Chapter 639: The Death Knell Rang in Roland Cathedral

Roland City, Saint Roland Cathedral.

This once-sacred temple, symbolizing the purity and piety of the Leyn Kingdom, now resembled a graveyard haunted by ghosts.

Hoarse roars replaced the choir's hymns, coating the holy stained glass with a chilling terror.

"Maurus! Where have you gone? I command you—come out this instant!"

The stumbling old man shuffled past the pews.

He reached the altar, gripping the marble railing with both hands, veins beneath his withered skin swelling as if about to burst.

Maurs did not appear.

The only response to Theoden's cry was the echo of his own voice.

And the "Hand of the Former King," who had always lingered beside him like a shadow, had vanished without a trace for a long time.

Theoden spun around, scanning the vast hall behind him, clinging to his last hope, searching the shadows of the marble columns for his lost trump card.

But it proved futile.

He had lost not only his trump card, but also the languid ease behind those sharp eyes—and even… his youth itself.

Deprived of the "Holy Water," the once-robust king now seemed only aged. His flesh rotted faster in madness, his steps grew unsteady—all because Maurs had ceased his tribute… or so he believed.

A bone-deep chill made Theoden shiver. He began to feel the breath of death creeping up his ankles, turning into a cold dread beneath his skin and hair.

"I don't believe it… How could you fail? You're hiding, aren't you? Heh… Come out this instant!"

Theoden muttered obsessively, alternating between whispers and roars, his clouded eyes streaked with blood.

That was Maurs!

The sharpest dagger of the Leyn Kingdom!

In this world, who besides those half-steps into the divine realm could kill him without a sound?!

Impossible!

Absolutely impossible!

Even a demi-god would find killing a Grand Master no easy feat. Domain power is formidable, but not invincible—many ways exist to bridge the gap in strength.

And if he wasn't dead, there was only one explanation.

A thought more terrifying and furious than Maurs's death slithered into Theoden's mind like a venomous snake—

Betrayal!

He smelled betrayal.

"Enough! My patience is exhausted! You betrayed your kingdom! Maurs! I knew people with filthy blood could never be trusted… you lowly bastard, born of a maid! A disgrace to the Devalu family!"

Theoden jerked his head up and roared at the empty hall, his voice shrill as a demon's wail from hell.

He no longer cared.

Maurs's illegitimate birth was one of the Devalu family's deepest secrets—and why Theoden had trusted him so utterly.

In both hellish and Saint Xis's faith systems, "impure blood" was no blessing, but a curse—or a lever.

They were seen as shame, excluded from legal succession, naturally despised by church power… surviving only in shadows, dependent on paternal favor or the mercy of the rightful heir—even when it wasn't their fault.

Theoden never imagined Maurs would betray him. But then he thought: the Campbell Duchy was now ruled by demons, and the heretical Edward might well disregard ancient law… everything made sense now.

"You took my formula, you took my Holy Water… you defected to Campbell! You damned wretch! You betrayed your family and your king!"

That double-faced traitor must have traded the king's own gift for Edward's protection!

Rising suspicion burned like wildfire, devouring what little reason remained in Theoden's inherently suspicious mind.

He swung his scepter wildly, smashing a nearby angel statue to shards, letting the plaster fragments fly toward Saint Xis's statue.

The compassionate statue stood unmoved, as if mocking the dying mortal—or perhaps pitying him.

But seeing that serene expression, Theoden only grew angrier, wanting to hurl his scepter at it.

"Your Majesty… please calm yourself…"

A trembling voice came from the corner's shadow, weak as a mouse about to be crushed.

Theoden whirled, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the source.

Behind the massive stone pillar, Claude, dressed in a lavish cardinal's robe, trembled violently, his aged face etched with terror.

He had intended to support the swaying monarch or say something to soothe him, but meeting those monstrous eyes, he recoiled instinctively.

That was no human gaze.

It was the look of a beast driven mad by hunger and fear.

Claude's legs shook. The heavy cardinal's robe felt like lead, crushing his breath.

Had he not seen the king about to smash Saint Xis's statue, he would have hidden behind the pillar until he died.

He knew his own worth better than anyone.

He was no divine messenger—just a gilded court jester. Even a baron's daughter could slap him.

Roland City was no longer the ancient city-state of unwavering faith that stood always with the Holy Light a thousand years ago.

