Chapter 112: Theft of Holy Light (Two and a Half Chapters)

“She really is insane! Why is this happening? The Heavenly Kingdom is gone—why does she still have a Holy Spirit Angel possessing her? And it’s a Gray Angel? Has she fallen? A Fallen Believer?” Nagelis roared.

Ange drew his scythe—the one he’d used for over a thousand years—but because the dungeon was too cramped, his Death Scythe couldn’t be fully wielded, so he pulled out the smaller scythe instead.

But it was the same thing; the Death Scythe manifested based on the smaller scythe—it was merely another form of the Death Scythe.

He summoned the smaller scythe and the Soul Armor, but the dark, muddy Strawman Soul Armor was completely obscured by the Strawman Illusion—all transformations occurred beneath the illusion.

Xiamara couldn’t see it, only sense the sudden surge in soul energy, which made her frown in confusion.

“The Holy Spirit is gone—why can you still possess a body?” Ange asked as he summoned his Soul Armor.

“I made it,” Xiamara replied casually, then slashed with her left hand—holy light coalesced into a blade on her palm, slicing straight for Ange’s neck: “Holy light—give it to me.”

Xiamara’s casual remark left Nagelis reeling—she made it? She made it! She created a Holy Spirit!?

What did this mean? What did it imply? Holy Spirits are created by gods—she could create one, meaning she had stolen at least a portion of divine power and imposed her own will upon it.

Good heavens—what steals divine power? A false god. Is she trying to become a false god?

Ange hooked his scythe, deflecting the light blade aside.

Xiamara summoned another light blade with her right hand and slashed again; Ange deflected it to the other side. Back and forth they clashed, the strikes between blade and scythe ringing with continuous energy impacts.

Xiamara clearly had no martial training, but she’d definitely chopped vegetables in a kitchen—her dual-blade flurry resembled nothing so much as mincing meat.

Of course, Ange wasn’t weak either—the scythe honed by cutting grass and harvesting grain could strike anywhere it chose, precisely blocking each light blade, the energy clashes merging into a continuous din.

Though their techniques showed no variation, their effect was top-tier, and the spectacle was astonishing—the residual energy blasts shook the dungeon, rumbling like thunder.

The commotion drew the attention of Phaler and the Holy Knights guarding outside—they rushed down and froze in shock.

“A Gray Angel? Good heavens—the legendary Gray Angel! Xiamara has fallen!” Phaler cried out in anguish.

Xiamara, locked in fierce combat with Ange, turned her head and glared at them coldly, her eyes radiating holy light as she spoke with solemn, icy authority:

“You are the ones who have fallen—those who have abandoned holy light, like lost sheep. Before you lies the abyss of darkness. The God says: kill the lead sheep—it will lead the flock into the abyss…”

Xiamara murmured a chant, abandoned Ange, and lunged toward the door.

The dungeon’s iron bars were locked; Xiamara, wrapped in holy light, slammed into them—thick bars, as thick as an arm, bent instantly under her impact.

Phaler gasped, scrambled and rolled up the stairs, shouting: “Alert! Alert! Xiamara has fallen! Sound the alert!”

The remaining Holy Knights, bound by duty to guard the dungeon, gritted their teeth and drew their longswords—but seeing the bent, arm-thick bars, even the bravest felt their skin crawl. Was this even human?

No one anticipated Xiamara would fall—she was locked away because she’d lost her Holy Spirit possession, reduced to a weak woman. Arm-thick bars were overkill—enough to contain a giant bear.

Who could have imagined a weak woman would suddenly regain Holy Spirit possession? That should’ve been good news—you possess a Holy Spirit, you’re still the Holy Maiden, just say the word and you’re freed.

Who could have imagined this possession was the legendary Gray Angel—the mark of fall? Now, this fallen Holy Maiden turns around and claims *they* are the fallen, the ones who abandoned holy light, the lost sheep?

Let them be lost—but how could a normal Holy Spirit possession produce this kind of bear-like force? Normal possession doesn’t generate this power!

Xiamara stepped back two paces, then surged forward and slammed into the bars again—the weakened iron snapped. She pulled apart the broken bars and squeezed through.

But a disturbance behind her forced her to turn—and there, emerging from Ange’s body, was a radiant, holy light.

Actually, Xiamara shouldn’t have abandoned Ange, shouldn’t have put distance between them—otherwise she’d have witnessed the power of a magic artillery platform. But before that, a luminous figure emerged from his body, shielding him.

The soul of the Soul Warrior, Anthony.

Normally, Soul Warriors appeared as dark shadows, steeped in deathly aura—but Anthony’s soul was different.

The light was holy, the attire solemn, high-collared ceremonial crown—its silhouette unmistakably a bishop’s robe. More importantly, the figure held a bishop’s staff, its design radiating undeniable sanctity.

The soul manifested the image the Soul Warrior knew best—and for over a thousand years, Anthony had known nothing but this form. In public, he habitually wore a stern, solemn, utterly divine expression.

