At the rear logistics camp of the Tulip Line on the Watchwall Front, the atmosphere was more like that of a bustling town than a military base. Shops and stalls filled the streets, offering every imaginable good — fine wines from the Nait Empire, exotic spices from Ymir, even refined magical potions from Sothir. Prices were a little higher than in their home empires, of course, but not outrageously so.
After all, this was the very borderline of the human world, jointly defended by the three great empires. Any merchant who dared to overcharge would have long been executed by the hardened Watchwall soldiers — men who had clawed their way up from piles of corpses.
At the city's center stood a massive fortress. It was grand and imposing but devoid of unnecessary luxury — built purely for function, not for show. Unlike the ornate castles of the inner empire, this fortress was a true military bastion, forged of stone and iron.
On the very top floor of that fortress was a special section reserved exclusively for Saint-tier powerhouses. The rooms there weren't vast, but they offered the best view and comfort in the entire citadel.
In one of these rooms sat the Sixth Seat of the Holy Tribunal — the Hand of Judgment, frowning deeply at the documents spread across his desk.
Since the beastmen invasion of the Sacrificial Kingdom, the human front had been torn apart. Their intelligence network within beastman territory had been nearly wiped out. Now, with the beastmen massing on the edge of the Bloodstained Plains, the Tribunal knew next to nothing about their plans — and no one dared to infiltrate to find out.
That ignorance weighed heavily on the Hand of Judgment. His assignment here was specific — to monitor and intercept the Witch of Plague, Pestis.
The Holy See had already dispatched experts specializing in plague containment. Through the use of newly developed purification spells, they had begun achieving encouraging results. It wouldn't be long, he thought, before the months-long epidemic ravaging the southern continent was finally contained.
And yet… precisely because of that progress, his anxiety grew stronger.
From experience, he knew that once a Witch's path to godhood was disrupted, two outcomes were possible: Either the Witch, consumed by rage, would recklessly assault human lands to vent her fury…Or — she still had a far more terrifying plan in motion.
And so, the Hand of Judgment and his elite squad were stationed here — a bulwark against the Witch of Death, should she act.
"According to the scholars' calculations," he murmured, "the current plague is still insufficient to complete the Plague Witch's ascension ritual. Therefore, to push forward… she'll have to unleash another outbreak. So then, what's your next move, Pestis?"
As he pondered, a sharp knock sounded on the door.
"Lord Hand of Judgment, urgent orders from the Tribunal!"
The door opened, revealing a young cleric holding a sealed document, his expression grave.
"The Death Witch has infiltrated beastman territory — and is preparing to ascend to the Saint Tier."
"What did you just say?"
The Hand of Judgment shot up instantly, his eyes blazing. He raised a hand, and a spectral arm of raw psychic force snatched the document from the cleric's grasp. He tore it open and began reading line by line.
The deeper he read, the deeper his frown grew. By the final page, his expression had darkened completely.
He slammed the papers onto the desk, voice trembling with anger:
"Are the fools in the Tribunal blind?! This is a trap — how can they not see that? 'Message from Pablo'? Pablo died at the hands of the Death Witch herself! What, are they saying he came back from the grave to deliver a report? That he wasn't killed, somehow escaped, then followed her into the Bloodstained Plains despite his injuries? Do they think I'm stupid?!"
The cleric lowered his head, trembling under the Saint's fury.
After a long silence, once the Hand of Judgment's anger had cooled slightly, the cleric whispered timidly:
"Lord Hand of Judgment… the order came directly from the High Inquisitor."
The Saint froze. He was on equal rank with the ordinary Inquisitors — but the High Inquisitor was another matter.
"Which Inquisitor?"
"The Grand Inquisitor himself, my lord. His words were: 'Even if the intel is false — act as if it were true. Because we cannot afford to gamble.'"
"...Cannot afford to gamble."
Those three words made the Hand of Judgment's expression shift from fury to understanding — and then to dread.
He suddenly recalled a secret long buried in the church's deepest archives, a secret known only to the highest of the high.
It was said that, deep beneath the Holy Tribunal's headquarters, there was a witch imprisoned for tens of thousands of years. That witch — according to ancient legend — had once singlehandedly brought both the Holy Tribunal and the Church of Supremacy to the brink of annihilation. She had nearly destroyed the world itself.
Her dominion was said to be one of the two Supreme Authorities — Reality, twin to Death.
"The Death Witch must never ascend to the Saint Tier… or this world will once again face destruction."
He exhaled slowly, voice low and heavy.
"Even the Witch of Reality — who belonged to the relatively peaceful faction of Truth — almost destroyed the world when she walked the path to godhood. I can scarcely imagine what a Witch of Death, a member of the Supremacy Lineage, would unleash if she succeeded."
He rose abruptly, his decision made.
"Notify every Saint of the Church stationed along the Watchwall — the Death Witch must be stopped at all costs. As for the Wall's defense… let the three Empires' Saints handle it."
"Understood, Lord Hand of Judgment!"
The cleric bowed and sprinted out of the room.
Meanwhile, at the edge of the Bloodstained Plains, within the beastmen's encampment…
The place was abuzz with rumor.
"Did you hear? Chief Fangtooth bought a rare human potion from a traveling merchant — supposedly strong enough to let him fight a Saint even though he's only sixth-tier!"
A beastman soldier whispered excitedly to his companion.
The other snorted.
"That's nothing. I heard Fangtooth inherited the legacy of some Saint-tier powerhouse — and he's planning to break through soon!"
"Saint-tier? You've got to be kidding."
Before their chatter could spread further, their commanding officer — a grizzled veteran — strode over and smacked both of them on the head.
"Eat your rations and shut up. Saint-tier? Don't make me laugh. If Fangtooth could've ascended, he'd have done it years ago instead of crawling here to scavenge for merit."
"But sir, the word came from one of his personal guards! The whole camp's talking about it — surely it can't all be fake…"
That only earned him another thump from the officer's fist.
"Fangtooth? That old bastard? He's got nothing but his ancestor's name! If not for his bloodline, he wouldn't even qualify to command a hundred men, let alone ten legions!"
But before he could finish his tirade—
A crushing pressure fell from the heavens.
The air itself screamed as gale-force winds ripped through the encampment. Tents made of hide and timber were torn apart and sent flying like leaves in a storm.
As the soldiers shielded their faces from the violent wind, the shredded tent cloth above them was blown away—
And then they all saw it.
"Th–that's… the phenomenon of a Saint-tier breakthrough?!"