"Claude…"

Theoden stepped closer, dragging his feet, grabbing Claude's collar and exhaling the stench of spoiled leftovers through his teeth.

"You came to mock me?"

"I… how could I ever, Your Majesty…"

Claude pressed himself against the cold pillar, sweat sliding down his powdered cheeks, pooling at his chin.

He forced a smile uglier than crying—the instinct honed as a jester, the skill refined after becoming cardinal.

"I am your most loyal servant… and God's servant…"

"God?"

Theoden let out a shrill, unnatural laugh, seizing Claude's crucifix with a withered hand.

The crushing force choked him; his dry lips moved in silent plea, yet he dared not touch the king's hand.

"If God truly exists, why does He never answer my prayers?! If Saint Xis truly exists, where was He when His people needed Him most?!"

Theoden stared into Claude's eyes, spittle spraying his face, hurling blasphemies without restraint.

"Answer me, my archbishop! Where is my Saint Xis? Where is Maurs? And where is my… Holy Water?!"

Holy… Holy Water?

Claude was stunned by the shout, yet dared not ask further, enduring the king's rage and silently praying Maurs would appear.

Only that man could calm the king—but no one knew where he had gone, as if vanished.

Deafening roars echoed through the hall, making the stained glass above hum. Yet no divine oracle came—as if it had never existed.

The most ironic thing in this world: when all believed the gods would intervene, the gods vanished.

But perhaps the humble prayer of this lowly man was heard—just as Claude neared suffocation, footsteps outside the hall saved him.

Hearing the familiar tread, Theoden's grip loosened slightly; Claude gasped for air, collapsing beside the pillar, staring fearfully at the entrance.

Afternoon sunlight pierced the corridor, then the heavy oak door, and a tall figure stepped in against the dust lit by the glow.

He wore a well-tailored black double-breasted coat, a crisp silver-gray tie at his collar, spotless white gloves on his hands. But what struck the eye was the dark-gold pocket watch he held.

Had one ignored the ruins and the mad king, this man's demeanor resembled a butler who had just left an upper-class tea party, preparing to arrange the evening banquet.

Cassius, codename "Death Knell"—his nickname matched his punctuality.

In the Leyn Kingdom's "Gravekeepers," he ranked second only to Maurs, and the only killer who resembled a gentleman more than an assassin.

Ignoring the collapsed cardinal, he walked straight to ten paces from the king, then closed his pocket watch and knelt on one knee, face heavy with sorrow.

"Your Majesty, I am late."

Theoden seized him like a drowning man clutching a straw, stumbling forward and gripping Cassius's shoulders.

"Where is Maurs? Can't you find him either? He truly betrayed me…"

Cassius fell silent.

He did not immediately report Maurs's death, but studied the king's expression carefully, weighing his words.

After a long pause, his deliberation reached a conclusion; the battle between good and evil within him had settled. A faint, almost imperceptible smile curled his lips.

"Your Majesty, did you hear it?"

"Hear what?" Theoden blinked, glancing nervously around, especially at the statue behind him.

"Those whispers…"

Cassius's voice softened, his eyes revealing a trace of pity and resignation. "Rats hiding in dark corners are gnawing their teeth. Maurs tried to fight them, but… our enemies are too strong. Even faithful Maurs could not withstand their corruption."

Theoden's pupils shrank sharply; he held his breath, as if truly hearing a grating, teeth-scratching sound in the air.

"You mean…"

"Master Maurs did not vanish—he was devoured by the rat swarm. Or rather, he himself was the greatest rat, unable to withstand the test."

Cassius rose, steadying the swaying king, whispering softly into his ear with a tone of grief.

"According to our intelligence… his last known location was the Dusk Province. He forbade anyone from following him. Undoubtedly, he took our kingdom's most vital secrets and defected to that lowly clown in the south…"

These words cut open the abscess in Theoden's heart. It was less an intelligence report than Cassius reading the king's own thoughts.

Whatever Theoden wished to hear, Cassius delivered it—even the most absurd tale became a smooth poem.

Poetry need not be reasonable.

It need only be catchy.

"I knew it! That damned traitor! He betrayed me!"

Theoden cursed violently, his nails digging into Cassius's coat as he shrieked, venting his madness.

"Not just him, Your Majesty."

Cassius continued stoking the fire, his tone as mournful as ever.

In the shadows of Roland City, his accomplices were everywhere—the greedy merchants, the hypocritical nobles, even…

His gaze swept lightly over Claude in the corner, leaving the bishop, pale with fear, with a warning glance.

