Chapter 617: Humans Are Truly Terrifying

In the eastern guest room of Collin Estate, the glow of magic crystals replaced the hearth's fire, casting an orange-yellow warmth upon the patterned wallpapered walls.

The air here was dry and warm, permeated with a faint lavender fragrance.

Eileen sat on the edge of the bed, towel-drying her damp silver hair, humming a light, melodious tune.

It was a song she'd heard at the Granston Castle banquet, giving her the feeling of strolling through a sea of flowers—perfect for describing her current mood.

Compared to her days in Dusk City, life in Thunder City was truly blissful.

Especially this time, upon returning, she discovered the locals had invented a "liquid soap" made from palm oil and olive oil, leaving her hair fragrant after washing.

And most importantly…

This was Prince Collin's home.

Thinking of this, Eileen's cheeks burned hotter; she involuntarily buried her nose into the towel clutched in her hands, as if it were someone's chest…

"Your Highness."

It was Teresa's voice that interrupted Eileen's thoughts.

Before Eileen could hide the towel behind her back, she saw Teresa, having shed her armor, kneeling on one knee upon the thick wool rug.

"I have sinned. Punish me, Your Highness."

"Teresa? What are you doing…?" Eileen stared at her loyal guard, emerald eyes filled with confusion, gently placing the towel on her knees.

Teresa kept her head lowered and continued.

"At the estate's entrance, the royal carriage was not damaged by accident—I deliberately destroyed it to create an opportunity for you."

Having finally spoken the words she could hardly utter, Teresa did not raise her head, her eyes fixed intently on the intricate patterns of the rug, as if trying to burn a hole into them.

Fortunately, she didn't look up—otherwise Eileen would have been the first to find a crack in the floor and crawl into it. Her pale face flushed crimson in an instant, like a ripe apple.

O-p-p-o-r-t-u-n-i-t-y?!

What kind of opportunity…?

Time slipped second by second; the ticking of the wall clock was the only sound in the room.

After what felt like five minutes, Teresa finally heard a stifled sigh from in front—like air released from a balloon pushed to its limit.

Before she could recover, Eileen rose from the bed, stepped forward, and helped her up.

"Teresa, you are my loyal subordinate. I know you did this for my sake… but don't do it again."

"Yes, Your Highness…"

After sincerely repenting for three seconds, Teresa shamefully lifted her head—and saw no blame in those emerald eyes, only a faint, quiet delight.

Teresa paused, startled.

So…

Should she do it again next time?

She suddenly wasn't sure anymore.

Clearly, the unspoken understanding between Eileen and Teresa still paled beside that of the Demon King and his cat.

Eileen offered no explanation; after helping Teresa up, she turned, hands clasped behind her back, and walked across the soft wool rug to the window.

Facing away from the still-dazed Teresa, she lightly brushed a strand of hair from her ear with her right hand and spoke in a light, assured tone.

"Besides, I trust Prince Collin's character. Even sharing a roof with Miss Yaya, he would never overstep boundaries—after all…"

She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

Last night, had he truly wished to take advantage of her, she would have been powerless to resist, given her state.

Undoubtedly, he was a true gentleman!

Watching her lady's serene, "mistress-like" composure, Teresa sighed inwardly, recalling the novels she'd read.

Since ancient times, childhood sweethearts never defeat the "heaven-sent" ones—because of that blind confidence.

Trust is a knight's virtue, but blindness is peril.

"Your Highness."

Teresa's voice deepened—her battlefield intensity, reserved for analyzing enemy movements.

"Your trust is admirable, but as your subordinate, I must report the intelligence I gathered on the way into the city."

Eileen looked at her, blinking in confusion.

"Intelligence?"

"Yes, regarding Miss Yaya Mithia."

Teresa stepped forward, lowering her voice as if revealing a military secret.

"Though only fragments, I heard rumors from some elderly servants of the estate and city guards. It was said that shortly after Miss Yaya arrived in Thunder City, rumors briefly circulated that she had taken late-night strolls with Prince Collin. Some even privately called her 'the mistress.'"

"The… mistress?"

Eileen's smile froze.

The calm lingering on her face moments before vanished like a soap bubble pierced by summer evening wind.

Seeing Eileen's expression, Teresa felt a pang of guilt.

In truth, the "late-night strolls" were borrowed from novels, and "the mistress" was her own midnight musings.

But to make Her Highness take this seriously—for the honor of the Campbell family—she had no choice as a knight!

May Saint Xiang forgive her well-intentioned lie—she was driven by desperation.

