Watching the girl in his arms sink back into slumber with a trace of relief and relaxation, Kroso suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

Just moments ago, he’d rehearsed countless possible reactions from the Archangel upon waking—and prepared soothing explanations. None were needed. He was genuinely surprised.

He truly hadn’t expected her first words to be about repaying him.

Wasn’t that simply his duty?

After all, the Archangel had saved countless souls on death’s brink before—never once demanding reward.

Could this be the very essence of her selfless devotion and pure kindness?

Though Kroso struggled to grasp Sylvia’s mindset, his respect for her deepened. He might occasionally offer selfless aid with no expectation of return—but never consistently.

He had no desire to be some grand saint.

Resuming his full-speed sprint along the planned route, the brief exchange hadn’t shaken Kroso’s focus. He scanned the surroundings, senses sharp, guarding against ambush.

The demons hadn’t pursued. Clearly, his domain’s cloaking effect had hidden their location.

With few demons summoned this time, scattering to search would be inefficient—a calculated advantage Kroso relied on to buy time before the coming battle.

Then—

A howling gale slammed head-on, violently shaking the forest. Leaves rustled loudly; birds and beasts scattered in panic. Eerie winds howled around them.

Sensing the shift, Kroso’s brow furrowed slightly. The Demon Lord, failing to locate him, had activated a wide-area perception skill.

This wind field detected movement acutely. Though his domain could block it, activating it would reveal his position. Without hesitation, Kroso darted to the base of a thick tree, tucking himself and Sylvia into a sheltered hollow untouched by the wind.

He’d stay hidden until fully recovered.

His domain remained active—demons couldn’t see or scent them. As long as neither carried the blood scent demons hunted, they were safe.

Kroso touched the wound on his cheek—left by a high-tier succubus. Scabbed over. Nearly healed. Relief washed over him.

As for Sylvia’s condition…

Though the Body of Holy Spirit possessed immense passive healing, her current frailty made its efficacy uncertain. After a pause, Kroso resolved to check carefully.

Not by undressing her. Never inappropriate touch. The Archangel was revered as purity incarnate—a belief he upheld.

His method? Scent. From a respectful distance, head to toe, utterly focused.

Blood scent alone would betray hidden wounds; his keen nose would catch even the faintest trace.

He steadied his breath, mind clear, and slowly lowered his head.

The moment he neared Sylvia’s neck, her utterly natural, unscented fragrance—fresh, pure, subtly sweet—flooded his senses. His eyebrows twitched.

This scent…

Delicate yet deeply soothing. Lingering. One whiff and he nearly leaned closer for more.

He’d smelled countless perfumes at Holy City galas—but none ever stirred primal urges so instantly.

Yet the Archangel…

So small. So soft. So fragrant.

After scenting her thoroughly, those slightly suggestive words surfaced in his mind.

*Slap!*

He cracked his own cheek without hesitation, then clasped his hands together, praying earnestly.

He wasn’t religious—but impure thoughts toward the Archangel were unforgivable. Only sincere repentance could seek her mercy.

“Mmm…?”

Sylvia let out a soft whimper in her sleep, brow furrowing slightly as if displeased.

Kroso froze, raising both hands to show innocence.

She hadn’t awakened—just parted her lips faintly.

“So cold…”

Murmuring, she curled her body inward.

Alarmed, Kroso checked her forehead—no fever. He pulled a clean woolen blanket from his waist Storage Pouch and draped it gently over her.

Slowly, her brow smoothed. Her shivers ceased. Kroso exhaled deeply.

But confusion lingered. What was wrong with the Archangel?

“Mmm…”

A whisper-soft murmur. The chilling cold eased slightly, yet a faint, persistent ache bloomed low in her abdomen.

An indescribable pressure—like a long-contained force straining to break free after losing its restraint.

On Sylvia’s status panel, the “Bleeding” indicator glowed faintly red, growing steadily brighter.

Something… was coming out…

A warm trickle traced the curve of her thigh.

Still asleep, Sylvia remained unaware—only sensing the abdominal ache gently fade.

*Finally… I can rest properly…*