"…even perhaps the person closest to you. They are all waiting for your decay, waiting to carve up the corpse of this lion—"

"Kill them all! Let the Keepers of the Grave move at once! Not a single clown shall tarnish the honor of the Devaul family!"

Before Cassius could finish, Theoden roared, interrupting him, spittle flying.

Cassius bowed slightly, a faint, cruel smile curling at his lips, while Claude, slumped on the floor, dared not make a sound.

This madman…

He will kill us all!

Yet Claude was powerless to stop it—or rather, he had never had the capacity to. He knew full well he was merely a clown.

Whether in the king's eyes, or the citizens of Roland City's, or… in the eyes of Saint Cys.

He could only watch helplessly as a man even more despicable than himself stole the dagger hidden beneath the king's robe.

"As you wish, Your Majesty. The Keepers of the Grave shall act at once, sweeping away all traitors with lightning speed. But to ensure this righteous purge is not halted midway, I require your authorization to mobilize all forces within Roland City. Marsus's allies are too deeply entrenched in this city; only your support can restore honor to your throne."

Theoden displayed a sickly, twisted smile as he slapped Cassius's shoulder hard.

"Go. Ring their death knells. I grant you full authority for all your actions. Cassius, you are the only loyal subject on this earth. Strip the skins from those rats and offer their blood to my Saint Cys! Let the living know—the Holy Light brooks no questioning, no defilement!"

"It is my honor."

Cassius performed a flawless noble bow, then turned and walked out of the hall without pausing.

Marsus was dead, but the vast legacy left by the "Hand of the Late King" still needed an heir.

While this lord still lived, Cassius had lived always under his shadow, daring not to harbor even a single selfish thought.

Now that this lord was dead, the ambitions long suppressed within Cassius's heart exploded like a released spring.

He would not only inherit everything Marsus had possessed—he would seize everything Marsus had never controlled!

The sunlight outside the oak door swallowed Cassius's figure.

Theoden suddenly turned, strode to Claude, who trembled violently, seized his collar, and yanked the bishop off the ground.

"Claude!"

The king's eyes locked onto him, his cloudy pupils filled with madness—and yet, beneath it, a childlike hope lingered.

"Ask Saint Cys for me—am I right? Saint Cys… He will support me, won't He?"

Looking at that face, monstrous as a demon, Claude felt his heart would leap from his throat.

Cold sweat soaked his back, trickled down his forehead into his eyes—he dared not blink.

As a former clown, he was best at reading expressions. And he knew with absolute clarity: this would be his final performance.

If he uttered one wrong word, the death bell of Saint Roland Cathedral would ring first for him—he would be the first to die in this catastrophe.

The instinct for survival ultimately overpowered morality and conscience.

Claude swallowed hard, forcing his facial muscles to still, assuming an air of solemn dignity.

"Yes… yes, Your Majesty."

His voice trembled, as if stirred by divine revelation. "I heard… I heard His divine decree."

"What did He say?" Theoden pressed urgently, as if he did not already know the answer.

Claude closed his eyes, betraying his conscience, and spoke the lie that would plunge Roland City into hell.

"He says… your judgment is filled with sacred wisdom. Your glorious name, through this baptism, shall bring Roland City unprecedented glory."

Theoden paused, then burst into wild laughter—the highest praise for a clown who performed with all his might.

"I knew it! The Holy Light has not abandoned us! Honor shall belong to the Devaul family!"

He shoved Claude aside, satisfied, and shouted toward the attendants outside.

"Go to the cellar! Bring out my private stash! I shall drink with my old friend—to the dawn rising on the horizon!"

In the twilight.

The servant crossed the corridor, trembling, carrying the red wine, then knelt on the floor.

The mad king raised his crimson cup, standing before the shattered angel statue, clinking it with the bishop, who feigned calm.

"Claude! Drink with me again—this toast is for tomorrow's prosperity!"

"Yes, Your Majesty… May the Holy Light forever protect you, protect our kingdom."

…

The Keepers of the Grave had once been the sharpest dagger beneath the king's sleeve—but now, with Marsus dead, this dagger had been drawn into the light.

Whether in the Scholarate or the Kingdom of Lyne, it seemed both were caught in a strange curse: yesterday's demon often appeared kinder beside tomorrow's.

