Faced with the total annihilation of his followers, Karlra didn't even attempt to intervene.
To him, once things were beyond saving, the best solution was to make use of whatever remained.
There was no bringing them out with him anyway…
With a single sweep of his hand, Karlra forcibly seized the souls of both his slain believers and the enemies they had taken down with them.
Though the number of souls wasn't large, every one of them was at least of knight-level strength, making their quality decent—just barely good enough to use in a pinch.
Without the slightest hesitation, he devoured them in one gulp.
Harnessing his innate demonic talent, Karlra swiftly converted their souls into raw power, replenishing the strength he had lost under the suppression of this world's laws.
As that suppressed power began to regenerate, the aura around his body stirred anew.
Glancing at the weaklings surrounding him, Karlra quickly assessed the situation and formed a rough judgment in his mind.
He raised a hand and effortlessly caught an arrow aimed at his head. Without so much as a pause, he rammed it into the chest of a nearby soldier—his movements smooth as flowing water, as natural as breathing.
As a demon who had lived for nearly a thousand years, Karlra might have lacked experience in many things, but battle was not one of them. His combat instincts had long since transcended the realm of technique, refined to a level bordering on divine. So long as the enemy's attack didn't exceed his limits, his reaction would always be perfect, as if it were instinct itself.
To him, the only reason these humans were giving him any trouble at all was the damn holy energy on their weapons—something that to a demon like him, was akin to poison.
Were it not for that, he could have cut a bloody path out of here with little more than a few scratches. There'd be no need to be so cautious.
But these humans… the worst part was how well-prepared they were. Every one of them carried some kind of holy item provided by the Church—be it a sacred amulet or weapons coated in holy water or blessed oils. It made Karlra deeply uncomfortable.
Holy water might be meaningless to ordinary people, but to him, it burned like acid. It corroded the outer layers of his defenses and caused pain where it touched. And those incessant chants muttered by the priests—grating and shrill in his ears—made his head spin.
'Disgusting little insects. Crushable with a single stomp… but if I'm careless, I'll end up getting bitten.'
That was Karlra's impression of the ones surrounding him.
Despite his contempt, he couldn't afford to be careless.
After someone dumped half a bottle of holy water over him, the burning sensation across his body pushed him to the edge of tolerance. His magic surged from within him instinctively, coiling around his form.
His fur pressed tightly against his skin as an invisible armor of air formed around him, shielding him from further splashes of holy water.
At the same time, the tips of his fingers elongated into semi-transparent blades of wind over a meter long, dramatically expanding his attack range.
With one sweeping slash, several armored soldiers in front of him were torn apart—blood sprayed in every direction, and their armor, like paper, crumpled instantly. Their bodies were shredded into chunks as if struck by multiple executioner's blades at once. The scene was grotesque and horrifying.
The surrounding soldiers visibly hesitated in the face of such a slaughter, and Karlra let out a thunderous laugh.
Across the battlefield, Saphir frowned as he observed the scene.
Their strength, agility, and endurance were simply not on the same level. If it weren't for the cramped confines of the basement, which limited Karlra's movement and forced him to take several hits, Saphir feared they wouldn't have stood a chance at all.
Even if they managed to wear Karlra down, the cost in lives would be devastating.
Church scripture was clear—demons could be harmed by weapons imbued with holy blessings, but the souls of the dead would in turn be consumed by the demon to fuel his regeneration.
"The more he kill, the stronger he gets. What a vile species…"
Thinking this, Saphir handed his sacred emblem to the leader of the hymn-chanting choir squad nearby, instructing them to continue invoking its divine power through sacred song.
Then, with an even graver expression, he pulled a small bottle from his robes—its surface etched with strange runes.
Far more reverently than when he had handled the holy emblem, he cradled the bottle as if it were the most sacred relic.
[Ashes of the Saint]
The remains of the most devout ascetics, their corpses purified through sacred rites and cremated within the holy land. The ashes were then stored at the Church's central temple, where generations of believers prayed over them for decades, imbuing them with divine power.
To evil beings, this was the deadliest poison imaginable.
Saphir used a blade to slice open his palm, allowing blood to drip into the bottle.
He closed his eyes and began chanting an incantation—an ancient secret only known to high-ranking bishops and the pope.
A faint golden light seeped from the mouth of the bottle, spreading slowly across the floor like ripples, radiating outward.
Though Karlra was still in the midst of slaughter, his battle-honed sixth sense suddenly screamed danger. His eyes snapped toward the source of the disturbance—Saphir and the item in his hand.
Karlra's gaze filled with murderous intent. "You bastard!"
In his hand, a translucent, spherical projectile took shape, spinning with violent wind before being hurled at Saphir with incredible force.
Several priests immediately leapt forward in an attempt to shield their bishop.
But their bodies might as well have been made of paper. The sphere pierced through them like a cannonball, their flesh and bone bursting midair into spirals of blood.
Boom!
Just before the projectile could hit Saphir, it collided with a shimmering golden barrier.
The compressed force detonated, unleashing a concussive wave like a bomb made of air.
The translucent shockwave blasted outward, hurling everything in its path—heavy-armored soldiers included—like leaves in a storm.
No armor, no flesh could stand against it. Torn bodies hit the ground like broken dolls, blood seeping from beneath plates and garments alike.
When the dust settled, only Saphir and the hymn chanters—protected by the holy emblem—remained standing.
