The world plunged into a deep, heavy silence.

Nearby, the two collapsed guards desperately lifted their heads at the words—only to be swallowed by guilt and sorrow. The broken wooden chair rustled faintly as they struggled, finding nothing.

Kaudos blinked, then burst into laughter. “What’s this? I thought I’d only snagged a small fry. Why does *this* have to happen?”

Catching his breath, he turned to Sherlock. “Little girl, real princess or not—I’ve no reason to leave empty-handed. I serve the Lunhai Deity. I bow to no bloodline.”

“I’m not asking you to leave,” Sherlock said, lowering her eyes. “Take me instead of the nun. Trade me to the Emperor for whatever you want.”

“Ah, not a bad idea,” Kaudos mused, stroking his chin. He shoved the old nun toward the floor. The priests caught her swiftly, eyes brimming with gratitude toward Sherlock. Kaudos pressed on, “But how do you prove who you are?”

“I have documents…” Sherlock began reaching for papers.

Kaudos shook his head dismissively, raising a single finger. “Stop.”

“What would you have me do, then?” Sherlock paused.

“In our line, rumors fly—lords with shady pasts, nobles hoarding ancient treasures. I don’t care,” Kaudos grinned. “But Princess Sherlock… I recall she has a mole… right here on her chest?”

Sherlock’s expression shattered.

The churchgoers’ faces tightened with bitterness.

The thugs erupted into leering grins, whistling and shouting, “Boss, brilliant! Well done!”

“Show us?” Kaudos asked, feigning sincerity—though malice glinted deep in his eyes. “Just show the mole. We’ll believe you. Take you away. Spare everyone else.”

Sherlock flinched back. Usark, paralyzed, rallied a final whisper: “Your Highness… don’t…”

She glanced back—past Usark, brushing Morris with her gaze.

*He can’t help.* Usark and Derin were Artificer Tier wizards. Their defeat meant at least one Lawform Tier lurked among the thugs. To them, that was an unstoppable god.

She mouthed silently to Morris: *Don’t look at me.*

*Don’t look at me.*

*Mr. Morris… sorry our first meeting is like this. But this is the only shred of dignity I can leave you.*

Eyes closed, she unbuttoned her collar, slow and trembling. Thugs stared, rapt. Churchgoers bowed their heads in shame. The priest shook, nearly rising to cry, “Take the item! Spare her!”—but knew Kaudos no longer cared about the item.

*Is there no hope?*

The priest prayed toward the shattered stained glass: *Lunhai… change this.*

Her fair neck gleamed under hungry eyes. Swallows echoed. No one mocked—this was the *real* princess. Sherlock of the Duchy, famed for her beauty…

Saliva dripped freely.

“Ugh. Seriously?” A voice cut through the cathedral. “You mutts ruin a guy’s hard-earned vacation?”

Kaudos froze, then seethed. *Who dares—?*

He glared toward the corner. A youth brushed dust off his clothes and rose. Few men noticed beauty—but Morris’ face was breathtakingly sharp. As he stood, Kaudos flinched at the sheer presence.

Dark eyes held quiet resignation. Morris stepped forward, pulled Sherlock firmly into his arms. Her body, warm and soft, stiffened in shock—then melted. Tears welled. She buried her face in his chest, movements oddly practiced. Morris almost smiled. *Poor kid.*

Morris met Kaudos’ stare, voice calm. “Retract those words. This lady is my companion. A fellow traveler on the unknown path. I won’t watch her humiliated.”

Sherlock blinked—tears spilled. Her resolve shattered. She sobbed into his shoulder.

Kaudos barked a bitter laugh. The masked thug paled, legs trembling. *He’s a wizard!* But… *we have a Lawform Tier. Maybe I regain face later.* He stayed silent.

“Young Master Morris?!” the priest gasped.

“Morris, is it?” Kaudos drew his flintlock, tapping it. “Know how you’ll die?”

“Tough question,” Morris chuckled, arm steady around Sherlock. “Who does?”

“Then I’ll tell you.” Kaudos aimed. “You die by my gun!”

*BOOM!*

Sherlock threw herself over Morris—waiting for pain. Heat. Impact.

None came. Only his warmth.

“Look up, Miss Sherlock.”

She lifted her head. Black smoke curled toward the vault. Azure bullets hung frozen midair—then clattered harmlessly to the floor. An invisible barrier. A sacred space around her. Untouchable.

Lips trembling, she choked out, “Thank goodness… Morris… thank goodness you’re a wizard…”

Kaudos stiffened. *A wizard?* Still—within plan. He holstered the pistol. “Your turn, Brook!”

A towering figure in black strode forth, robe flung aside to reveal corded muscle. “Controlling Arcane Source Magic like that? Must be Artificer Tier,” he sneered, voice dripping arrogance. “Such a young genius… wasting his life.”

He loomed over them like a mountain.

“Come, young Artificer,” Brook grinned, stance eager. “Crushing a prodigy beats killing two old fools any day.”