"But back then—"
"You said it yourself, back then, little prince."
Allen shot the Gray Fox a deep look, his tone low and grim.
"When was the last time we traded with your people — one hundred, maybe two hundred years ago?
Back then, we had plenty of holy remains. But things have changed. The royal court has been in chaos, and even we barely have enough relics for our own use.
How could you expect us to trade at the same price as before?"
"But the agreement was made when the Cult of the Divine was first established — one witch's corpse in exchange for a pair of Divine Eyes. That was the promise between your church and our nobility, was it not?
Surely, Lord Vice Bishop, you don't intend to break the covenant?"
Allen let out a cold snort. "Hmph. And if I do break it, what of it?"
He sneered, irritation flashing in his voice.
"If you don't like it, go deal directly with the Church. Don't come crawling to us."
The Gray Fox's mouth opened, but no words came.
He was a man famed for his intelligence, yet at this moment, even he found himself cornered.
The initiative was entirely in Allen's hands — logic and reason meant nothing when faced with pure leverage.
So he could only grit his teeth and yield.
"If that's the case, then—"
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
One of the guards by the door suddenly manifested a spear in his hands.
With a sharp motion, the guard thrust the weapon — not at the Gray Fox, but at the man standing beside him.
It happened too fast.
Before anyone could react, the gleaming mithril spear had already pierced clean through the man's heart.
"What?!"
Gasps filled the room.
Then, from the ground, countless black tendrils erupted — writhing and snaking like living shadows.
While everyone's attention was still locked on the assassin's strike, the tendrils surged outward, sweeping toward everyone present.
But this time, they were ready.
The Gray Fox stomped the floor, propelling himself sideways with explosive force.
As a Level 7 Earth Knight, evading such an attack should have been effortless—
—but a spear came sweeping from the side, striking him hard and knocking him right back into his seat.
He barely had time to register what happened before the black tendrils coiled around him like serpents, wrapping him head to toe.
Across the room, Allen and his companion weren't as fast.
Both were immediately ensnared by the tendrils.
The burly man who'd come with Allen struggled only for a second — then his life force drained away completely, leaving nothing but a shriveled corpse.
Allen, however, was different.
From his body burst waves of withering, decaying energy — an aura so foul it reeked of death itself.
The spell Sebas had unleashed — [High-tier Death Magic: Touch of Death] — had summoned these very tendrils of necrotic force.
But now, under the influence of Allen's corruption, the tendrils themselves began to wither and rot.
Yet, death was still death.
The death energy peeling from Allen's body didn't vanish as the furniture and walls around him decayed into dust — instead, it thickened, darkening into an even denser miasma of death.
"Heh… to think this old man would be tricked by a pack of youngsters."
Allen's voice grew hoarse as his hands lifted, channeling magic.
"In that case— [High-tier Decay Spell:—"
He never finished the incantation.
A mithril spear came whistling through the air from afar, piercing clean through his chest.
But instead of pain, Allen only smiled — a twisted, knowing grin curving his lips.
"—Wind of Corrosion, Millennium Erosion! Let the years consume you, mortals!"
His voice rose in a chant-like crescendo.
At once, a violent wind burst from his body — a storm thick with decay and ruin.
Everything nearby began to crumble and corrode.
The spear that had impaled him was the first to go.
Under the power of decay, the once-bright mithril dulled and blackened, pitted and scarred as it aged a thousand years in seconds.
Then, the wind surged outward — toward Arven.
Everything in its path — the solid floor, the splintered furniture — all withered, turned to dust, and scattered in the air.
In an instant, the decaying storm swallowed Arven whole.
His black robe disintegrated, followed by his gleaming mithril armor, which corroded just as quickly as the spear before it.
"Ke-ke-ke-keh… foolish mortals! This is the forbidden power of the divine! Now then—"
Allen's mad laughter filled the room as he turned toward a small door behind him.
That door was a hidden escape route — a tunnel prepared long ago by the Thieves' Guild.
When Allen had first sensed someone within it earlier, he had assumed it was just a guard posted to secure the exit.
But now, it was clear — someone had been lying in wait.
"Die! [High-tier Decay Spell:—"
He never got the chance.
Two attacks struck simultaneously.
One was [High-tier Death Magic: Death's Finger],
the other — a thunderous punch from Arven himself, who had charged forward through the storm to slam his fist into Allen's skull.
With a thunderous boom, Allen's body spun through the air.
Before he even hit the ground, his heart had stopped — his life force completely extinguished.
When he finally crashed to the floor, his wide, cloudy eyes were still frozen in disbelief — glaring at Arven with a look of unwilling, eternal hatred.
"A clean hit, Lord Arven."
Sebas emerged from the tunnel, breathing heavily.
After confirming that Allen was truly dead, he finally relaxed.
"I thought you'd stick to the plan," he said. "Take out the mage first, and let me handle the three knights with my spells."
"That man… he gave off a dangerous aura," Arven muttered.
He turned toward the first corpse — the one he'd killed with his initial ambush — and pulled back the hood to inspect the face.
"So it was him… Ambrose the Madblade. A long-renowned knight of the kingdom, captain of the Third Division of the Sacrificial Order."
He frowned slightly. "Every knight of that order knows the forbidden secret art — burning their own blood and soul to boost their strength for a short time.
That must've been the danger I felt."
"The Sacrificial Order, huh?" Sebas mused, kneeling beside the corpse. "And since the Sixth Prince himself came along, there's no way they only sent two people to transport such a precious item.
If that's the case, they probably had backup waiting outside the city."
He placed a hand on Ambrose's forehead.
[Mid-tier Death Magic: Memory Probe]
After a moment, Sebas withdrew his hand and shook his head.
"To keep things secret, the royal court sent only two trusted aides — men whose movements the Church couldn't easily track. So…"
"There's no one else outside waiting for them?" Arven asked.
"Not on the Kingdom's side," Sebas replied. "But as for the Cult of the Divine…"
He turned toward Allen's corpse.
"I'll have to check."
He lifted the dead man's hood.
But the moment the two saw Allen's true face, both froze — their eyes widening in shock.
"This… this is—"