"…Though these rumors vanished as if erased by an invisible hand, leaving no trace, Your Highness should understand: in this world, complete 'disappearance' often means powerful forces are deliberately concealing something."

Eileen swallowed hard.

"Could it be… my brother…?"

"Your brother has no reason to do this," Teresa shook her head, her voice grave. "I fear Miss Yaya's hidden scheme—she deliberately erased her traces to lull you into complacency!"

Too bad Miss Yaya wasn't here—she'd leap up and shout, "Yes, that's exactly what I planned!"

The Padrich fool had no such cunning; she was the type who'd refuse to read a detailed strategy against the Demon King because it was too long, and hand it to little Luo Yan to analyze for her.

Facing Teresa's relentless pressure, Eileen clenched her skirt tightly, her voice trembling.

"Then… they…?"

"They might have already done something!"

"Done what?!"

"Something like… scandalous rumors."

"Rumors? Is that… drinking tea together? Or…?"

She couldn't finish the sentence—but her instantly flushed face said it all. Her earlier certainty vanished, replaced by frantic unease.

Unaware she was the cause, Teresa followed Eileen's retreat from the window to the hearth, the magic crystal's glow illuminating her resolute profile.

"Your Highness, what I've told you so far is hearsay. What follows is my analysis. If you don't wish to hear it, pretend I never spoke—I won't mention it again."

The tone clearly wasn't ending. Seeing Teresa's face—"I'll choke if I don't finish this"—kind-hearted Miss Eileen swallowed hard, gripped the collar of her dress, steadied her pounding heart, and braced herself for the blow.

"Then… go on."

Teresa's face brightened, then she sobered and continued seriously.

"Miss Mithia of Shengcheng traveled thousands of miles alone from her homeland to this distant land. Such heartfelt sincerity—any man would have fallen. To be honest… if I were a man, I couldn't have resisted such devotion."

Eileen: "…?"

Ignoring her dazed lady, Teresa placed her hands on Eileen's shoulders, halting her retreat, her tone more serious than ever.

"Your Highness. Though I have no experience in such matters, based on my knowledge and battlefield insight, I believe you are currently at a disadvantage. This is no exaggeration—if we lack the courage to charge headlong through enemy lines, defeat is merely a matter of time!"

"Defeat… is…?"

"It means your castle flies another's banner!"

"Then… what should I do?"

"Launch an immediate attack!"

Attack?

How could one even attack?

Could it be…?

Eileen's heart pounded violently against her chest.

Again, the romantic night flashed through her mind—the scorching current surging within and beyond the walls, sweeping all her weariness and doubt into the whirlpool.

If they were to go further, it could only be… that thing.

As her thoughts soared to the castle's peak, she hastily stepped back two paces, jerking free of Teresa's hands on her shoulders, unable to meet those encouraging eyes.

"A-attack? Such a thing… is too shameless…"

At least…

Shouldn't such a thing not be initiated by oneself?

Surely, it should happen in a room perfumed with incense, both slightly drunk, drawn slowly together by candlelight… If it were like that, she might reluctantly take the first step.

Just as Eileen's thoughts drifted completely beyond the clouds, Teresa smiled and pressed her fist to her chest.

"Your Highness, do not worry—I will never let you fight alone… I will help you!"

"…?"

Eileen froze.

Help?

How… could she help?

As Eileen's mind went blank, Teresa had already gone to the suitcase and returned holding a velvet-wrapped wooden box.

She solemnly placed the box into Eileen's hands, gazing at the bewildered woman.

"Your Highness, this is an item Lady Antonie left with me. She said that one day, you would need it—and when that time came, I was to deliver this decisive weapon to you."

Lady Antonie?

Erin froze.

Given her impression of that gentle, virtuous lady, she had never associated her with anything mysterious or secretive.

A magic device?

Or perhaps a charm scroll to enhance allure…

With a heart tangled in anxiety and anticipation, Erin, as if guided by some unseen force, reached out and gently unfastened the golden clasp with trembling fingers.

The lid sprang open.

No glow of magical energy. No sparkle of gemstones.

Lying on the black velvet lining was merely a thin, almost weightless… uh, fabric?

Without close inspection, Erin might have mistaken it for leftover scraps from a tailor's workshop.

A sheer black silk nightgown, so light it could be blown away by her breath, its delicate lace patterns bloomed like mandrakes in the night—its fabric held less modesty than shame itself, radiating a suffocating boldness and decadence.