Kneeling and bleeding from both ears, Saphir calmly finished the final words of the incantation.
The bottle in his hand dissolved into golden dust, which drifted from his fingers with a whispering chorus—like a divine prayer echoing faintly in the air—rushing straight toward Karlra.
Karlra's face twisted in horror. He could smell death in that golden ash.
He knew it couldn't be dodged. Taking it head-on would cost him at least half his life—maybe more.
So he roared and condensed all the remaining magic in his body into a massive, wind-wrapped spear and hurled it with all his might.
There was no sound. No explosion. The moment the spear touched the ashes, the divine power seeped into it effortlessly—like a hot knife through butter.
Despite Karlra's power being far superior to this world's supernatural forces, the heavy suppression he was under meant that when facing a sacred relic forged through decades of effort and sacrifice, he was undeniably at a disadvantage.
Holy and unholy—opposites in every way.
When one side gained the upper hand, it could completely crush the other.
Much like fire and water, they could cancel each other out or destroy each other outright. There was no absolute superiority—only who held the advantage at the moment.
Realizing that his strength was being overwhelmed, Karlra's face turned grim. He tried to release the spear, but it was already too late.
The power of the Ashes of the Saint flowed through the spear and into his body.
In an instant, the arm that had held the spear began to melt like wax—fur sloughed off, flesh dissolved into sludge, and even bone groaned under the strain like a rusted, collapsing machine.
Without hesitation, Karlra gritted his teeth and used his remaining arm to tear off the corrupted limb, shoulder and all.
He was lucky to have acted fast.
Before the severed arm even hit the ground, it dissolved into boiling blood.
A whiff of its vapor made his head spin with nausea, forcing him to stumble a few steps back.
But the surrounding enemies weren't about to let him breathe.
Holy water and blessed ointments rained down on his wounds, forcing him into a desperate retreat and filling him with helpless fury.
___
Farther off, Jaemar held his knight's sword and looked at his bloodied opponent: Richard.
He sighed and shook his head. "Uncle, this is your last chance. Stop this. Surrender."
In truth, if Jaemar hadn't instructed the soldiers to hold back, Richard would've died long ago in the chaos.
"Jaemar… I'm just a father trying to save his daughter…"
Jaemar's sigh deepened. "You can't save her. We both know that even if the demon does save her, it'll be in a way none of us could accept. All it would bring is more pain for Senna. Demons don't know mercy. They exist only to harm."
Richard gave a bitter smile. "Maybe… but I still have to try."
Waving for the others to step back, Jaemar took a step forward and raised his sword into a stance that belonged to the royal family's secret sword style.
"For the sake of the world, I can't give you that chance. I'm sorry, Uncle. But at the very least… I'll let you die by the hand of family."
"…Then I leave it to you."
Richard hesitated briefly before smiling and taking the same stance.
Same sword style. Comparable strength. But Richard knew he had no chance of winning—not with his injuries.
And yet, facing the unscathed Jaemar, he felt no resentment. In fact, he was proud of him.
Cautious. Ruthless. Never leaving an opening.
The makings of a true king—far better than the indecisive self he had once been.
After a dozen exchanges, Jaemar's sword pierced Richard's body.
Richard chuckled weakly, and in a whisper only Jaemar could hear, he said, "You really are exceptional… As for your father's death, your uncles and I had our suspicions, but none of us ever blamed you. You did what had to be done. Arler was no longer fit to rule… continuing his reign would have dragged the Nation into ruin."
"And don't worry about their support. They've seen what you've done—how you turned the tide for the nation. They're proud of you. They believe you'll be a good king."
"As for your mother… don't fear her hatred. She might hate you for ten years, twenty even… but in the end, she'll forgive you. So cast aside your guilt… and move forward."
"…Goodbye, Uncle."
Jaemar gently closed Richard's eyes. He didn't know what he was feeling.
Maybe sorrow. Maybe something else.
But he didn't feel happy.
Not far away, Karlra's resistance was also reaching its end.
Soon, the holy water seeping through his wounds had weakened his body enough for a sword to be driven straight through his eye and into his brain.
As Saphir and the others celebrated their hard-won victory in the basement…
In a nearby alley not far from the coliseum, a scrawny beggar stirred from slumber.
He glanced toward the direction of the commotion and spat with disdain.
"A bunch of filthy, low-born creatures. Can't even destroy my soul… and they think they killed me?"
Karlra had long known he was being watched by some other presence.
That invisible, creeping gaze—it carried a threat more terrifying than death itself.
And the whole mess with Saphir and the others? They had only made things worse.
So, with no other choice, he faked his death—abandoning most of his strength to slip away unnoticed.
Stretching this weak human body, he slowly made his way toward the outskirts of the city to find a quiet place to recover.
But he hadn't gone far before he froze in place.
He smelled something familiar.
It wasn't the nose of this human form that noticed it—it was his demon soul that caught the scent.
Looking up, he saw a figure in the sky—leaning against a cloud, backlit by the moon. The figure looked down at him not with hatred, not with fear, not even with interest… but with the cold indifference one might show a bug.
Using his demonic vision, Karlra saw through the illusion of humanity—saw the being's true essence, undisguised and overpowering.
And in that moment, he knew who had tampered with his summoning circle.
He also knew something else.
He was going to die.
Of that, Karlra had no doubt.
_____
T/N:
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