The citizens of Roland City never knew what had happened that night somewhere in the Wanren Mountains; they only knew that overnight, mysterious soldiers in black robes appeared on every street, like crows circling above Roland City after the Great Winter Fire.

The Royal Guard fled at the sight of them, terrified of being marked. Even Lady Ma Rui, rarely seen without her aristocratic temper, warned Newcastle never to provoke these men.

Newcastle, of course, would never provoke them—he was a man of perfect diplomacy. Even Sir Skagdin, who had once looked down on him, received his utmost courtesy; he made no enemies.

Yet he still felt a pang of bewilderment at Roland City's changes. Trapped in the fog, he sensed it had never been this thick.

⊙Ttkдn⊙￠o

Perhaps—

He had underestimated the problem. The room wasn't just filled with gunpowder—those barrels were merely the tip of the iceberg.

Fortunately, those purged this time were not the masons who hoarded the Encyclopedia—but the king's own courtiers.

The purge proceeded silently, efficiently.

Former loyalists of Marsus were dragged from their beds, their throats slit before they could cry out.

Those who held core secrets were thrown into the dungeons.

Cassius knew every one of their names—he, too, had been one of Marsus's loyalists, though he had never overseen the Holy Water project.

This purge was not merely to eliminate rivals—it was also to reorganize his forces on a grand scale and seize control of the most vital secrets.

He must make the king depend on him—and only him.

Standing in the dark, damp dungeon, Cassius elegantly pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time as if confirming his cue to step onto the stage.

Before him, on the rack, the deputy officer responsible for transporting Holy Water back to Roland City had been reduced to a mangled ruin.

"I… I really don't know the formula…"

The deputy's breath was faint, his flesh torn and bleeding, drops of blood pattering onto the filthy floor.

Gold-rank power was useless against a Purple Crystal-tier master—especially one who specialized in assassination.

"I only handled transport… the materials came from the Wanren Mountains. The technical details were handled by Professor Edgar…"

"You know…"

Cassius frowned slightly. This was not the answer he wanted. And he was certain it was not the answer the king desired.

He knew exactly where his power came from.

If he failed to satisfy the king's demands, today he would be Cassius, second only to the monarch—tomorrow, a traitor in chains.

Purple Crystal-tier master?

To the Devaul family, who held the card of a demi-god, even Grand Masters were mere ants. He would never be so arrogant as to believe he could replace the king.

Besides, he had no need to.

The king was easily satisfied—just present him with the promised tribute, and what happened beyond the palace gates mattered little.

"Professor Edgar has vanished. If you don't want to end up like him, tell me everything you know… My patience is limited. The king's is, too."

Cassius stepped forward, his tone gentle as if asking about the weather outside—yet the ticking of his pocket watch cracked like a whip against the deputy's fraying nerves.

He stopped, staring into those terrified eyes.

"You handled transport, didn't you? Your duty wasn't just to bring the Holy Water here—it was also to deliver the raw materials back. Tell me: what were the raw materials? Don't say you don't know."

The deputy's pupils contracted sharply, then rapidly dilated.

Under unbearable pain and terror, his mental defenses shattered. He spoke incoherently, clinging to fragments of memory.

"It's… souls… pure souls."

"Souls? Where are they stored?"

"People…"

"People?"

"Yes, yes—especially children's… I once overheard a magic apprentice say their souls—or whatever they call them—are easiest to purify."

Cassius raised an eyebrow. The lid of his pocket watch snapped shut with a sharp *click*.

"So that's it. I thought it was some profound magic—turns out the truth is shockingly simple… heh."

Was this the secret Marsus had gone to such lengths to bury?

No wonder he guarded it so closely—the principle itself was too simple, easily copied.

A victorious smile curled at Cassius's lips.

Lyne City had no shortage of orphans—especially after the Great Winter Fire. Though the king shipped much of the material to the countryside, the Church still sheltered many.

"Give him mercy."

Cassius waved his hand. The black-robed soldier beside him drew his sword without hesitation and plunged it into the deputy's chest, ending the wicked life.

No scream echoed.

Only a sigh—a release.

Cassius tucked away his watch and turned toward the dungeon exit. His boots squelched on the blood-slicked steps.

Passing the doorway, he issued his final order to the black-robed guards who now fully controlled the dungeon.

"Go to the orphanage in the lower district."

"Remember, the cleanest source possible."

……

Under the night sky, rain poured over Roland City, as if Saint Sis were weeping, while doors and windows along the streets were tightly shut, like the closed eyes of lambs.