Erin stared fixedly at the fabric in the box, her emerald pupils trembling as if shaken by an earthquake, her mind nearly ceasing to function in an instant.

This is not a proper garment! What's the difference between wearing this and wearing nothing at all?

No—

This half-revealing design is even more sacrilegious than nudity!

Merely imagining it on her own body turned her cheeks into molten lava; she longed to bury her face in the fireplace to cool down.

"Lady Antonie said this was custom-tailored to your measurements," Teresa continued without blinking, as if the garment were not "the Emperor's New Clothes," but an unbreakable battle armor, "According to her, men have virtually zero resistance to this kind of 'half-concealed' allure. Simply put—put it on, and you win."

"Put it on… and win?" Erin's breath quickened; her mind teetered on the edge of oxygen deprivation as she reached out and took the garment.

Teresa gave her another encouraging glance.

"Exactly! For the future of the Campbell family, please change into it!"

Unfortunately—

Teresa had overestimated Erin's courage in this regard; shame ultimately shattered the wall of reason.

Her face instantly flushed crimson, nearly dripping blood; the steam rising from her body made it unclear whether it was sweat evaporating or boiling air.

To wear this to meet Colin…

In her fantasy, she stood at the door, seeing the face behind it shift from stunned disbelief to rapt obsession, until finally, the two ascended together to the clouds of Ten Thousand Swords Mountain.

"Ugh…"

Erin's overloaded mind emitted a short, pained cry. Her head tilted back, her body going limp as she collapsed backward.

"Your Highness?!"

Teresa reacted instantly, lunging forward and catching Erin's slender, soft waist just before her head struck the floor.

At that same moment, in the master bedroom upstairs, Vivian—who had been happily munching chips—suddenly froze, then jolted upright on the bed.

Just then, she felt Erin's heartbeat surge beyond its limit; extreme shame and arousal nearly burned her own mind to ash.

"What's going on?!"

Had some white-haired fox spirit shamelessly started showing off right under Vivian's nose?

How utterly outrageous!

Alarms blared in Vivian's mind; her crimson eyes flashed with menace. She tossed the half-eaten chips aside and sat cross-legged again on the bed.

"You won't get away with this! Waaahhh—!"

Logically, even if a sire held some degree of dominion over their thrall, it was no easy feat for a Platinum-tier transcendent to directly resist a Diamond-tier master.

But unluckily, Erin had just exhausted her mental reserves under Teresa's relentless assault, leaving an opening for the Campbell vampire to slip in.

In an instant, Vivian's gaze cleared—only to be met by a breath that nearly terrified her to death.

Holy shit—

What the hell?!

What appeared before Vivian's eyes was not a ghost—but Teresa's face.

There, the usually stoic knight now blushed furiously, breathing heavily, her eyes locked onto Vivian with unyielding intensity—their faces so close their noses nearly touched.

Vivian instinctively tried to recoil, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist. This wasn't her own body; she couldn't unleash her Diamond-tier power.

"Your Highness!"

Seeing Erin suddenly struggle, Teresa cried out—and was dragged backward as Erin toppled onto the rug, pulling Teresa down with her.

They lay piled together. Vivian's mind was nearly crashing—especially when the shameless black lace nightgown landed directly in her line of sight.

No!

Vivian's chastity must not be lost here!

"Eeeek—!"

A piercing scream shattered Vivian's bedroom. Hearing the commotion from above, Teresa instinctively looked up.

At that moment, the bond between sire and thrall snapped. The crimson hue in Erin's eyes faded, replaced once more by emerald confusion.

What just happened?

As Erin stared blankly, upstairs in the bedroom, terrified Vivian had already curled into the far corner of the bed.

She hugged her knees tightly, face pale as death, chest heaving violently—as if she had just crawled out of the dungeons of Shengcheng.

So this…

Is what the bond between a human lord and his knight feels like?

She had only read about it in Hainiwei's novels, once dismissing it as nonsense—yet reality was even more absurd than fiction.

Vivian extended a trembling hand and wiped the cold sweat from her forehead; her crimson eyes, still trembling, brimmed with terror.

"Humans… are truly terrifying…"

…

The night in Leiming City was deep, yet thousands of kilometers away, Shengcheng had only just heard the evening bell.

In the private prayer chamber of Saint Clement Cathedral, silence was so profound one could hear the whisper of candle flames.

The last rays of sunset pierced the towering stained-glass windows, casting elongated beams of light upon the milky-white marble statues.

Countless tiny dust motes danced around the fading beams, like mortals desperately trying to grasp something from the tide of history.

