Lelia couldn’t comprehend what was happening before her eyes.

That punch she’d thrown moments ago carried her resolve to die together. She’d clearly shattered Silphiel’s heart!

Everyone knew: when killed, a person dies. Could someone live with a shattered heart?

“Impossible. Why are you still alive?” Lelia murmured, eyes wide, head shaking slightly as if denying the unreasonable truth. “I shattered your heart.”

Silphiel tossed aside her crooked helmet, stood shakily while leaning on her warhammer, spat out blood foam, and said darkly, “A heart? If I had one, I might’ve died by your hand just now.”

Lelia didn’t understand those words.

“Still, that hit really hurt,” Silphiel winced, quickly reciting a prayer for a major healing Divine Art. Her flashing red health bar turned green, and she sighed slightly in relief.

The azure lake in Silphiel’s eyes filled with blood-red, reflecting Lelia’s trembling form.

“Forget it. You’ll be my nourishment to mend my damaged body.”

The instant those words fell, Lelia realized Silphiel had vanished before her—melting like dissolving ice.

Simultaneously, fair arms embraced her from behind. The figure radiated no warmth at all.

Golden strands of hair spilled over Lelia’s chest. Under her terrified gaze, they darkened into ink-black.

Like tentacles, they coiled around her limbs.

“Magic? How can you use magic?”

Divine Art was the faithful’s weapon; magic belonged only to the faithless. The two were mutually exclusive—a truth known to all.

Silphiel leaned close to Lelia’s ear, mouth stretching into a grotesque grin, laughing demonically with devilish glee: “...Guess why.”

She gently caressed Lelia’s cheek, speaking leisurely:

“Why does the Holy Maiden’s skin stay flawless? Why is every strand of her hair so silky—as if blessed by gods, called the Goddess of Light’s beloved daughter?”

Lelia felt true fear. Death itself might not terrify her, but a gruesome end was different.

She sensed the hair penetrating her skin, draining her blood, her life.

“You… you’re a de—”

Her voice cut off abruptly.

Surging hair engulfed her body. Moments later, a withered corpse was thrown out, shattering on the ground.

Silphiel licked her lips. “Not bad taste. Didn’t expect this wretch to still be a virgin. But it’s not enough—the injury won’t heal with so little.”

She pondered calling young, strong Holy Knights down from above, blaming heretic ambushes.

No one would suspect the revered Holy Maiden of such carnage.

As she schemed, footsteps echoed from the other staircase.

Rodrika?

---

Shirley, high priestess of the Shadow Sect, halted at the opposite exit.

Hazy moonlight bathed a cloaked figure standing before her. She sensed no power fluctuation from him. Yet his terrifying killing intent made the air freeze.

Her warrior’s intuition screamed: this was a ‘monster’ she’d never faced.

How many corpses forged such heavy killing intent?

She dared not move rashly. “Who are you, sir? Why block my path?”

“You needn’t know me,” the figure replied. “I offer guidance. You moved your followers, but they haven’t gone far. Patrolling Heretic Inquisitors will find them soon.”

Shirley’s eyes narrowed. “What must I do?”

“Smart people make talk simple,” he said. “Tell me all you know of the Holy Maiden. As her former mentor, you hold secrets others don’t.”

Shirley sighed softly, shaking her head slightly. “You may be disappointed, sir. I know little—but I suspect her entire life story is fake.”

“She claims to be Countess Mary’s illegitimate daughter from the eastern port nation Kains. Yet that countess lived in seclusion, rarely seen. How could such a woman suddenly have a bastard child?”

“If you wish, investigate Kains Port. You’ll find something.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Shirley had checked—the countess was dead. The manor lay abandoned, tended by a few servants. Silphiel never returned after becoming Holy Maiden.

Silphiel was meticulous; finding clues there was next to impossible.

“One more thing,” Shirley added, seeking leverage. “That woman uses magic.”

Gao Ying frowned. Magic?

In this world, magic and Divine Art clashed. Magic users were faithless; Divine Art demanded devout faith.

Silphiel, the Holy Maiden, wielded renowned Divine Art. If she used magic too, it shattered common sense.

No—exceptions existed. Like himself. As the Hero, he used both.

Gao Ying never understood why: was it the Hero’s privilege, or his transmigrator nature?

If this priestess spoke truth, could Silphiel be—

The figure fell silent. Shirley panicked, realizing her claim sounded unbelievable. “Sir, I’m not lying! I saw it!”

She glanced back. Rodrika had arrived from the stairs behind. Noticing Rodrika merely watched without attacking, Shirley’s eyes darted. She understood instantly.

Rodrika was this figure’s subordinate.

“...Additional intel, Miss Rodrika. Your father lives. He told me: if I met you, convey this—”

Rodrika froze, caught off guard. “What?”

After a pause, the high priestess declared solemnly: “You are the Holy Maiden chosen by fate!”