“Ah!? A bishop! A bishop!” The soul figure’s face was indistinct, only vague outlines and light-shadows visible—and this was the Western Diocese, where few knew Anthony; it was impossible to identify him from a mere glow.

But everyone recognized the attire and staff—this was a bishop-level clergyman.

This alone boosted the Holy Knights’ morale—they shouted: “Holy Soul! A bishop-level Holy Soul! Master Ascetic is incredible! Hold her back! Assist Lord Ange in killing the fallen angel!”

Xiamara turned and charged back, aiming to close the distance—wasn’t it said spellcasters feared melee? Then she’d close in and slash.

But as she rushed toward the Holy Soul, the “Holy Soul” swung its staff and brought it down upon her head.

Xiamara was stunned, jerking her head sharply to the side.

But the “Holy Soul” immediately swung the staff’s tail—lever principle—the head swung the opposite way and CRACKED into her skull.

Xiamara was flung back, slamming into the wall.

A melee novice, properly taught by a Black Knight Soul.

Xiamara was dazed. She had no martial skills—when previously possessed by a Holy Spirit, her melee ability came entirely from the Spirit. But this Spirit, she had created herself—and it had no melee capability.

Dazed, she noticed the Holy Soul didn’t pursue—it returned to Ange’s side.

That eased her breath—but when her gaze fell on Ange, her composure shattered: around him now swirled dozens of fist-sized orbs of light.

“Use holy light! Use holy light! Gray Angel—holy light does the most damage to them!” Nagelis pointed frantically inside Ange’s soul.

“I can’t,” Ange replied. He only knew Purification magic—he knew no other offensive holy magic.

“Don’t be so rigid! Compress holy light into a ball and fire it like a fireball— isn’t that a Holy Light Missile? You can compress fire elements into explosive fireballs; you can compress Purification magic into a ball too.”

“Oh.” And suddenly, dozens of Holy Light Missiles appeared around Ange.

When the Holy Light Missiles rained down upon Xiamara, the fallen Holy Maiden chose the most instinctive response—run!

Xiamara sprinted along the wall toward the iron gate, the missiles grazing her back and exploding against the wall behind—shrapnel struck her protective holy light, hissing and popping in a continuous barrage.

Xiamara burst through the iron gate, paused for a breath—and was struck by a missile, stumbling forward.

The Holy Knights blocking the gate seized the chance and swung their swords at her.

Unharmed—their holy light couldn’t harm her. Instead, Xiamara slapped one of them with her palm.

Like being struck by a giant bear, the knight’s bones shattered, his body launched into the air, bounced off the wall behind, and crashed down spitting blood—clearly dead.

Xiamara was about to charge forward again when she suddenly noticed something—she took a few hits from Holy Light Missiles, turned back, grabbed the fallen knight, and scrambled up the stairs.

“Chase her!” Nagelis shouted inside Ange’s soul.

He didn’t need to be told—Ange was already chasing, the Soul Warrior ahead, he followed close behind. The room below was in ruins; Xiamara’s figure had burst through the main door and vanished outside—her wings had turned black.

The Holy Knight Xiamara had dragged up now lay dead beside her, his body dull, lifeless.

Nagelis turned pale: “No! His holy light power has been stripped—Xiamara has stolen his strength! This is the true Fallen Angel! Chase and kill her—every power she steals makes her stronger!”

Gray Angel and Fallen Angel aren’t merely distinguished by wing color—only those who know how to steal others’ power can be called Fallen Angels. When they steal power, their own energy becomes impure—and their wings turn black.

Now, Xiamara had become the true Fallen Holy Maiden—a Holy Maiden possessed by a Fallen Angel.

Ange sprinted outside and saw Xiamara soaring into the sky, wings beating as she flew toward the town’s edge.

A white firework exploded in the sky—the alarm signal. Any force of the Church of Light who saw it must reach its location in the shortest time possible.

Because Nicolas had been assassinated, nearby Church forces were unusually dense. A patrol of Holy Knights spotted the firework from afar.

The lead knight squinted for a long moment, then turned: “Uh… is that the alarm firework?”

His companion squinted too, then replied: “Yes, Captain. Should we reinforce?”

“Of course—but who the hell made the alarm firework white? Who can see it in broad daylight?” the captain cursed, then raised his right hand.

His mounted men behind him immediately mounted up—but just as he opened his mouth to speak, his companion screamed: “Captain! Look—what’s that?”

The captain looked up—and saw a graceful figure flying toward them from the direction of the firework. Her body pulsed with holy light, but her wings were black.

“Is that a Holy Spirit Angel? Why are her wings black?”

“Not an angel—it’s the Holy Maiden. Her wings are energy constructs—Holy Spirit possession. That direction is Mara Town—could it be Holy Maiden Xiamara?”

“It’s her! It’s her! I’ve seen Holy Maiden Xiamara—she’s the one!”

The men shouted excitedly—but the captain felt something was wrong. Black wings? A Fallen Angel?

