From long ago, Hel had possessed a rather useless trait.
It neither enhanced her strength nor her knowledge.
All it granted her was a slight boost to charm — and a vague, unreliable touch of luck.
That trait was called [Calamity Enchantress].
However… there was one very special thing about it.
It carried with it the resentment and murderous aura of three million dead souls — and by channeling this power, Hel could unleash a killing intent so dreadful that it could crush the spirit of even veteran warriors.
When she was much weaker, Hel had once used this very trait to frighten off the Witch of Lust.
But now, after the system had refined and upgraded it to pink-tier, the trait had undergone not just a quantitative, but a qualitative transformation.
It no longer bore the grudge of three million lives — but of three hundred million.
Even the fabled Witch of the Underworld, who once annihilated half the Ymir Empire, had never amassed such a staggering sea of blood.
And so, the killing aura born from that endless slaughter naturally seemed — in the Archbishop's terrified eyes — to belong to some apocalyptic monster, perhaps on par with the Witch of Pestilence herself.
"I… I…"
The Archbishop swallowed hard, his throat as dry as sand. It felt as if every drop of moisture in his body had been scorched away, leaving only the brittle husk of despair.
All dignity, all authority, all pride as a Saint-tier being — none of it mattered anymore.
There was only one thought left in his mind: escape.
Run. As far as possible.
He was a Saint-rank after all — one of the Church's top combat assets. Even if he fled, the punishment would likely be minimal.
But…
He glanced toward the figure at the foot of the skeletal mountain — a small, cloaked silhouette wreathed in crimson mist.
Could he really escape from something like that? From a being who could crush him like an ant with a flick of her finger?
As his sanity began to fray, that very figure finally spoke again.
"I can give you a chance."
"What?"
It wasn't the Archbishop who answered, but one of the Sixth-tier subordinates beside him — his voice trembling despite not even being the direct target of that murderous aura.
Even just the aftershock was enough to make them feel like insects before a storm.
Had they not known that this terrifying being was supposedly on their side, they would've bolted long ago.
None of them had expected the one leading this operation to be such an unfathomable monster.
Seriously, if you're this strong, why even bother with this elaborate setup?
Still, since she'd spoken, they could only play along. To do otherwise would be suicide.
"I can give you all a chance to live — if you submit to me."
Those words fell like a divine decree.
Instantly, a spark of hope flared in the eyes of the desperate clerics.
The young archer among them was the first to collapse, dropping to his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground.
"I am willing to submit to you… O mighty one."
And once he knelt, the others followed one by one — each more servile, more reverent than the last, like a congregation worshipping a god incarnate.
"Huh. Are these guys seriously acting this well?"
Hidden beneath her white cloak, Hel couldn't help but be a little impressed.
According to the plan, all they had to do was pretend to surrender — no one said they had to throw themselves into the role like devout zealots.
These beastmen are way too committed… true professionals through and through.
No wonder they're called the Chosen Herd.
She smirked inwardly. Since her "extras" were performing so well, it wouldn't do for the "main character" to slack off.
Slowly, gracefully, Hel began to ascend into the air.
With every meter she rose, the murderous aura around her thickened — condensing into something almost tangible.
The Archbishop felt as if he were being submerged in a sea of corpses and blood. Even as a necromancer accustomed to the stench of death, his mind trembled before such pure, oppressive malice.
When he finally managed to focus again, she was hovering right above him.
"Now then," she said softly. "Your turn. Submit… or die."
"I…"
The Archbishop stared up at the figure suspended in the air.
Every instinct screamed at him to kneel — to beg for his life.
But his mind was caught in a vise.
To bow to her would mean betraying the Church — an unforgivable sin.
Yet to resist meant certain death.
"I… choose to submit."
The words burst from his mouth before reason could stop them. He dropped to his knees, sliding forward until his forehead hit the ground.
Whatever came later — punishment, torture, execution — it didn't matter. For now, survival was the only thing that mattered.
Hel's lips curled into a faint, hidden smile beneath her hood.
Perfect. It worked.
Only one last step remained.
She descended slowly, reaching out a hand toward him. Her fingertip glowed faintly as it touched his forehead.
[Trait Bestowed: Lady Nicky's Dog]
In an instant, a loyalty value of 233 was imprinted upon his soul. The Archbishop's eyes went blank for a moment — then focus returned to them.
But now, when he looked at Hel, his gaze was filled not with reverence — but terror.
"No… you're not one of the Inquisition Knights… You're connected to the War Demon King…"
His voice quivered as the realization dawned on him.
"I know who you are now… You're the Witch of Death."
Those were his final words.
Then, as if all strength had been drained from him, he slumped lifelessly back into his bone throne.
His eyes grew dull, empty.
"I'm… finished."
He whispered, before falling completely silent.