Chapter 105

No one can withstand three Divine Word spells unless they’re a god—look, even Lightning, the angel, the skeleton, the zombie, and the bronze dragon are all kneeling on the ground.

Ange endured it—he is a god, the immortal god.

No one can shatter five layers of shields plus Holy Protection with a single punch; Ange couldn’t either, so his hand passed through.

The Hand of Transcendence is not only the key to the Ancestral Palace but also a divine artifact capable of crossing between realms—it pierced through layers of shields and plunged into Nicolas’s body.

Nicolas stared in disbelief at his chest, where a hole had appeared, and a hand was embedded there.

Feeling his strength draining rapidly, Nicolas struggled to cry out: “God… God said, under the holy light…”

From afar came Negril’s shout: “Burn him, don’t let him resurrect.”

The Church of Light always wraps liches in holy shrouds and burns them to prevent resurrection—if Nicolas comes back, he’ll hate these people and hunt them down relentlessly.

“Oh.” Ange replied, and flames erupted inside Nicolas’s body, roasting him into charcoal inside and out, killing him beyond any chance of revival.

Nicolas simply chose the wrong opponent and the worst possible tactic—even if he’d ordered his guards to charge en masse, it would’ve been better than this.

As the power of the Divine Words faded, Negril and the others could finally move. Before they even steadied themselves, Negril shouted: “Break out, don’t stop!”

Under his urging, everyone charged forward together, too frantic to even mount their horses.

“Slow down, slow down, my knees are scraped!” Lightning muttered, yet ran faster than anyone else.

Nicolas’s guards wore expressions of despair and fury—under their protection, their archbishop had died; returning home meant facing judgment in the Tribunal, a place more terrifying than death—better to die fighting outright.

With hearts set on death or redemption through merit, the guards surged forward.

Ange let out an “Ow!”

The angel skeleton let out an excited, loud “Ow!” and dashed ahead of everyone, spreading its wings.

Instantly, the enemy hesitated—the angel skeleton’s appearance was profoundly misleading: it looked like a young, pale, cute, naive, yet fierce little girl, and one named after holiness. When it spread its wings toward the faithful, the enemy’s ranks underwent the same shift as Mad’s squad of paladins had before.

Holy light blazed across the entire field.

Those quick enough dove to the sides; those slower were consumed by the holy radiance. Nicolas’s luxurious carriage, struck head-on, had all its ornate decorations vaporized, revealing the black steel plates beneath—it was armored after all.

“Hurry, they’re closing the gate!” Negril grabbed the angel skeleton, whose body was already turning to ash, and hurled it onto Lightning’s back.

In the distance, the city gate was slowly closing; atop the walls, city guards frantically spun the winches.

If they didn’t break out before the gate shut, they were dead. Humans weren’t feared for their strongest warriors, but for their organizational power—they could summon endless soldiers and mages, overwhelming any enemy with sheer numbers.

But it seemed too late—Ange had used all his trump cards, leaving only one Lock’s Hand. Despair rose in Negril’s heart.

At that moment, Ange’s Hand of Transcendence vanished, and when he pulled it back, it moved with difficulty, as if dragging something heavy.

A crossbow bolt, as thick as an adult’s arm, shot toward Ange. In haste, the city guards could only reorient one crossbow—but given another moment, a dozen more on the walls could turn.

“Ah ha!” A figure stepped in front of Ange, martial energy forming a sword that slashed the bolt aside.

Ange finally dragged everything out—it was a twenty-ton steel construct.

Lu Se immediately yelled: “So Patsey is with you? I thought someone stole it! We searched everywhere for it—though there’s no Guardian Seat here…”

Before he finished speaking, Ange pressed both hands onto Patsey, and the steel construct let out an excited cry: “Ooooh! Where’s this energy coming from? Such powerful soul energy—I’m full of power!!!”

Though there was no Guardian Seat, wasn’t Ange himself a mobile power source? Who had more abundant soul energy than him?

“Smash it.” Ange pointed at the slowly closing city gate.

“Yes, my lord. Watch me crush it.” Patsey slowly rose, stepping forward with its fifty-centimeter stubby legs.

Negril wanted to cry—could this thing really move on those stubby legs? Would it reach the gate before nightfall?

Negril needn’t have worried—if Patsey could only move on those stubby legs, how could it have become the only one of the Twelve Guardians who could speak? Because of its vast knowledge?

As Patsey stepped forward, its arms shot out—each extension spanning over ten meters, gripping edges and corners, then retracting to drag itself forward. In one extension and retraction, its speed surpassed even Lightning’s.

A twenty-ton steel construct moving forward was like a twenty-ton war chariot—anything in its path was crushed outright. The holy light had already scattered everyone; now, with Patsey barreling through, they scattered in panic.

Patsey slammed into the gate—still partially closed—and the magical runes on it flickered once, then snapped open with a crack. The guards atop the wall had struggled for minutes to shut the massive gate; Patsey smashed it open in one blow.

Everyone surged out behind Patsey, vanishing into the small woods beyond the gate.

After alternating pulls for over ten minutes, Patsey cried out: “Ahh, I’m out… out… of energy… next time… call me… to play…”

How many years? How many years? Since its forging, Patsey had never fought at full strength—occasionally, intruders breached the World Transit Station, but before Patsey arrived, other Guardians had already claimed them.

Ange shoved Patsey back inside, and the group mounted Lightning, fleeing blindly, heads down, racing full speed.

…

Anthony raised his crystal cup, smiling as he addressed those seated along the long table: “Gentlemen, ladies, I am deeply honored you found time to come amid your busy schedules. All of you here are the most devout followers of the gods. In this hour of crisis, the forces of heresy are corrupting the Church from within—I do not know how many have been swayed by the heretic…”

Before he finished, a guard burst in, panicked. Anthony frowned, about to rebuke him—until the guard blurted: “Report: Archbishop Nicolas Kevin III of the Western Diocese has been assassinated.”

Anthony gasped: “What?! Nicolas is dead? How?”

Everyone around the table shot him a strange look—expressions that said: “Don’t you know how he died? You called us here for this council—was this just to fabricate an alibi?”

Anthony’s heart screamed injustice—he instantly realized: if Nicolas was truly dead, he was the prime suspect. He’d been consolidating the Eastern Diocese’s power, pressuring the Pope to execute Nicolas for blasphemy.

Who the hell was framing him? If you want to kill someone, do it openly—ambush and assassination weren’t his style.

The guard continued: “The assassins: a stunted bronze dragon, a human, an angel, a suit of armor, and a strange horse with half a horn.”

Now it was Anthony’s turn to look strange—he glanced at the silver coin on the right side of the table. This combination… felt familiar.

The guard went on: “The Pope’s command: you, Archbishop Anthony, are to capture these assassins—dead or alive.”

Those around the table exchanged glances, each reading the same understanding in the others’ eyes: this was an order to hand over suspects. Even the Pope believed Anthony was responsible—and the phrase “dead or alive” carried heavy implication.

Anthony scanned every face around the table, absorbing each expression—his heart tasted like bitter gall: My lord, you stole my target and made me carry the blame—I…