Xiamara spotted the patrol and turned, diving straight down.

The lead knight shouted immediately: “Alert! Alert! Holy Shields!”

The Holy Knights raised their shields—but it was nearly meaningless—these knights were only level three or four, far below the standard of Mad’s squad in the Holy Blade Army.

And they faced a Fallen Holy Maiden possessed by an Angel.

Xiamara dove down, summoned holy light, and slammed straight into the lead knight—knocking him off his horse and crashing him into the ground.

The shield shattered, armor dented, blood spewed from his mouth.

“Holy light—give it to me,” Xiamara said coldly, reaching out both hands toward the knight captain.

The other knights watched in horror as Xiamara tore a ball of holy light from the captain’s body and shoved it into herself—moments later, her black wings darkened further.

“She killed the captain! She stole his power!” the other knights cried out.

Xiamara turned to them, her eyes filled entirely with white light—no pupils, no whites, only glowing hollows. Her face expressionless: “Those who betray the Light—give me your holy light.”

Just as she moved to strike the others, a luminous figure dashed forward, swinging its staff at her.

Behind the figure, Ange arrived, hurling his Holy Light Missiles.

Without hesitation, Xiamara turned and fled—so long as she ran fast enough, the Holy Light Missiles couldn’t catch her.

She had wings—when focused on escape, Ange couldn’t catch her. He couldn’t summon lightning or Nagelis now—could only watch helplessly as she vanished into the sky.

The Soul Warrior slowly scanned everyone, then walked step by step toward Ange and merged into his body.

The Holy Knights finally reacted, kneeling together in salute: “We pay homage, my lord.”

All had seen the Soul Warrior—clearly a bishop-clad “Holy Soul.” To command a bishop-level “Holy Soul”—this man’s status must be immeasurably high.

Ange nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then turned to leave. Chasing Xiamara was an accident—his original goal was to leave as soon as possible. Since he couldn’t catch her now, he’d better get out fast.

He hadn’t taken two steps when the fallen knight captain coughed, spitting blood.

Xiamara had slammed into him, shattered his bones, stolen his power—and yet he hadn’t died instantly. He was coughing blood now, barely clinging to life.

“Captain!” The other knights rushed over, crying out in distress. Some instinctively looked toward Ange—this kind of fatal wound was beyond their ability to heal.

“Heal him. Heal him,” Nagelis said inside Ange’s soul: “You’re pretending to be Church—can’t walk away while a companion bleeds. It’s illogical.”

“Oh,” Ange replied, and casually unleashed a rapid series of Purification spells upon the knight captain.

Three per second, like a woodpecker striking his body, shaking him violently. After dozens of strikes, he suddenly sat upright.

“A flicker of life? Captain—are you alright?” They’d just thought he was dying—now he sat up, and they assumed it was a final surge of vitality.

The Captain of the Holy Knights also froze, touching his body—except for the ache from the dented armor and the vanished Holy Light, he felt completely healed.

He stood up and jumped—indeed, he was fully restored, and, overcome with emotion, he immediately knelt and bowed: “Thank you, my lord, for saving my life.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the remaining Holy Knights’ eyes filled with reverence as they knelt again in salute.

They had never seen such a severe wound healed so cleanly and swiftly—even high-ranking priests or clerics needed hours of careful preparation and still might fail.

This my lord’s power was truly unfathomable.

Phaler hurried over, followed by everyone from Marra Town and all nearby followers of the Church of Light. Seeing Ang from afar, he began bowing: “I pay homage, my lord.”

Running up to Ang, Phaler said respectfully, yet with sorrow: “My lord, I have reported the fall of Xiamala into a Gray Angel to the Church. Due to Archbishop Nicolas, all forces of Light have been mobilized—Xiamala cannot escape, unless she grows wings.”

“She has wings,” Ang said.

“Cough, cough—my lord sees clearly. Even with wings, she cannot escape,” Phaler said awkwardly, feeling a tightness in his chest.

“She, fallen, can steal, Holy Light,” Ang added.

Phaler had run ahead and missed what followed; hearing this, he was stunned: “A Fallen Angel? Can steal Holy Light?”

“Yes, yes, a Fallen Angel—the Captain’s power was stolen!” Without Ang speaking, the surviving Holy Knights began chattering at once.

Phaler’s expression turned grave: “This is new information—must report to the Church immediately. But do not worry: all forces of Light have been mobilized, including the Inquisition Army. The Fallen Angel cannot escape.”

If there had been any lingering sympathy or sorrow for Xiamala, hearing that she could steal Holy Light erased every trace of it from Phaler’s heart.

Phaler’s words, however, gave Negrilis a headache—had the Inquisition Army been mobilized too?

If the Fallen Angel couldn’t escape, neither could Ang. The Inquisition Army was specifically tasked with hunting internal traitors. Ang’s Holy Light, undetectable to Xiamala, might not be hidden from the Inquisition—what should he do?

Eyes darting, Negrilis thought of a good idea and said to Ang: “Ang, how about this...”