What filled her vision was pure white, without a single flaw, like fresh snow spread wall to wall.

It wasn’t just light; it felt solid, a tide of white pouring into every corner of the underground like mist made stone.

It was the color of hope, a pigment gifted by gods; for a heartbeat, Hazel forgot everything, and her hand rose, moth to flame.

A blood-red wall blossomed in front of her the next instant, dropping a heavy shadow over her like an eclipse.

Cut off from the light, she flared with sudden anger, a spark in the chest—then the heat hit her like a desert wind.

Even through the blood wall, even a hundred meters from the magic’s source, a furnace’s breath pressed through her clothes and bit her skin.

Her cloak caught fire; her brown curls spilled loose like a dark waterfall; water mana burst out on reflex, a wet shield against a kiln.

The wall before them took the brunt, burning hotter still; white fire baked it into something glass-like, a red pane turned translucent.

Yet it held, a faithful shield, a guardian gate; scorched crimson like a giant pair of shades, it let Hazel see the caster within.

Skela—familiar and strange—knelt with eyes closed, fingers laced; arrays more brilliant than white circled her like halos around a praying nun.

Beautiful. Sacred. Untouchable.

That last wasn’t praise; it was fact, as plain as stone. Within ten meters, every Blood Puppet had vaporized at the spell’s first breath.

Farther out, the Blood Puppets burned in pure white flames, as if a small sun had climbed their horizon and refused to set.

They writhed in silence, a dance without music; their charred joints couldn’t carry motion, and their struggle only sped their collapse.

Hazel swallowed, throat dry as dust; beside her, Adelaide kept feeding mana into the blood wall, and Hazel finally saw why she had warned her.

Holy Radiance, despite the pious name, was a weapon, not a hymn; centered on the caster, it released high-energy light that burned all things.

It was perilous, indiscriminate as wildfire; if Hazel had rushed in, she’d be ash and cinders like the Blood Puppets.

The royal family dared turn it into the Sarman Empire’s anthem only because Light-variant attuned were rare as snow in summer.

Other than Emperor Belior, history recorded only three who could wield Holy Radiance, names like stars in a thin sky.

Rare, and mighty.

Fully cast, its radius reached hundreds of meters, enough to tilt any battlefield, a true legion-class magic, a storm that moved armies.

Adelaide felt heat and force thrum through the wall into her palms; her gaze fixed on the kneeling figure, thought gleaming in blood-red eyes.

As a non-attribute attuned, Skela could reach into the Light-variant; in the script, she pierced Mira’s demonized armor with a Light Blade.

Simple reason: holy-light magic bites anything counted as evil by concept, like a priest’s bell that drives out night.

That included demonized Mira—and every creation of Blood Magic, red threads tied to a dark loom.

In theory, Skela’s Holy Radiance should have erased every Blood Puppet here, and smashed the blood wall like surf against a cliff.

Yet Adelaide felt none of the crushing pressure a legion-class spell should bring, no weight of thunder, no sky lowering.

In other words, Skela’s Holy Radiance had not fully taken root, a flower that failed to bloom.

The once gentle, sanctified air churned like a pot at boil, then settled too quickly, a candle guttering in wind.

It was the warning before a collapse—mana spent, support gone, the bridge trembling.

Sure enough, the dazzling white dimmed; darkness retook the underground like night reclaiming a valley.

Skela sagged where she knelt; her praying hands fell limp, and a harsh cough tore out of her like gravel.

It wasn’t a simple choke. Blood slipped from her lips and spattered her nun’s dress from the far north, fresh red over old brown.

Backlash, obvious as smoke after flame. And right then the heap of charred corpses stirred, like coals waking; broken hands rose from the pile.

Hazel’s pupils tightened, a blade drawn in the dark.

Because the Holy Radiance hadn’t finished, some Blood Puppets had used their fellows as shields and slipped the sun.

They lunged at Skela while she was defenseless, no array now to bar the way; two were close enough to taste her skin.

But someone was faster.

—Squelch.

Spell and shadow arrived together at their backs; deep-blue mana hooked through their shoulders, tearing flesh with a wet rip.

Their rush halted mid-stride; before a howl could form, a second blow landed like a hammer, heavy and sure.

The deep-blue mana didn’t bother with a beautiful lattice; it relied on weight and speed, smashing both Blood Puppets into chunks.

After that textbook flow, Hazel didn’t spare her work a glance; she cut through the debris and caught Skela as she fell.

“sercë tur— The Rudder of Blood—”

Her chant was quick and trembling, a river of words; her eyes held only Skela, and she ignored the other Blood Puppets closing like wolves.

“Care makes hands clumsy. Her Highness isn’t dying. Clear the trash, then heal,” Adelaide said, amused as a cat, with a flick of her wrist.

A single blood-thread lanced through every remaining Blood Puppet’s chest, stringing them like gourds on a cord; it swelled, then burst them to scraps.

Hazel didn’t react; she buried her face against Skela’s clothes, drew out fouled blood, and spat it aside like poison.

Damn it, Adelaide had liked that quip; not even a glare in return—she puffed her cheeks, a sulk as quick as a summer cloud.

As she’d said, Skela’s wounds weren’t instantly fatal—but only just; the cliff edge was close.

Skela, usually all bright spring and restless wind, now kept her eyes shut; her nun’s dress hung in tatters, slashed open to raw marks.

Some cuts had dried to brown; others still bled, thin lines of red, proof of a long fight carved into skin.

Worse than the outer wounds was the feverish heat, a brazier under her skin, sign of mana’s rebellion.

Adelaide knew that feeling too well; she eyed sweat-beaded Skela and shrugged inwardly, a leaf falling without a sound.

Runaway mana rampaged through her like a blender, shredding from within; blood must be seeping everywhere, a storm behind closed doors.

With wounds like this, even protagonist aura on her side, Skela should be bedbound six weeks at least, moon to moon.

That was Adelaide’s instant judgment.

She was wrong.

In the minutes that followed, she watched iron-blue skin turn rose, watched wounds close without seams, watched fever-tremors smooth to still water.

In a span too short to believe, Skela was mended inside and out; even her mana circuits felt steady, a river back in its banks.

All because of Hazel.

Adelaide stared at Hazel, head bowed in chant, guiding mana with single-minded focus; her own mind went white as chalk.

She’d meant the tease for panic, a light tap; she never expected her dearest friend to pull Skela back this fast, like spring dragging green from frost.

Yet there it was. While Adelaide gaped, Skela’s lashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes.

“...Zer?”

Her voice was thin as thread; her dazed gaze, dream-drunk, lifted a hand to trace Hazel’s cheek like moonlight on water.

“Did I... arrive at God’s dwelling already?”

“Idiot, you’re not dead.”

Hearing that intimacy, Adelaide’s eyes slid over again, a sideways glance sharp as a pin.

Wait—Zer? When did pet names get that sweet?

“But if not, why would I be here...”

Mid-sentence, clarity struck like cold water; Skela’s eyes flew wide.

“Seeing you...?”