Morris sat up silently, eyes fixed on the church’s sudden upheaval. After establishing dominance, the leader holstered his pistol and barked, “Everyone—corner! Now!”

Burly men strode in with cruel grins, overturning pews and prayer stands. People scrambled into corners, clutching their heads. Faint sobs already trembled in the air.

“Uncle Derin… Uncle Usak…” Sherlock murmured the guards’ names, rising to rush forward—until a grip tightened on her wrist. She turned. Morris regarded her coldly. Struggling slightly, she whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Stay quiet. Or don’t speak at all.” Morris frowned, gently pulling her into his arms, arm circling her shoulders. He watched the thugs in silence. The answer he’d waited for was moments away.

Sherlock’s forehead pressed against his chest. A faint scent filled her nose—shampoo mingled with boyish warmth, oddly comforting. She’d meant to pull free and check on her uncles… yet now felt reluctant to move. In this dire moment, this boy radiated unexpected safety.

“Going out now changes nothing. Wait for the police,” Morris murmured, holding her close. “Aren’t they protecting you? Don’t risk yourself.”

After a pause, muffled, reluctant grunts came from his arms.

*Good girl.*

Morris scanned the intruders. One masked man at the edge caught his eye. Black cloth hid his lower face, but those deceitful eyes—Morris remembered them well. Especially the “sincere” plea when he’d knelt and begged.

*So there is a secret.* He tightened his hold slightly. Confused, Sherlock relaxed against him.

“Hey! You lovebirds!” A thug boomed, striding over, knife glinting against his scarred face. “Need blood to learn obedience, huh?”

“Sorry! So sorry!!” Morris cried in trembling panic, clutching Sherlock. “We’re moving—right now!”

In one fluid motion, he yanked her hand and dashed to the corner the instant the blade rose. They crouched, heads bowed. Morris kept his face low—avoiding the masked man’s gaze.

The thug hesitated. *Too fast?* But the leader, seeing no stragglers left, announced loudly: “By Lunhai! We are robbers. Forget other names—remember only me: Kaoudos, the Devout One! Now… where lies this church’s greatest treasure?”

The masked man scanned the room—tense, yet bold with numbers.

Met with silence, Kaoudos exaggerated a frown. “Friends! We’re all Lunhai’s faithful. Why hide this secret? That treasure… even the Emperor craves it?”

Morris blinked. The priest’s face paled in horror.

*Old Man Norles… really? That’s basically shouting: “Bingo~ Got it! This way, sir~”*

“Oh? Our holy father hides something?” Kaoudos yanked the priest up, jammed the pistol into his mouth. Eyes sharp, voice a whisper: “Speak. Keep your life. By Lunhai’s name.”

Shoved down, the priest sat up with effort, terror in his eyes, teeth clenched. “I… don’t know what you mean…”

“Lying again?” Kaoudos’s eyes burned. “You—worthy of walking near the divine?!”

Silent, the priest’s chest heaved. Sherlock bit her lip. Morris silently took her small hand.

“Ugh… ugh…” Kaoudos ruffled his hair. “You’d rather die than talk…”

Just as tension eased, his lips curled. “Then… a new question.”

He yanked a frail elderly nun from the crowd. Her bones seemed ready to snap.

The priest’s pupils shrank. “What are you doing?!”

“What I love: a sacrifice to Lunhai.” Kaoudos pressed the pistol to her temple, laughing wildly. “Gods adore offerings, no? Those filthy Saints accept annual tributes from the mortal empire too!”

His voice turned dreamy. “How lovely… Saints. Born lucky. Living in comfort. Receiving the youngest, fairest girls from every nation into their harems… Truly magnificent!”

Frenzied, he roared: “TELL ME! Unclean holy man! Where is it?! Or I’ll blow every head here to bits with gunpowder!”

The nun’s eyes rolled back. Too frail for this horror. The priest gazed at her, voice breaking: “Sister Angelina…”

His eyes flicked to Morris—guilt in despair, a flicker of desperate hope. Then he looked away. *This is the church’s burden. Not others’.*

Silence fell. All waited. The old man stood as if the Sword of Damocles hung above him—every choice risked catastrophe. Sweat dripped from his chin. Lips trembled. Eyes closed.

“I… still won’t…”

“My name is Sherlock Stuart.” Under Morris’s stunned gaze, the girl rose. Facing every eye without fear, voice clear and commanding: “I am the sole remaining royal bloodline of the Luna Duchy. By princess’s decree—I command you: release that devout nun.”

The entire church plunged into absolute silence.