the clouds and drove away the blood mist.

It illuminated this land that had never known a sun.

...

...

“About nine more to go. I win, yay!”

In front of the black giant tower, Anne—covered in blood—stroked the crystal in her hand that was about to be filled, then cast a glance at Margarita beside her and couldn’t help a smug smile, thrusting out her chest.

Although they were jointly fighting these twisted monsters surrounding the tower, Reta, the war machine, still outstripped Paul—whose swordsmanship was outstanding—by no small margin in kills.

At this rate, the next saintess’s position would be in her bag!

“I advise you not to get so excited yet. It isn’t over. And also…”

Margarita wiped the blood from her cheek and sneered:

“Also, that seat of saintess—you have to finish things here to be alive to sit in it!”

Beneath their feet, monsters were still surging up through that narrow stairway in a steady, self-sacrificing stream—so dense it seemed endless.

At this rate, they would soon be exhausted to death. And who knew if exhaustion would even trigger the teleportation scroll.

“Tch, fair point.”

Thinking of that, Anne’s face changed as well, and she ground her teeth: “Damn Freya—died so easily and didn’t even tell us how long we’re supposed to hold out. This dump doesn’t even have a sun. We can’t just… huh?”

Anne, in the middle of grousing, suddenly froze, and stiffly lifted her head bit by bit.

Beside her, Margarita, who sensed the anomaly earlier than she did, had already gone pale as paper.

Was it an illusion…? Why did she feel like the sky was getting bright… Damn it, not an illusion—the sky really was brightening.

And the sun had risen—right above their heads!

“Is-is-is-is that a dark god?”

Anne naturally recognized the essence of that sun at a glance, and her eyes almost popped out of her head:

“Why would a dark god descend directly on a place like this? This Canterwell is under the Church’s control—don’t tell me…”

Anne blanched. “The Church has been wiped out? Is it the end of the world? Wh-what do we do—I haven’t even used the saintess’s guiding power to create a world where only A is considered beautiful—how can I…”

“Calm down!”

Margarita, having recovered her composure, barked, “As much as I agree with that pathetic dream of yours, look clearly first—that is not a dark god in person. That’s only a dark god’s power, without the dark god’s will!”

“Seems… you’re right.”

“And also… look around you.”

“Around?”

Anne followed Margarita’s direction of gaze—and then… couldn’t help widening her eyes.

Around them, those twisted monsters had stopped their heedless surging.

One by one they knelt on the ground, looking up at that sun that radiated endless power of destruction.

Their bodies were clearly burning, every inch of flesh convulsed in agony—yet they still looked so enamored, tears streaming down their faces.

“Thank… you.”

The monsters, fading away, knelt toward the sun and uttered human voices.

...

“Is it all… over?”

Watching the sea of mire being ceaselessly scorched by crimson flame, and the million people in it writhing in pain, Moen finally had the leisure to let out a long breath.

He felt as if something was missing from his body, an uncomfortable sensation.

After all, the divine favor of the King of Wither had been cut free from within him; feeling like this was normal.

“What a pity. Big Brother Wither’s stuff was pretty handy.”

Moen looked up at the sky; from this angle that sun looked incomparably magnificent:

“But compared to a pretty girl, it still falls far short—let alone Lea.”

“So losing the crimson flames isn’t that big a deal. It’s just…”

Moen gave a self-mocking smile:

“Having killed a full million people, I’m probably the greatest executioner in this world now.”

Just as the old woman had said—even if they were sinners, even if they had betrayed all humanity.

Killing a million people is still, in solid fact… a sin.

“Let’s hope there’s no retribution.”

Moen chuckled bitterly a few times, patted the dust from his clothes, and forced his weakened body to stand.

Next he still had to go congratulate Lea on becoming saintess—he couldn’t show up too bedraggled.

“Sinner…”

Moen’s steps halted abruptly.

The feigned easy smile that had just crept onto his face gradually receded, becoming bone-deep chill, even somewhat feral.

He stiffly turned his neck, and the voices he had thought were hallucinations grew clearer.

“Sinner…”

“You sinner!!”

“Murderer!! Executioner!!”

“Why did you kill us? I curse you! Curse you!!”

“Mom, it hurts!!”

In his sight, those struggling in the flames suddenly raised their anguished faces and let out furious roars toward Moen.

But in a momentary daze, Moen once again saw only them, wailing in agony, blood tears flowing from the corners of their eyes and incinerated in an instant.

"Wh-... what the hell?"

Moen suddenly staggered; a chill like a venomous snake coiled around his skin, loop after loop, and burrowed into his body.

He saw pitch-black miasma from who knew where, carrying whispers that made his head feel like it would split, wrapping around him.

His consciousness and his flesh began to be simultaneously eroded by something...

"What is this thing?"

Moen clutched his head, veins bulging on his forehead, his face truly contorting into a hideous grimace.

[Corruption.]

Black Book answered:

[Corruption formed from the hatred and resentment of millions in the moments before death.]

"Why would there be such a thing?" Moen was stunned.

[It's simple: as lambs raised by the dark god, when that being bestows them with feed, they naturally add a little something different.]

"So you're saying that dark god is the type who, even if not eating it yet, will spit into their own food in advance?"

[Yes.]

"Fuck, that's disgusting."

Moen gnashed his teeth. "So? What will happen to me?"

[Naturally, you will be eroded by the corruption and become a monster even I cannot predict.]