Silence hung thick in the air.
Not a single sound echoed through the grand church. Blake twisted the jet-black longsword in his hand, and the corpse beneath his feet suddenly twitched before shriveling up like a deflated balloon. Everyone watched in horror as a wisp of pure white light seeped out of the body, only to be sucked into the dark blade and vanish without a trace. Only then did Blake kick the corpse aside. It rolled a few times from the force before coming to a stop, and at long last, everyone caught a clear glimpse of the face hidden beneath the helmet—gaunt, sunken, and deathly pale, as if all the blood and essence had been drained from the poor Divine Light Knight's body, leaving nothing but a skin-covered skeleton behind.
What manner of dark magic was this?
"The Church of the Divine Light is still the same as ever—brutish, rude, and utterly unreasonable," Blake drawled, twirling his longsword casually. He flicked a single drop of blood from the blade, leaving a stark crimson stain on the pristine white floor.
"They never learn to listen until they're taught a lesson. Stubborn as mules, the lot of them. Haven't changed one bit in hundreds of years. I suppose stupidity really is hereditary."
No one dared to reply. Every word Blake spoke was blatant blasphemy, but here and now, he had proven with his actions that his power was unmatched. If even the Divine Light Knights, the church's vaunted protectors, couldn't withstand a single blow from him, then who among them stood a chance?
The royal guards were of no help whatsoever. According to the treaty, the territories of the Mage's Guild and the Church of the Divine Light were sovereign lands—similar to foreign embassies, immune from outside interference. But this immunity came with a catch: they had to defend their own territories. The royal family would not dispatch troops to aid them unless they formally begged for it. And both the mages and the clergy had far too much pride to swallow their dignity and ask for the crown's help.
The worshippers huddled in the corners, clinging to each other and trembling like leaves in the wind. The standing bishops fared no better; their faces contorted with a mix of fear and fury as their eyes darted between the fallen Divine Light Knight lying sprawled in the distance and the desiccated skeleton at Blake's feet. Their proud military reinforcements had collapsed in the blink of an eye, a turn of events far beyond their wildest expectations. They couldn't help but wonder about Blake's origins, yet they saw nothing but an enigmatic young man standing before them. The bishops' expressions darkened further. True, they were devout believers, ready to lay down their lives for their faith—but even so, they hesitated to throw away their lives in a meaningless sacrifice.
Finally, the elderly archbishop let out a long, weary sigh. He took a step forward and bowed deeply.
"I apologize for their foolish actions, Lord Blake."
The sight of the archbishop's humility left everyone gaping in disbelief. Neither the worshippers nor the other bishops could comprehend why this revered elder—so respected by all—would bow his head in apology to such an evil murderer. It was beyond their understanding, beyond their wildest imagination.
But for Blake, an apology was clearly not enough.
"If apologies solved everything, there would be no need for law enforcement," he waved a hand dismissively, his expression as relaxed as if he were enjoying an afternoon tea.
"I believe I mentioned I'm here to collect compensation for mental distress. A reasonable request, wouldn't you say?"
"...How much do you want?" The archbishop frowned, but answered quickly.
Blake slowly sheathed his longsword, then rested one hand on the hilt, tapping it thoughtfully for a moment before replying.
"I'm not an unreasonable man, you know. Since you've humbled yourself and apologized, I'll give you a clear breakdown of the costs... First off, I was wrongfully accused and framed without any evidence. This has damaged my reputation and stained my good name. For the grievous harm done to my honor and integrity, I demand one million gold coins in compensation."
"What did you say? You...!!" Before the archbishop could speak, the cardinal behind him exploded in rage, his face turning purple as he pointed a shaking finger at Blake.
"This is nothing but—!!"
"I'm not finished," Blake cut him off sharply, holding up one hand.
"Second, those four idiots from the Inquisition dared to attack me in broad daylight. That's an act of outright provocation—they tried to harm and imprison me. For that, I'll add another two million gold coins to the bill. Fifty thousand per person—a fair price, if I do say so myself. And that's a discount, considering they're already dead."
Blake tilted his chin toward the fallen knights and continued.
