Lev’s body hit the ground like a felled pine. Hart knew he’d bounce back like spring grass after frost. He moved to finish the kill, but the Inquisitor and Ment swept in like thunderheads. A blue beam fell from the sky like winter lightning. Hart sprang back a few steps, slipping from its path like a cat through rain.

He looked up. The Inquisitor hovered in the clouds, her eyes black and hollow like bottomless wells. He let out a thin, tired sigh, a reed bending under wind. Trouble. His hand set on the hilt like frost on iron.

Across the breach, the giant worm that had corroded the wall began to dissolve like rot under sun. It broke into a tide of worms and rats, a churning pelt of life sprinting for the wilds. Hart stood in their wake like a lone stone in a stream, barring the path of the Inquisitor and Ment.

The Inquisitor fired again, a line of blue to scour the Evil Entities like a cleansing monsoon. Hart saw it flash. He raised his sword and leapt, the straight blade glimmering pale green like willow leaves. He swung up and met the falling beam like steel against hail.

Sss—

The beam struck the blade and sizzled like fat in a pan. Hart frowned, wrist snapping like a whip. He turned the angle, and the attack splashed against the far wall like a miscast spear.

What?! The Inquisitor’s shock cracked like ice. She hadn’t imagined someone could take a beam braided with Purification Power head‑on.

He had caught it, but the price still bloomed like a hidden thorn. The blade in his hand unraveled into powder, fine as drifting sand, and poured from his fingers like ash.

Purification… Hart shook the last motes from his palm like dust from a sleeve. His hand closed into a fist, a stone in the river.

A Swordmaster without a sword is a bird without wings. Only a Sword Saint of the First Era could make all things serve as a blade; he couldn’t.

Still, he’d done his work. The rats and worms spilled out like a night flood, racing along Lucimia’s trail like hounds in the dark.

Lev had already recovered, springing back like a bent sapling. He rubbed his head, grabbed his greatsword, and rose straight as a tower to face Hart.

I underestimated you at the start.

Hart didn’t answer. His gaze cut across Lev like a winter knife.

The Inquisitor hovered above, face hard as flint. Cultist, accept judgment.

Up higher still, Ment’s double black eyes watched like eclipsed moons. His voice rolled from every direction like a low drum in fog. Now, every time you swing a sword technique or cast a spell, you’ll lose that skill forever.

The curse dug in at once, cold as rain under armor. Hart felt his mastery drain away like ink in water—use it once, and it would vanish like a name forgotten.

He looked over the three, one by one, calm as a lake under night. Even with the storm coming, his face didn’t ripple. He tapped his temple with his index finger, a quiet knock on a sealed door.

One’s not the true body—hard to trade. One’s a mortal, only a brief borrow of Purification Power. One revives. Good. You. He weighed them like stones in his palm, then chose like a hunter picking a single arrow.

He breathed in slow, filling his chest like a bellows. He let it out like mist. He looked at the Inquisitor. Do you know my Blessing?

Silence held like snow.

My Blessing is Infection. Not disease—just the word itself. If I die, I infect you with my death.

The Inquisitor’s heart jolted like a startled bird. She rushed to summon Purification Power, light gathering like frost—yet Hart’s words snapped the thought like a twig.

I already infected you. You won’t make it in time.

His body swelled like a stormseed. In under a second, he burst, a self-detonation like a thunderclap. At the same instant, the Inquisitor’s form ballooned like a bloated moon. Her thoughts stuttered, then stilled, and the sky let loose a red mist like dawn torn open.

Ment watched the dead Inquisitor, his tone flat as gravel. Borrowed Authority Power is still borrowed. They never learn how to wield it.

Lev stepped forward, voice steady like a marching drum. Lord Ment, what should we…?

Chase. Stop the girl named Lucimia. The Purification Deity’s Inquisitor is dead, then dead. Their support would split our energy. Now we can refuse, blame it on failure, and keep the flow.

Yes. Lev nodded, a hinge closing. I’ll lead the troops now.

—

Lucimia, where’s Nirael? Desty asked, reins tight, hooves drumming like rain on stone.

She won’t show for now. She needs to steady herself and absorb energy. We just keep going. Lucimia cast light, pale glow spilling through the black like lanterns on a river.

Oh. First stop, Wasan Village?

Mm. Lucimia nodded. She glanced back, through the tree gaps like slits in a shutter. Up there, the Inquisitor hung in the air like a trapped moth.

Self‑detonation. Blood spattered like a scarlet spray.

—

Looks like Ment really is a Dark Deity. Now you’ve got proof. Shebelle propped her chin at the window, her voice drifting like tea steam.

Anjelo sat on the couch, face unreadable as a sealed mask. Nirael’s also a Dark Deity. That’s your plan?

Not my plan—Nirael’s. I opposed it. I thought that older sister would have a way, but she didn’t want to use it. And why should she? She had no obligation to help me. In the end, choosing to aid Nirael was already kindness. Shebelle’s tone was cool as night water. The plan ends with sacrificing Nirael—one for one against Ment. I don’t want her dead.

Who knows. I don’t believe anything. Anjelo stood, a shadow rising. I’m going back to my research.

Wait. Shebelle stopped him, a thread tugged tight.

What?

What do you think a Dark Deity is?

Do we need to say it? Anyone with Authority Power is a Dark Deity.

That’s common belief. Shebelle hopped down from the sill, feet soft as feathers. If you want humans to find their own way to fight so‑called Dark Deities, you should use Authority Power, not shun it.

Why? Anjelo turned, puzzlement flickering like moth wings.

Shebelle stood in shadow, moonlight tracing only her lower half like silver ink. If—just if—the so‑called Dark Deities aren’t Dark Deities. The true Dark Deity is someone else. And Authority Power is a tool to fight the true Dark Deity.

What are you even saying? Anjelo’s mind stalled like a stuck gear.

You know how Authority Power is born. It’s rules. The final victor gains a complete Authority Power. So who issues those rules? Who grants the reward called Authority Power?

Isn’t it the Dark Deity passing the seat? Anjelo voiced the academy’s creed, iron‑clad as a plaque.

Is it? Shebelle’s smile tilted like a crescent blade. Why would a Dark Deity pass the seat to humans?

Anjelo hesitated, thoughts drifting like leaves.

Why do Dark Deities lose control? Why can we look at them directly? Why can magic wound them? Why do they get polluted? Shouldn’t a Dark Deity be pollution itself? Don’t you find it strange? Aside from a special power, they’re no different from ordinary folk, even bearing taint like rust.

Shebelle paused, then spoke on, voice slow as rain. In truth, this guess is right—and wrong. If—just if—Authority Power is only one percent of the true Dark Deity’s strength. He gives Authority to humans, then watches them slaughter each other like cocks in a pit. Do you think that’s possible?

The true Dark Deity? What are you saying? Who told you this? Nirael?

Shebelle didn’t answer. She spoke as if to the room, words falling like seeds. Anjelo, Nirael isn’t a Dark Deity. Ment isn’t either. None of the Dark Deities are Dark Deities. They’re only the true Dark Deity’s… toys.

— End of Volume Two.