As she spoke, the nun's voice grew tight, her teeth clenched, her eyes turning red with fury. "Bastards like him—every last one on this list! For people like my parents, my brothers and sisters—anyone who's just trying to work an honest job and live like a normal person—sooner or later, they all get bullied by these scum!"
"They've been lording over us for years. It's about damn time they answered for it!"
Clearly, her words struck a chord with the other girls. Nuns throughout the hall started raising their hands and pointing at the whiteboard, faces twisted in anger: "That 'Sea Dog' Bob—my father only got his arm broken because he refused to buy their smuggled harpoons!"
"And that psycho Judy, I know her! She's not just some old madam. She may not sell drugs herself, but she'll get vulnerable girls hooked—then drag them back to her brothel to work as prostitutes!"
"They've caused so many deaths! If anything, these people deserve less forgiveness than the drug dealers—they need to pay for what they've done!"
"We are their reckoning! The goddess gave us this power to take vengeance for everyone they've hurt!"
...
One after another, the nuns spoke up, revealing the true crimes of those on the list—scum who, on paper, looked "not so bad," but in reality, their sins were beyond count.
These weren't just small-time crooks. Their transgressions were monstrous too, only the paperwork hid it well!
Watching the girls, all fired up and burning with righteous anger, Charles narrowed his eyes—a decision was forming.
He'd come from an age of peace, raised in a modern city that prized law and order, so he'd never truly understood the depth of this evil. He'd always kept a bit of mercy inside him.
But now, for the sake of the battle nuns' loyalty and zeal, it was time to make a choice.
"Alright, let's put it to a vote," Charles said, gesturing again to the crowded whiteboard behind him. "Anyone in favor of killing everyone on this list—no survivors—raise your hand."
Every girl raised her hand, no hesitation at all.
Charles nodded once. "Very well. At this moment, obeying the goddess means delivering judgment!"
"Everyone on this list dies—no exceptions!"
...
A bloody reckoning swept across South Harbor District. This time, not just the witches and battle nuns took action—even Charles joined in, wielding his newly acquired twin-bladed polearm, transforming South Harbor into a river of blood.
They moved so fast and struck so hard that wherever they targeted, there were no survivors. No one on the list escaped the purge.
The violence rose and fell like a tidal wave—ruthless, abrupt, and silent. The killing was so swift, word never even got out before it was over.
Several days later, residents of South Harbor District finally started to feel something was… off. The place had gotten eerily quiet.
The local gangsters and thugs, the ones who used to barge into homes every few days and make everyone miserable—where the hell had they all gone?
So people started poking around. Bit by bit, they discovered the truth—beneath this strange quiet, a massacre had taken place. The powers that had tormented them for years had been wiped out in secret.
Not a soul left.
As the news spread and word-of-mouth built consensus, shockwaves tore across South Harbor District.
"So… they really killed them all?"
Inside the South Harbor Guard office, Captain Chauvin—hulking, sweating, and shaking in his chair—listened to the report from the informant across the desk.
"Yes, Chief."
The wiry, sharp-eyed man on the other side was trembling as he gave his investigation: "I haven't checked every subordinate, but I can confirm that every major boss and top enforcer named on the list—every last one—has been slaughtered."
Sweat beaded on Chauvin's forehead. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped himself down, and felt a chill in his heart. Birds of a feather… Even with his badge, he knew he was no better than the gang bosses he'd dealt with all his life—taking dirty money, living off other people's misery.
He was, in his own mind, just another criminal exploiting decent folks.
He gulped for air, voice ragged, like an asthmatic's wheeze. It took a long time before he managed to steady his breathing enough to speak. "So your estimate—how many dead this time?"
"Should be around five hundred," the informant replied quietly.
Chauvin almost had a heart attack.
Five hundred.
More than were killed by the monster rampage six months ago.
And that ratio…
Damn, does South Harbor District even have fifty thousand people left these days?
The place is dirt-poor. The only real livelihood is fishing—and then there's competition from the Amazon tribes.
Most fishermen can barely survive; each year, people flood out, moving to East Harbor to work as porters rather than stay here.
Half the houses in the slums are abandoned, left to the sick and the old. Plus, there was that huge incident six months back, and the earthquake two months ago that collapsed even more homes—causing another mass migration out. South Harbor may not even have fifty thousand residents left!
And in just a few days, this guy killed a whole percent of the population.
All five hundred deaths would be blamed on Chauvin.
After all, outwardly, he'd been the one who called for the cultist purge—his name was still on the notices outside the District Office, and all the papers had covered it.
And internally, he was the one who'd given Charles the detailed list of every black-market power operating in South Harbor, making the purge so precise…
His scalp tingled, his heart shuddered. The more he thought about it, the more he could feel every inch of him shaking.
"He's supposed to be a follower of the Goddess of Life! Why the hell would he go and do this?!" he roared, smashing his fist down on the desk so hard the wood threatened to crack. "Doesn't he fear his god's punishment?!"
The informant across from him gave Chauvin a long, hard look. "His god is long dead."
But there was no hint of mockery. When he'd realized that truth for himself, he'd nearly broken down too.
After all, he'd taken bribes from these same smugglers, slept with prostitutes addicted to their own product. Deep down, he'd always been grateful for what they provided—without them, there'd have been no money for luxury… and no chance to toy around with those young girls.
"And besides, Chief…" The man hesitated, then spoke up again. "Compared to a believer of the Goddess of Life, he's really… first and foremost, the adventurer who slew the Abyssal Lord."
Chauvin blinked, finally snapping back, his pulse still pounding, but suddenly finding it a little easier to accept.
"Yeah… I suppose only someone that ruthless could take out a Demon Lord."
He sighed, mopped the sweat from his forehead again. "He really does have guts. I could never do something like that—not wipe out five hundred people in a single stroke…"
"South Harbor barely has enough people to fill a stadium… That's the difference—he's clearly destined to go down in history, famous or infamous. Guys like us? We're lucky to just muddle through, living out quiet little lives… Ha, ha, ha…"
He let out a nervous laugh, wringing every last drop of stress from his system. It was a long while before his composure returned. "Clean yourself up—we're going to pay Priest Charles a little visit. Let's invite him out for lunch."
"After stirring up a disaster this big, we'd better figure out some face-saving way to clean up the mess…"