"Next... these two failures. Same charges apply. Since they hold higher positions in the church, the compensation for them will be increased accordingly. But since they're also dead, I'll be generous and slash the price in half. Two hundred and fifty thousand gold coins each. That brings the total to eight million gold coins in mental distress damages. Pay that sum, and we'll call this matter closed."
The words left everyone's mouths hanging open in shock. Eight million gold coins! The audacity of this man! He was the one who'd killed their people, yet he had the gall to demand money from them! True, the church's branch in the royal capital had amassed quite a fortune over the years—but eight million was an astronomical sum, far beyond what they could easily afford!
"This is nothing but reversing black and white!" The cardinal finally found his voice, gasping for breath as he roared furiously.
"You're the one who killed them! Why should we—!!"
"But they struck first," Blake interrupted him again, his tone icy.
"I was merely acting in self-defense. It seems the Church of the Divine Light is filled with nothing but fools—no different now than they were centuries ago. That old fool Manfrit was an idiot, and it seems his successors are no better. It takes bloodshed and death to remind them that they're human beings, not gods who can lord it over everyone else."
"Silence, you arrogant madman! How dare you insult our sacred ancestor!!"
Blake's words seemed to ignite a fire in everyone's hearts. For a moment, they forgot their fear—both the cardinals and the trembling worshippers rose to their feet, shouting curses and denunciations at Blake. It was as if he had violated the most sacred, inviolable part of their souls.
Manfrit, the name Blake had spoken, was a legendary Holy Bishop of the Church of the Divine Light from ages past. In the church's hierarchy, the Holy Bishop held absolute authority, followed by archbishops who oversaw religious affairs in each kingdom, then the cardinals under them, and finally the regional bishops and priests scattered across the land. In short, the Holy Bishop was the highest authority in the entire church, each one revered as the avatar and spokesperson of Mana. Manfrit, in particular, was an unprecedented figure in the church's history. His reforms and initiatives had brought relief to countless suffering people across the continent, and he had even prevented several bloody wars. He always stood at the forefront of danger, bringing warmth and hope to those in need. After his reign, subsequent Holy Bishops abandoned their tradition of remaining sequestered in their temples and began traveling the continent. For this reason, countless believers regarded Manfrit as the greatest bishop of all time; fanatical followers even hailed him as the Son of Mana—second only to the gods themselves.
But to Blake, Manfrit was a very different story. It had happened when Blake had just freed the Wraiths from their imprisonment. At first, the vengeful spirits bore little hatred toward the church. Back then, Charlotte and the others had only hoped that Blake would lead them to meet the Holy Bishop, so they could reveal the truth to him. After all, it was the previous Holy Bishop who had ordered their deaths and trapped their souls. The Wraiths' original goal had been simple: they wanted the murderer to be stripped of his holy title and expelled from the temple, instead of being revered and memorialized like other sacred ancestors. Many of the Wraiths had once been devout churchgoers—though their suffering had shattered their faith, they still held a glimmer of hope for the church. And since Manfrit was celebrated as a saint, they had truly believed he would understand their pain.
But in the end, the Holy Bishop had crushed their hopes completely. Perhaps to protect the church's reputation, Manfrit had pretended to agree to their demands—only to secretly dispatch Divine Light Knights to ambush and annihilate them. Of course, the ambush had ended in utter failure against the Gifted Knights. But the betrayal had shattered the Wraiths' hearts completely. From that day forward, they had hated the church with a burning passion, killing or driving out any clergyman who crossed their path. The Wraiths' spirits had already been twisted and warped by centuries of darkness and agony—and after being rejected, they had abandoned all hope and become avenging angels of death.
Blake did not share the Wraiths' burning hatred—but he had always taken pleasure in the church's misfortunes, so he was more than happy to let them do as they pleased. Charlotte, Judy, and the others killed clergymen to vent their personal grudges; for Blake, the more church members who died, the better it was for him. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement—without it, he would never have been able to get along so well with the vengeful spirits.
"Apologize at once! Apologize before the Holy Mana!!" It was the same cardinal again. He stepped forward to stand beside the archbishop, his face ashen with rage, his raised hand trembling violently.
"How dare you insult that sacred man! You evil fiend!!"
"That's right! Villain! You have no right to speak his name!!"
