Inside Radiant City, the court is in uproar. Outside, in a pocket between dimensions, a warship hangs steady in the void, as if waiting.

“So we just wait for Augustus’s plan to work? We don’t need to back them up? It’s Radiant City, hey—”

In the ship’s command room, a pale youth studies the city map, muttering in front of Aphelia’s friends.

“For now, any one of us entering Radiant City to help is impossible.”

Uncle Yi, the archer, pats the youth’s shoulder. He checks his arrows in silence. The lack of answers makes the youth’s temples throb.

“Come on, Uncle Yi, you never explain a thing...”

Lena sighs. She steps to his side and speaks softly.

“Oppenheimer, you don’t involve yourself with the world enough. That’s why you don’t get it.”

“Think it through. Who are the people in this room?”

Oppenheimer frowns and thinks hard for a few minutes. Then he answers.

“Lena, you’re the Southern Queen of the Nature Elves, one of the three queens—the Queen of Spells. If you join the fight, it’ll be read as the elves—at least the southern Nature Elves—declaring war on the Church, right?”

Lena nods, urging him on.

“Uncle Yi... that’s even simpler. The Wandering man from the East, known to all. He slew Fafnir for the Church, then, a few years ago when the war ended, traded his merits for a fief. That pretty much declared their ties done.”

“Then... Violet—”

“Address me with respect!”

She cuts him off without mercy. He scratches his head and grins, letting it pass.

“Lady Violet, third daughter of the Northern Grand Duke, yet named the sole heir. If she’s seen in Radiant City on this operation...”

“And you,” Lena adds, “one of the heirs to the continent’s largest arcane alchemy workshop—the Alchemists.”

“So you do get how serious the fallout is?”

Lena breathes out. The situation is awkward. Their Hero party that beat the Demon King is a mosaic of elite bloodlines. Wherever they show up, the great powers will assume they represent their peoples.

“What about Phoenix? He...”

“He’s already inside. He’s part of the plan.”

For reasons unknown, Radiant City launched an extreme trial against Aphelia. Her old friend—Augustus—almost turned theater into truth, trying to slip a grand deception under Radiant City’s sacred gaze.

If not for the covert hints Augustus sent, Lena might have lost her cool and marked him as an enemy.

The thought pricks at her. The boy who once shouted knightly glory now plays cunning. They’re out of moves; only if Augustus’s plan succeeds can they receive them.

She had thought of a sudden strike when Augustus tried to take Aphelia away. But he shared not a shred of useful intel beforehand. That screams of an unimaginable force inside the Church. Or—

“Don’t overthink it, Lena. Think where we hide Aphelia.”

Yi sees right through her, speaking while his fingers test each arrow’s spine.

“This is too tangled. None of us is ready. The College of Cardinals stands against us. It’s practically the Pope’s will. With his reach... even if Aphelia’s a Hero, she could end up without a grave.”

Lena’s voice falters. Being a queen means weighing more. She can’t stand only as friend and kin.

“So... by the same logic, Aphelia can’t safely hide in any major faction...”

Violet is about to sum up when the ship’s alarms shriek. Her mood, already frayed, snaps. She slams the table, then looks to Oppenheimer at the monitors.

“It’s Augustus. They’re here. Get ready to receive.”

He drops the line and bolts for the control room. The others grab their weapons and head for the hatch. Once the warship tears the void, they’ll leap out and back Aphelia.

“Augustus, faster. I can take it—your girlfriend can’t!”

Aphelia’s Holy Sword catches a thrust. Each time she shifts to riposte, a second blade darts in, timed like a trap. She’s forced to stay on defense.

She’s also cradling a girl in a bishop’s crimson—a teenage bishop who drove a magic arrow through Aphelia in court.

The girl’s state is grim. An ink-black dagger has pierced her belly. Even Aphelia’s holy arts can only ease the wound, not cure it.

Breaking out of the Holy City just got much harder.

“Miss Aphelia, don’t mind me...”

The pink‑haired girl in her arms bites back the pain, casts a spell shield, and smiles.

Aphelia’s eyes burn wet. The Holy Sword flares. A blade of sanctified light scythes into the soldiers. No restraint. No mercy.

Ahead, Augustus grits hard. Veins stand on his forehead. He’s throwing himself at the Church’s ward, trying to break it. He wishes Aphelia could alter it, but unless you’re a registered Church member, you have no authority to touch it.

While Aphelia works the defense, more trackers spill onto the far side of the street.

“Found them—there!”

A shrill whistle rips the air. Knights in iron and Inquisitors rush the corner, aiming to steamroll them with a tide of bodies.

Aphelia sighs. She murmurs an apology, settles the pink-haired girl gently against the wall.

The girl only shakes her head. As a mage, her stamina can’t match a warrior’s. And that black blade feels like it bites at the soul.

The crowd is within arm’s reach. Aphelia draws a deep breath. The Arcane Power she’d cast outward flows back into her core. The silver-white Holy Sword dims. She sets it low across her waist in an odd stance.

The surge of bodies is a storm tide, ready to drown a lone skiff in a gale. She can see their faces now—warped, feverish.

Then—only a soft sigh.

“Ancient Martial Flow—Autumn Silence.”

The Holy Sword’s restrained light traces a modest arc. Aphelia lets the breath go, turns, and lifts the girl from the corner. She doesn’t spare the hunters a glance.

The raging wave freezes, as if time itself hiccuped. That tsunami of menace collapses into a terrible stillness.

Tempered steel plate meets her cut and yields like tofu blocks—cleanly parted, left as useless scrap.

The fanatics stop not by choice. Their bodies are already divided by a single stroke of blade aura.

On Radiant City’s white walls, two harsh strokes of crimson bloom, sudden and stark.