At that very moment, Alistair was arriving at the doors of the church. His cavalry had already formed a tight cordon, and a crowd of silent, expressionless worshippers had gathered nearby.
The church itself was not the bastion of light and solemnity one might expect. It was gloomy and dilapidated, emanating a sense of oppressive decay. Considering Dracoth was only a mid-tier god and Frostfell was a poor, remote territory, Alistair supposed the shoddy state of the local chapel was to be expected.
Thorne stood at the entrance, his cold gaze locked on a group of priests and their bishop.
"Lord of Frostfell," the bishop began, his voice placid and unhurried. He was a man named Anselm, dressed in magnificent, flame-red vestments, a miter inlaid with mithril upon his head. "Would you truly harm God's own shepherds before His very eyes?"
"The light of God does not seem to reach you, Bishop Anselm," Alistair retorted, his expression like flint. As he spoke, his eyes darted to a figure lurking in a black robe behind the bishop.
He focused his will, and the information panels for the two men materialized in his vision.
[Name: Anselm]
[Identity: Bishop of the God of War]
[Power Level: Archmage Lv. 38 (21-40)]
[Skills: Self-Sacrifice, Advanced Fire Magic Proficiency, Holy Heal, Summon Servitor]
[Equipment: Flawless Vestments of Dracoth (Masterwork), Staff of the Blazing Heart (Masterwork)]
[Reputation (Pyrian Empire): 7324 (He is the sole bishop in Frostfell and possesses some renown.)]
[Reputation (Beastkin): -2547 (His hands are stained with the blood of the beastkin!)]
[Other: …]
*****
[Name: Cole]
[Identity: Templar]
[Power Level: Earth Knight Lv. 44 (41-50)]
[Skills: Numbness (Bio-Augmented), Intermediate Magic Immunity (Bio-Augmented), Shield of Holy Flame, Flame Cleave, Intermediate Greatsword Mastery, Berserk Rage (Bio-Augmented)]
[Equipment: Templar's Plate (Masterwork), Templar's Greatsword (Masterwork)]
[Reputation (Pyrian Empire): 30 (They are the secret arm of the Church.)]
[Reputation (Beastkin): 0 (The beastkin know nothing of him.)]
[Other: …]
*****
Interesting, Alistair thought. No wonder they have the nerve to refuse my summons. They have a Templar backing them up.
His eyes lingered on the words 'Bio-Augmented'. What does that mean? This was the first time he had ever seen a Templar. As a secret force of the Church, they were few in number, mysterious, and incredibly powerful. It was said that every one of them was at least an Earth Knight, possessing iron discipline and a fanatical, fearless fighting style.
This 'Bio-Augmented' tag felt suspicious. He had no immediate answers, but it hinted at a deeper secret—that the Church had found a way to reliably produce high-tier warriors.
For now, though, it didn't matter. He was here to settle a debt.
"Bishop Anselm," Alistair's voice cut through the tense air. "You and your priests have openly defied the command of your liege lord. You have insulted me, calling me a madman. According to the laws of the Pyrian Empire, I have the authority to execute you for treason. Do you have any last words?"
Anselm smiled, a look of pity on his face. He met the lord's gaze without fear. "You, the Lord of Frostfell, ordered the most loyal servants of my master, Dracoth, to perform a healing ritual for a lowly beastkin. I think not even His Majesty the Emperor would consent to such blasphemy."
"In that case," Alistair's eyes darkened as he drew the greatsword from his back, "this church no longer has a reason to exist."
"All cavalry, hear my command! Kill them all. Leave no one alive."
He turned his head slightly. "Thorne. The one in the black robe is yours."
"With pleasure, my Lord," the old knight growled, drawing his own longsword, his ferocious gaze locking onto the figure behind Anselm. "You, who hides in the shadows. I will be your opponent."
A crimson Aura exploded around Thorne. He bent his knees, then launched himself forward with such force that the cobblestones cracked beneath his feet. In the blink of an eye, his blade was at the robed man's chest.
CLANG—!
The strike landed as if against a solid wall. The Templar had blocked it with a horizontal slash, not moving an inch. The force of the blow billowed the edge of his hood, revealing a pair of eyes as cold and still as a stagnant pool.
A worthy foe, Thorne's mind registered. His pupils contracted as a grim sense of caution washed over him.
"Heh, heh, heh…" the Templar chuckled, a grating sound. "Is that all you have, old man?"
With a flick of his wrist, the Templar casually threw Thorne's blade aside, sending the veteran knight stumbling back. The black robe billowed behind him as he shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, closing the distance to the airborne Thorne in an instant.
Though he wielded a greatsword, the Templar's speed was a match for Thorne's. The two immediately became a whirlwind of steel, the shockwaves of their battle tearing up the cobblestones and leveling nearby storefronts.
Meanwhile, Alistair's fight was far easier.
Bishop Anselm was a classic legion-type mage. His skills were geared towards large-scale combat, making him pitifully weak in a one-on-one duel. Compounded by the fact that he was a full tier lower than Alistair, he was quickly overwhelmed.
"Lord of Frostfell! You humiliate my master's shepherds like this… He… He will not forgive you!" Anselm wheezed, slumping against a wall. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of blood mixed with fragments of his internal organs. A moment's miscalculation had allowed Alistair to close the distance and land a devastating blow to his chest, shattering his magical shield and grievously wounding him.
"Always 'my master this,' 'my master that,'" Alistair sneered. "Why don't you call for your master to save you now?"
He thrust his greatsword forward, plunging it into Anselm's heart.
The bishop stared at Alistair with venomous hatred, his will eroding under the tide of agony. His lifeblood drained away, carrying his strength with it. He did not have long.
Gradually, Anselm's expression grew calm. His vacant eyes turned towards the sky, his lips trembling.
"Merciful Lord, Your humble servant, Anselm, willingly sheds his frail soul… to become the cornerstone of Your supreme power."
The last of his mana ignited, and with it, his body.
The flames swelled, the searing heat melting the stone ground and forcing Alistair back, until the bishop had become a great ball of fire seven or eight yards in diameter.
SKREEEONK—!
A vicious, guttural draconic roar erupted from within the inferno. A monstrous dragon's head began to take shape amidst the flames.
Alistair felt a vast, majestic will descending upon the world. It was an aura of pure tyranny and blistering heat, and it pressed down on him, threatening to incinerate his very soul.
It was the God of War and Flame, Dracoth.
Even as a mere fragment of a divine will, it could crush him with ease.
Just as Alistair was buckling under the pressure, sinking into despair, he felt a cool sensation permeate his soul. Another will, no less powerful than Dracoth's, gathered from all corners of existence.
It was a will of boundless peace and quiet strength. It drove back the divine fire that was consuming Alistair's soul, using his body as a battlefield to contend with Dracoth's power.
Enraged that its prize was being contested, the dragon head in the fire let out a furious, indignant shriek. But Anselm's mana was nearly spent. It could no longer sustain the presence of the great will.
With one last, hateful glare at Alistair, the monstrous dragon head dissipated along with the dying flames.
The protective will around Alistair receded as quietly as it had arrived, vanishing without a trace.
The pressure lifted. Alistair could no longer support himself. Gasping for breath, his armor's lining completely soaked in sweat, he collapsed onto the ground.
"So," he muttered with a grimace, "I really am being watched over by a god."
He had no idea if that was a good thing, or a very, very bad one.