"Understood."
The group nodded in unison, and silence once again settled over the camp.
It didn't last long. After a few minutes, one of the younger archers, his voice still bearing a trace of nervous youth, broke the quiet.
"Archbishop, what if… what if their target really is us?"
"Then we fight."
The Archbishop's tone was laced with steel.
"Let those two-legged sheep learn that we are no meek lambs waiting to be slaughtered."
"But what if we can't win? Should we retreat—or go to Lady Gale for help?"
That question made the Archbishop falter. For some reason, his mind felt unusually clear tonight, the lingering influence of that potion sharpening his thoughts.
After a pause, he spoke slowly:
"If we can't win, we retreat. Either back to the Royal Court or toward Lady Gale. Both paths could lead to safety."
Then he froze.
He suddenly remembered Gale's temper. If she ever discovered that he had dragged his troubles to her doorstep just because he couldn't handle them himself—she would absolutely kill him.
So going to her was not an option.
Then… retreat to the Royal Court?
"But what if the two Witches are also under attack?" another voice interjected. "If we run back, we might just make things worse! If Lady Pestis or Lady Gale hold us responsible—our lives won't be worth a copper."
The Archbishop's heart sank again. That made sense.
He took a deep breath and said grimly:
"Then there's only one path left—we hold them off. No matter what."
The others fell silent. They exchanged brief, uneasy glances, then nodded one after another.
The campfire crackled quietly as they returned to their meals. The air was thick with tension and unspoken dread.
If nothing unexpected happened, they would rest a bit longer and depart before dawn, hoping to reach the Hurricane Witch's group as soon as possible.
But fate had other plans.
A crushing wave of spiritual pressure suddenly slammed into the area. The air trembled. Out from the surrounding darkness stepped four figures.
Three were clad head to toe in radiant gold armor, their backs draped with white cloaks embroidered with golden feather motifs.
The Archbishop's pupils shrank.
"Inquisitorial Knights…?!"
His voice trembled with disbelief.
As one of the Supreme Church's most elite combat orders, the Inquisitorial Knights were infamous throughout the continent — specialists in witch-hunting and divine execution.
But why would they come here? Why target him?
"Three sixth-tiers… and…"
His gaze shifted to the figure in the center — a slender form shrouded completely in a white cloak.
"I can't sense her strength…"
A bead of cold sweat rolled down his forehead.
There were only two reasons he couldn't gauge someone's power: either they possessed a powerful artifact to conceal their aura, or — far more likely — their strength vastly exceeded his own.
Anyone traveling with three Tier-Six Inquisitorial Knights would not be weak.
Which meant this woman was almost certainly a Saint-rank Inquisitor.
"This doesn't look good…"
He muttered quietly to his team:
"Those knights have all been implanted with High Holy Relics — even if we outnumber them, we can't necessarily win. Just focus on keeping them occupied."
Tightening his grip on his bone staff, he steeled himself.
This battle would hinge on him.
But against a Saint-rank foe… his odds were nearly zero.
Trying to maintain his composure, he raised his voice and said:
"You know the rules, don't you? Rank faces rank. Saints don't interfere in lower battles."
He forced his voice to sound calm, but the faint tremor in his tone betrayed his fear.
Then came a cool, feminine voice from beneath the white hood — clear, calm, and utterly devoid of emotion:
"Do I need to care about rules?"
Her voice was young — too young. And that, somehow, made her more terrifying.
The younger a Saint-rank combatant, the greater their natural talent — and the more fearsome the power or faction that stood behind them.
"Dealing with you doesn't require such formalities."
The quiet disdain in her tone made his stomach twist.
Then — she rose into the air, floating effortlessly, her cloak rippling like the wing of a specter.
The Archbishop's body reacted instinctively. In an instant, he unleashed his Mindscape.
Waves of black death energy surged outward, devouring the surrounding space.
A colossal barrier of necrotic power took form, reshaping reality around them.
In the blink of an eye, the world transformed — a blood-red moon loomed overhead, clouds churned like tar, and from the earth erupted a jagged mountain of bones.
At its peak stood a massive throne of skulls, upon which the Archbishop sat, gripping his skeletal staff in one hand, and idly stroking a skull on the armrest with the other.
His entire body trembled despite his display of power.
He barked out in an effort to bolster both his courage and his men's:
"Within my domain, there is only death! Your holy powers are useless here — your divine energy will rot away, your martial skills crumble to dust! But the Supreme Church has no wish for open war. Leave now, and we'll pretend none of this ever happened. Otherwise… the one who suffers will be you!"
His words echoed across the crimson sky — but the four figures did not move.
They simply stood there. Silent. Unflinching.
A chill crawled up the Archbishop's spine.
Why weren't they doing anything? They had made no effort to stop him from unfolding his Mindscape. They were letting him act first.
Ignorance? Or arrogance born of absolute confidence?
He swallowed hard.
It had to be the latter.
Whoever she was… she must be a monster. Maybe even equal to Lady Pain Demon herself — a Saint among Saints. Perhaps she too had undergone the Holy Relic implantation.
"How the hell are we supposed to fight that?"
Despair gnawed at his mind.
"Should I just… run?"
But then he remembered what they'd said by the campfire earlier — running would only lead to a worse death.
So, he clenched his jaw. If death was inevitable, he would at least fight.
Then that cold, disdainful voice came again — sharper, cutting through the night like a blade:
"Is that it?"
"What…?"
He froze, blinking in disbelief. Those two casual words hit him harder than any attack.
Even if she were as powerful as the Pain Demon herself, even if she could crush him in an instant — how dare she mock him like that?
He was the Archbishop of the Aira Royal Court — a Saint of the Supreme Church! To be humiliated like this…
A man may be killed, but never insulted!
Rage surged up to drown his fear. He was just about to strike back when it hit him —
A suffocating murderous aura, thick as a tide of blood and corpses, crashed down on him.
It was unlike anything he had ever felt.
How many lives had she taken to forge such a killing intent? Ten thousand? A million? Tens of millions?
Or… hundreds of millions?
The Archbishop's mind shattered under the weight of it.
At that moment, he realized —
This was no ordinary Saint.
This was a slaughter incarnate.
A woman who had waded through oceans of blood.
The Inquisitorial Knight — Morrigan.