In a corner of the royal capital, torchlight flickered, illuminating the surroundings. The sound of slaughter had gradually faded.
Some nearby residents, awakened from sweet dreams by the noise, peeked out through the cracks of their doors. But when they saw the ones committing the killings—soldiers clad in standard-issue royal armor, bearing flags emblazoned with the royal insignia—they silently pulled their heads back inside.
"Not my damn business. If I don't know, I won't die."
One man, already pinned to the ground by several soldiers with his arms tightly bound, lay helpless. Sitting calmly in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, Jaemar wore a blank expression as he asked, "Sir Karl, anything else you'd like to say?"
Sensing the chill in Jaemar's voice, Karl immediately struggled and cried out, "Your Highness, I'm innocent!"
Though Karl's fate had already been sealed, Jaemar didn't mind entertaining a few last words. "Innocent, are you? Let's hear it."
Seeing a shred of hope, Karl's tear-streaked, snot-smeared face lit up. He quickly explained, "They just invited me over—I had no idea they were smuggling military supplies!"
Jaemar nodded slightly and didn't ask further. He simply gestured behind him. "Understood. Just wait a moment. The result will be clear soon enough—they've already brought the evidence."
Karl froze, then turned his head.
From the blazing manor house, a squad of soldiers marched out. The commander at the front carried several severed heads in one hand and a ledger in the other.
Seeing those familiar faces—still dripping with blood—and the book in the soldier's hand, Karl's eyes rolled back and he fainted on the spot.
Jaemar cast a casual glance at the unconscious man and asked the commander calmly, "Was everything taken care of?"
The soldier dropped the heads beside Karl, knelt on one knee, and presented the ledger. "Your Highness, the mission is complete. All the culprits have been executed. The ledger is intact."
Taking the ledger, Jaemar nodded solemnly. "Well done. Go to the barracks later to claim your reward."
Suppressing the joy in his heart, the commander stood and saluted. "Thank you, Your Highness!"
"Mm. Go rest."
Jaemar waved him off and then opened the ledger, flipping through the contents carefully.
Every detail—quantities, pricing, destinations, profit breakdowns—was recorded with alarming clarity. Even Jaemar's face twitched slightly as he read.
He truly hadn't expected that, in the process of rooting out a cult, he'd accidentally uncover the largest military supply smuggling ring the kingdom had seen in decades. A surprising bonus, to say the least.
He handed the ledger to a trusted aide and stood up slowly, nudging a few of the severed heads with his boot. Seeing the familiar faces—either high-ranking nobles or powerful merchants—he gave Karl, still unconscious on the ground, a sharp roundhouse kick.
"Crack!"
With the unmistakable sound of bones shattering, Karl was killed on the spot. Blood oozed from his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears as he collapsed, lifeless.
Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, Jaemar turned to a nearby guard and said with a grin, "Cut off his head. Stack it with the others. Let's see how many we can collect tonight."
He had a feeling this evening was only just beginning—and the surprises would be many.
Pointing toward the site marked as Target No. 2, he mounted his horse. "Let's go. Next location—"
As the raids continued, fires and shouting broke out all across the capital.
Countless citizens, roused from sleep, stared out their windows in alarm.
No one knew what exactly was happening, but seeing the royal insignia on the soldiers' flags reassured them this wasn't some foreign invasion. Their panic eased—somewhat.
Glancing idly at the curious stares peeking from the surrounding houses, Jaemar flicked the blood off his knight's sword and looked toward the dozens of heads piled onto wagons behind them. He turned to Charles with a trace of exasperation. "Charles, what kind of locations did you mark for me? I'm hunting the Profane Convenant, not... black market arms depots, child trafficking dungeons, assassin guild hideouts, or dens of wanted criminals. What is this madness?"
Charles looked mildly embarrassed. "Just a minor hiccup. It goes to show that all these shady groups tend to pick similar hideouts. Sure, we haven't found the main target yet, but we've still got a solid haul. I'd say it's a win!"
He hadn't expected the capital to be this rotten—so many hidden factions festering beneath the surface. And yet, by sheer dumb luck, he'd pointed out seven or eight of them at once. Turns out, the capital's centuries of buildup had made it the perfect nest for scum.
To root them out in one sweep—well, it was a bit of an accidental victory.
Looking at the "fruitful" results behind him, Jaemar sighed. "I wonder how the church is doing on their end."