Dozens of pitch-black carriages smashed through the rain, striking with lightning speed to the gates of several orphanages in the lower district.

Gravekeepers clad in black robes kicked open the doors; an elderly nun tried to block them with outstretched arms, but was kicked into the mud and water.

She seemed to realize something, and shouted behind her.

"Run—children!"

A sword pierced her chest; blood washed away by rain sank into the mud pit, staining the ancient, sacred steps with a horrifying, grotesque hue.

Her death meant nothing.

Before the Gravekeepers, even the Gravekeepers themselves could not escape—how much less a group of defenseless children?

"By the King's command! Among you is a spy. You must come with us."

Soldiers in black cloaks pulled out a handwritten order—no one knew who wrote it—and stared coldly at the children trembling in the corridor.

Not a single hesitation.

Whether awake or still asleep, every child was dragged from the convent and thrown into iron-caged carriages.

Screams, cries for help, and the nuns' desperate prayers wove together into a suffocating dirge.

Even the Royal Guard, rushing upon hearing the commotion, could only stand silently in the rain upon seeing the pitch-black carriages, watching them head toward the Royal Prison by the Rushing River.

Sir Scadgin clenched his teeth, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Even when, at the entrance to Roland City's Grand Theater, Miss Ma Rui had slapped him in front of every citizen, he had never felt such humiliation as today.

A physical slap merely shattered a man's dignity—but he had never possessed such a thing. This invisible slap, however, lashed at the soul of the Leins…

Even animals rarely watch as hunters steal their young.

In the rain, he seemed to see a face.

It was the stonemason he had personally hanged—the man as unyielding as a statue—staring at him with eyes colder than stone—

Look.

Now we are all animals.

It's only a matter of who dies first.

Deep within Saint Roland Cathedral, Bishop Claude knelt before the statue of Saint Sis, his dry lips murmuring prayers.

"Saint Sis, forgive your unworthy servant…"

Perhaps he was truly afraid.

This smooth-talking clown had never been so devoutly penitent as today.

Through the thick stone walls, he heard the wailing in the rain—the lost souls, with nowhere to go, drifted here.

But he could do nothing.

Fear was an invisible hand, crushing his knees, pinning him down, preventing him from rising to do what a bishop must do.

Claude wept uncontrollably, slamming his forehead against the cold tiles until blood streamed down, staining the floor before the statue.

Yet the statue remained silent.

Perhaps judgment had already begun—he had only just begun to feel the pain.

For a bishop who had played the clown for decades, his repentance, his atonement—all came too late…

The torrential rain seemed ready to drown Roland City entirely, yet behind the curtain of rain, the thunder of artillery had just swallowed the valley thick with death.

Mid-September, Year 1054 of the Ausli calendar.

After two and a half months, the Flesh Clan's defensive line in Death Valley finally began to crack before autumn's full arrival.

For the railway piercing through the Earl of Spinor's territory had finally reached the mountains.

Generally, railways crossing mountains were treacherous—but the Graveyard Engineers were all masters of tunneling.

After meticulous pre-war preparations, the Three Clans' allied forces concentrated superior troops and ammunition, launching a coordinated aerial, ground, and underground assault under cover of artillery and magic!

The cooperating combat units moved like precisely interlocked gears.

Though lacking communication gear to coordinate information, they still delivered a devastating dimensional strike against the ratmen, who fought alone.

The ratmen, still stuck in the previous age, had never seen such an onslaught—they were instantly knocked senseless.

Even the "crystalline aberrations" pouring endlessly from the black mist could not halt the flood—and only hastened the ratmen's demise.

At one corner of the vast battlefield,

the Lein Company of Campbell's First Mountain Regiment, protected by flank machine-gun positions, captured another peak and liberated the Leins imprisoned in the caves.

They were ragged, emaciated, their eyes dull and devoid of light—just like the Leins previously rescued.

Everyone was stunned: they had survived this long? The ratmen here hadn't slaughtered them all?

It was nothing short of a miracle.

As others gasped in disbelief, a young man named Hart said nothing—he stepped forward, smashed the cage's lock with his rifle butt, and extended his hand to the nearest person.

"Hold on to me."

The slowly reigniting light passed from one pair of eyes to another.

Three months ago, he should have died from wound infection—saved only by a group of kind knights and a beautiful nun.

Now—

It was his turn to save his own people.