Leik Gregory, the elder revered as "Gregory IX," sat alone on the bench before the divine statue.

In his hands, he held two letters.

The one in his left hand came from the distant Dusk Province, signed by Inquisitor-General Jimenez—its words brimming with fervent devotion to divine grace and eager self-praise.

In Jimenez's letter, he claimed that, under the protection of the Holy Light, the Inquisition's thunderous actions had reduced the chaos in Dusk Province to ash.

The new "Holy Light Council" had become the Church's most loyal hound, relentlessly hunting down heretics who dared encroach upon divine authority.

The Inquisition planned to conclude its holy campaign in Dusk Province before autumn arrived, transferring local governance to the Holy Light Council.

A flicker of mockery passed through the old man's cloudy eyes. Knowing Jimenez as he did, if the situation were truly as smooth as claimed, the Inquisitor-General would never have left so hastily.

Ending it before the harvest…

That meant the harvest would likely fail—production was probably in shambles, and the Inquisition was simply dumping the mess before people actually starved.

The so-called Holy Light Council would be the one to inherit the burden. Too bad the people there would have to endure another year of hunger.

Fortunately, the same kind of corruption rarely erupted twice in quick succession on the same land.

Gregory IX sighed softly, offering two seconds of silent mourning for the starving, then turned his gaze to the letter in his right hand.

It was a petition from the capital of the Rayne Kingdom, penned personally by Bishop Claude of Roland City.

He lamented the poverty of his diocese: the faithful could not afford bread; even the priests could not raise coins to repair the church roof. All blame fell upon the Campbell Duchy downstream of the Rushing River, where the duke was pushing blasphemous reforms, swindling gold and silver from the people with worthless paper notes.

【…We humbly beg Shengcheng to show mercy, to grant funds to calm the restless faithful…】

Gregory IX read the letter in silence. He did not even sigh—only shook his head gently.

Slowly, he raised his gaze beyond the letters, toward the setting sun beyond the window, a quiet sorrow rising within him.

Five hundred years ago, did the sun shine the same way over the lands of the Os Empire?

Back then, the Saint Sis Church was glorious beyond measure!

The Empire's legions were mighty; wherever their gaze fell, roads stretched across the land!

Their strength was not merely martial—it was civil as well. The Senate's nobles bound themselves through bloodlines to the royal courts of all kingdoms, their lineages fused as one.

And the Church's influence surpassed them both.

Every bishop sent from Shengcheng to each kingdom was the true uncrowned king; even the most powerful monarchs bowed before them.

Every priest was expected to make at least three pilgrimages to Shengcheng: once in youth, once in middle age, and finally, in old age.

Back then, the Pope merely needed to raise his staff, and hundreds of thousands of soldiers could be mobilized across the vast lands of Os!

Lizardfolk cowered in a corner of the Old Continent; orcs and elves were forced into exile; human power and the Holy Light had never been stronger.

And the Os Empire embodied all this supreme might!

But—

Those glorious days were gone forever.

The Empire's gaze turned beyond the stormy waves, toward the new continent rich with gold. Shengcheng grew young—and yet, more aged than ever.

New officers cared only for battlefield glory and colonial treasures; they preferred sending Shengcheng's youths to die on distant fronts rather than glance back at their own homeland.

In their eyes, the kingdoms of the Old Continent were symbols of poverty and barbarism; their rulers were nothing but mud-bound savages.

The Senate's attitude was much the same.

As trade across the Vast Ocean flourished, the kingdoms had gradually shifted from the main course on Shengcheng's table to mere appetizers.

An imperial citizen spends more gold in a lifetime than ten Rodians combined, and Rodia is still the empire's closest ally—farther lands only grow worse.

Unable to impose the empire's advanced order on the old lands where conservative forces were deeply entrenched, they turned their gaze instead beyond the Vortex Sea.

This was not merely driven by self-interest or the collapse of marital politics, but also a long-term conspiracy by the Holy City nobles to balance ecclesiastical power.

After successfully sidelining the immortal Emperor, they quickly turned their attention to Saint Clement Cathedral. No incitement was needed—this was inevitable.

Gregory IX knew full well what those families in Saint City intended: they wanted the Church's authority to die alongside the rot of the Old Continent, so they could forge a new empire!

This conspiracy had not begun today—it had lasted five hundred years. Amid the open and covert struggles between the two factions, it even indirectly gave birth to the military faction representing the commoners.

The result of this struggle was that bishops, once shepherds of their regions, had become court jesters at kings' tables.