He couldn't quite describe how he felt. A spontaneous purge of the capital's underworld—it wasn't a loss, certainly, but it didn't align with his original goal either.
---
"Bang!"
A heavy kick smashed open the basement door. Inside, a group of masked figures turned, wary and tense.
Saphir scanned them briefly. The patterns embroidered on their black robes gave them away instantly. His brow furrowed. "The Cult of the Ebon Tongue? That's the fifth one already. Just how many cults are hiding in the Mardain?"
Saphir was beginning to suspect he'd been set up by Jaemar.
Ten locations searched, and already five different cults plus two other shady groups? What kind of ridiculous hit rate was this?
Is Mardon's capital just the ideal spot for every dark faction to set up shop? Are they having a cult convention here?
It made no sense.
What normally took painstaking months of investigation was now turning up like wholesale discount stock.
---
Just as the Inquisition studied the symbols of cults, the cults knew the Inquisition equally well.
The cult leader needed only a glance at the formation and armaments of Saphir's team to recognize their identity. His eyes narrowed as he sneered, "Heh. The Heretic Hunters? Didn't expect your intelligence network to be so sharp. We haven't even made a move, and you've already come knocking. Looks like we've got a traitor—one with a high rank, too…"
With that, and before anyone could react, he drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the chest of a fellow masked cultist beside him.
The poor soul didn't even get a chance to flinch.
"Carlei, I've long suspected you were the rat. You passed out a lot of info while pretending to be one of us. I didn't expect you to make your move before we even started ours. You really caught me off guard."
The man named Carlei stared in shock at the face mere inches from his own. His mouth foamed with bloody bubbles as he tried to speak: "You… you… he…"
His legs gave out, and he collapsed in a kneeling heap, unable to form coherent words.
Looking at the stunned Inquisitors, the cult leader sneered. "What now? Didn't manage to save your guy. Feels bad, huh?"
Saphir looked at the fallen man, then replied sincerely, "...Actually, I think you misunderstood something. The church was going to plant a mole in your cult, but we didn't have the manpower, so we moved him somewhere else."
The cultist merely snorted and looked at him with disdain.
He waved his bloody dagger and sneered again. "Lies! You're just trying to throw me off!"
And then, just like before, he stabbed another one of his own.
He was practiced—clearly not his first time with this routine.
The second victim was only seriously injured this time. The blade was laced with a paralytic potion that froze his entire body.
Seeing this, the cultist turned again to Saphir. "Don't think I don't know. You planted two moles. One might be dead, but the other's still alive. Surely you wouldn't abandon someone who's served you well, right, Bishop Saphir?"
His subordinates shifted uncertainly.
Saphir realized—this man actually believed both victims were church agents.
If he didn't step in now, his own people might start doubting him. So with a sigh, he explained again, "...I told you, we didn't plant anyone. Why are you doing this?"
But the cultist flew into a rage. "Liar! Even if it means killing your own spies, you won't give us a chance to escape!"
He kicked the wounded man again and shouted, "You've been abandoned! Tell us who you really are—let's see how your so-called benefactors explain this!"
Saphir's facial muscles twitched slightly. 'You're dead,' he thought coldly. 'I'm going to kill you myself.'
The wounded man on the ground, bleeding heavily, stared in rage. "You idiot! I'm royalty from the Yharnis! I was secretly supporting your cult to stir up trouble in Mardain, and you mistook me for a church agent?, you fucke--"
Saphir gave an exaggerated shrug at the cult leader's dumbstruck expression. "Told you so. You just didn't believe me."
He then made a hand signal to his squad—attack.
And so, the battle began again.
Saphir personally hefted his warhammer and charged the cult leader.
He had already made up his mind—he was going to smash that guy's skull himself.
---
Not long after, when the dust had settled and Saphir's group had departed, a shadowy figure appeared in the basement.
Glancing casually at the corpses, he reached out a hand.
Every lingering soul nearby was drawn in, condensed into a single, crystalline shard of pure essence in his palm.
He popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly.
Orsaga commented, "Annoying, chatty bunch... but surprisingly tasty."
And since he hadn't laid a hand on anyone himself, the world's suppression wouldn't affect him.
A perfect buffet—no effort needed.
As long as others did the killing, Orsaga would just clean up behind them.
Efficient.
_____
T/N:
Hello everyone! My Patreon is just $3 — a perfect opportunity to access 20+ advanced chapters and support the translation.
🔗 patreon.com/user?u=79514336
Or simply search Translator-Sama on Patreon.