Divine wings of light unfurled, their sacred aura sweeping away all darkness.

The corrosive black smoke and malevolent energy dissolved under the holy radiance. The crimson evil array on the floor crumbled to ash. Before Roland, the black cloud hand was pierced by light beams and vanished without a trace.

Though the black cloud hand was a "blessing" bestowed by the Malevolent God—its power far exceeding ordinary Forbidden Spells—Roland carried the Goddess of Creation’s buff. Every spell he cast received massive amplification; even a basic beginner-tier light magic could be boosted to high-tier. Dispatching a single black cloud hand? More than enough.

“If you want to kill me,” Roland smirked playfully, wagging a finger at the Seven Protectors, “you’re still not quite up to the task.”

Enraged by his taunt, the Seven Protectors nearly exploded with fury—but none dared move. If even their god’s divine gift failed to kill *her*, their combined strength was utterly insufficient.

*Imperial Princess Silva… how terrifying she is!*

Sharing a single mind, the Seven Protectors wasted no second realizing defeat was inevitable. They smashed through the imperial study’s sturdy walls, scattering in different directions with practiced ease—a clear sign of frequent escapes.

Roland stood firm. The light wings behind him stretched, then morphed into seven solid, slender beams. In an instant, they shot forth.

Before the Protectors fled far, a sharp *whoosh* tore the air behind each. All seven turned in unison—only to see a beam streaking toward their foreheads. Terror flashed across their faces for a split second… then, simultaneously, their heads exploded.

Decapitated cleanly, their sprinting bodies tumbled, skidding across the ground and leaving long crimson trails.

The Church of Annihilation’s Seven Protectors—revered as untouchable legends by countless cultists—were gone. Forever. No resurrection this time.

Roland gazed at the ruined imperial study, deep in thought. *If they sought clues to the World Stone… why the study instead of the library?* Ancient texts in the Royal Library held far likelier records. Unless…

A sudden realization lit his face. He spun and dashed toward the Royal Library.

The Royal Library stood massive—a millennium of Severola Imperial Family archives housed within. Precisely because its collection was overwhelming, the previous emperor (Onid’s father) built the study for convenience.

Beneath the night-shrouded palace, an eerie chill lingered. Though lit, the library felt desolate, casting an unreal, dreamlike haze over Roland.

“As expected—they arrived long ago. Barrier’s already set.”

Roland halted hundreds of meters away, a faint smirk on his lips. He lightly stomped his right foot. Twenty meters to his right, a massive stone spike erupted from the barren ground.

Before it fully rose, a shadow shot upward—a masked man in black.

“Your next line: *‘How did you find me?’*" Roland pointed.

“How did you find me?” the man blurted instinctively.

Roland smoothly explained, “You’re a cultist skilled in earth magic, hiding underground via earth affinity. Too bad—my mastery and affinity surpass yours. Finding you? Easy.”

The moment he finished, Roland vanished. Where he stood, a sharp spike shot up.

The masked man blinked in confusion—then felt two light taps on his shoulder, accompanied by a crisp female voice:

“I said I’m stronger. Did you think sneaking up would work? …Never mind. No more time for you.”

A cold slash at his neck. Vision flooded crimson. The world spun. In his final flicker of consciousness—he saw his own headless body.

…

Roland dispelled the cultists’ barrier and slipped cautiously inside.

Chaos reigned: ancient texts strewn everywhere, yet no other damage. They’d sought only the World Stone records.

Roland sensed the space—empty. Too late.

*They found it… but so what?*

*The World Stone’s been on me all along.*

Their efforts were futile. The Seven Protectors dead. The Church of Annihilation crippled *and* exposed. Imperial forces would hunt them down soon.

Humming lightly, Roland left the library, heading for Silva.

Per plan: Roland impersonated Silva to lure rebels; the real Silva and Royal Guard would ambush them. But rebels were already dead—and no Silva, no Guard.

*They must’ve met the cultists.*

Sure enough—on an open field lay dozens unconscious. Silva and Yenoa among them.

Roland’s heart lurched. He checked Silva’s pulse—alive. Others too, merely asleep.

“Hey! Wake up!” He slapped a Guard’s cheek. No response. Slept like a log.

“Trapped in an illusion?” Roland scratched his head. Only explanation.

He reached into the bra, pulled out a yellow incense stick, and lit it.

Precious artifact—awakens dreamers, breaks illusions, counters mind mages. One tiny stick could shatter transcendent-tier illusions.

Soothing smoke spread… yet no one stirred.

Roland frowned, watching it burn to ash. Still no movement.

No choice. He produced a violet-gold incense stick—*Forbidden-tier illusion breaker. Worth a whole city.*

Fresh smoke filled the air. Guards coughed, then jolted awake.

“Huh? Honey? Where’d you go?!”

“Beauty~ don’t move… Wait, where’d she go?!”

“Money! So much money! Where is it?!”

Wails erupted. Some pounded the ground, begging to return to the dream.

“Are you insane?! Illusions drain your life!” Roland winced. “Do you know what that violet-gold incense costs? *Priceless!*”

“Wait—Imperial Princess?!” someone gasped. “She was lying here! Who’s *that* standing Silva?!”

All eyes turned. Silva and Yenoa still lay prone.

The Royal Guard tensed, weapons half-drawn.

“I’m Roland! You know Silva’s plan!”

“Proof.” The captain’s voice was ice.

Roland’s hand dipped into the bra.

The Guards froze—then uniformly averted their eyes, faces burning.

*WHAT IS HER HIGHNESS DOING?! SUCH AN INDECENT ACT?! WE SHOULDN’T LOOK BUT… WE REALLY WANT TO!!!*

To them, Silva was sacred—noble, pure, untouchable. Even an imposter wearing her face demanded reverence.

Roland pulled out a massive golden hammer. “Believe me now?”

“We believe! We believe!” they chorused.

*Only Roland pulls stuff from *there*.*

Roland stuffed the hammer back, knelt beside Silva, and smiled. “Stop pretending. Plenty awaits you.”

No smile. No waking.

He tickled her waist—no laughter. Tried Yenoa—the “black-hearted” maid—no reaction.

He knew their ticklish spots well. They always teased each other that way.

But now…

A grim conclusion settled in his chest.

“Why aren’t the Princess and Head Maid waking?” the captain asked, oblivious.

Roland’s expression turned grave. “Find Onid and Branche. Then the Imperial Archmage. Gather everyone at the main palace.”

“What’s happening?”

Roland gazed at the slumbering Silva and Yenoa. His voice dropped, heavy with dread:

“Things have taken a very bad turn…”