The most notorious example was Bishop Claude of Roland!

Gregory IX remembered that name clearly, and was helpless that regional bishops had sunk so low as to beg secular monarchs for loans from the Pope.

Though secular kings had borrowed from the Pope before, they usually wrote letters themselves, and the Pope would then instruct local bishops to release funds.

These greedy worms… must have long since squandered all the gold the Church had placed across the lands.

The only institutions still directly controlled by the Church were likely the Adventurers' Guilds in each region.

But those institutions, like the bishops, had long been gnawed through by local powers—hardly any adventurers now remembered they were servants of the Holy Light.

As Gregory IX sat alone, mourning the fading glow of sunset, a low groan came from the oak door behind the bench, shattering the prayer room's silent stillness.

"Your Holiness, you summoned me?"

Cardinal Frances Hilfen entered.

He was the uncle of Cassette Hilfen, possessing profound expertise in art appreciation and theology, and also a transcendent of unfathomable power.

No one knew his true depth, for there had been no wars near Saint City for a long time—and even if there had been, it rarely required a cardinal's intervention.

Most bishops and Popes took their transcendent power to the grave.

Gregory IX said nothing, only slowly extended his withered hand from beneath his sleeve and passed over the two letters.

Frances received them respectfully, as if accepting fine wine from another gentleman. By candlelight, he first turned to the letter from the Dusk Province.

It was the victory report from Inquisitor-General Jimenez.

Reading the nearly fanatical prose on the paper, Frances's neatly trimmed eyebrows lifted slightly, and a knowing smile curled at his lips.

He knew Jimenez as well as the Pope did—that lowborn mad dog had a pathological obsession with heretics.

Noble-born aristocrats looked down on such mongrels; these men lacked stable cores, climbed by any means necessary, and today would bite at the bone thrown to them, tomorrow would bite their master's hand.

To him, "eradicating chaos" was merely a carefully painted farce to conceal their own incompetence.

And the facts seemed to confirm it.

They hadn't even waited for the first harvest before rushing to unilaterally declare victory and withdraw with dignity.

"What do you think of Jimenez's letter?" the Pope asked Frances, his voice calm and soft.

Frances replied coolly.

"I'm not surprised he stumbled. But knowing him, he'd likely not lie on critical matters."

Gregory IX nodded.

He felt the same.

In truth, whether the Inquisition returned humiliated or not, so long as the corruption of chaos vanished from that land, it was enough.

"He wants a victory? Then let him have one—Saint Clement Cathedral needs his triumph."

Gregory IX nodded.

"I want you to handle this. The Hilfen family has experience in such matters."

"It is my honor to serve you."

Frances smiled faintly, as if brushing dust from his sleeve, and casually set the "victory report" aside on the bench.

Then he unfolded the second letter—from Bishop Claude of Roland.

At first, Frances's expression remained calm.

But as his gaze moved downward and he saw that other lowborn mongrel, no less than Jimenez, groveling for coins without dignity, he could no longer suppress the boiling rage in his chest—and before the statue of Saint Cis, he spat a blasphemous curse.

"This vile clown!"

Gregory IX gave him a long look, but Frances showed no restraint; in furious rage, he crumpled the letter into a ball.

"How dare he reach out to Saint City for money? Hasn't Theoden's scraps fed his greedy mouth yet?!"

To Saint City, Bishop Claude of Roland was a living joke.

More than a decade ago, this man had been a dwarf jester in the Lyne royal court, juggling balls and performing absurd antics to amuse the king. Because he pleased King Theoden de Valu, the latter engineered his rise to the seat of regional bishop!

Though secular kingdoms had usurped bishop authority for five hundred years, Claude was undoubtedly its most blasphemous example.

He was the bishop with the lowest "holy content" in history!

Worse still, his record showed no irregularities—he had been promoted step by step from parish priest, only at an unusually rapid pace.

This had once been used by the Elder Faction and the Military Faction as proof to attack Saint Clement's "crown fallen."

Or rather, as a laughingstock.

Thinking of Claude's face, painted with rouge powder, Frances felt a wave of nausea—he wanted to burn the letter.

"Your Holiness, that kingdom is beyond saving."

After venting his rage, Frances turned to face the Pope, his voice icy.

"Why does chaos always favor Lyne? Why do those filthy abominations always fester on that land? The answer is obvious—it is the most blasphemous place on the Old Continent!"

He pointed beyond the stained glass of Saint Clement Cathedral—toward Lyne.