"Shut up! Get out of this holy church!!"
Fueled by rage, the worshippers finally found their courage. They stood up and shook their fists at Blake, shouting furiously. The scene erupted into chaos, teetering on the brink of violence.
Blake's response was simple.
He reached for his sword hilt, drew the blade a fraction of an inch, then slammed it back into the sheath with a sharp *click*.
The roar of anger died instantly.
The cardinal standing beside the archbishop stared in shock, his mouth hanging open as he raised his hands to his body. A thin red line had appeared around his neck, spreading slowly to either side. It was only then that the cardinal seemed to realize what was happening. He raised his hands instinctively, as if to do something—but the moment his fingers touched his head, his skull rolled off his shoulders and clattered to the ground like a ball.
A fountain of bright red blood erupted into the air, splattering across the floor.
The indignant worshippers behind Blake fared no better. Their bodies seemed to be sliced apart by an invisible blade, slumping to the ground at an angle. Only then did a faint cracking sound echo through the hall—and a diagonal gash appeared on the once-solid stone wall behind them.
For a moment, the only sounds in the church were the gurgle of blood and the screams of the dying.
"One, two, three, four, five, six... fifteen worshippers, plus one cardinal. I'll give you an 80% discount—ten thousand gold coins per person. That brings the total to nine million five hundred thousand gold coins," Blake's right hand stroked the hilt of his sword gently, as if he hadn't just slaughtered dozens of people. He smiled calmly at the archbishop.
"Now, you have two choices. Either you hand over the money voluntarily, or I kill all of you and take it myself. Charlotte and Judy might complain that I didn't let them have their fun—but what can I do? Debts must be repaid, after all. If you don't have enough, I'll have no choice but to pay a visit to the Holy See and ask the Holy Bishop himself if he can afford to cover the compensation for all of your lives."
"Cate," the archbishop finally spoke, his voice hoarse with despair. He gestured to one of the remaining cardinals, his tone bitter.
"Go to the treasury and fetch the compensation... nine million five hundred thousand gold coins in total."
"Yes... Your Eminence." The cardinal paled, his jaw clenched with rage as he shot Blake a venomous glare. He turned on his heel and hurried toward the inner sanctum. A short while later, he returned, carefully carrying a heavy jewel-encrusted box. The archbishop took the box, opened it, and checked its contents before letting out another long sigh. He walked over to Blake.
"Lord Blake. One hundred diamonds, each worth one hundred thousand gold coins... I trust this will suffice?"
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect," Blake opened the box, picked up one of the diamonds, and held it up to the light to examine it. He nodded in satisfaction, then closed the box and slung it over his shoulder, shrugging at the stunned onlookers.
"Then we're square. I won't hold this grudge against you—this matter is officially closed. Rest assured, I always keep my word. Though I must admit, I didn't expect you to actually have ten million gold coins lying around. I was just making a casual demand... It seems the church really is the most profitable business around. Well then, everyone, our transaction is complete. Have a pleasant evening."
With that, Blake tucked the box under one arm, bowed gracefully to the crowd, and turned to leave.
Only when his figure had completely vanished did everyone finally breathe a sigh of relief. Several people even reached up to touch their necks, as if to confirm that their heads were still attached to their shoulders. The archbishop finally tore his gaze away from the door, sighed deeply, then turned serious in an instant.
"What are you all standing around for?! Tend to the wounded at once!!"
Let us leave the chaos that ensued in the church for now. After collecting his compensation, Blake was in a much better mood. He returned to the mage tower quickly, where he ran into Lariboide, who just happened to be heading out.
"Lord Blake! You've finally returned," the elderly mage smiled, his eyes darting curiously to the ornate box in Blake's hand.
"What's that?"
"Just a little compensation for mental distress I collected from the Church of the Divine Light," Blake replied with a grin, then shrugged at Lariboide.
"It was my own business, after all. I didn't want to trouble you, so I decided to handle it myself."
"Ah... I see." Lariboide's smile turned somewhat forced. He glanced out the window instinctively—thankfully, the church's iconic spires still stood tall and intact, not reduced to rubble or missing a single piece. It seemed the lord was telling the truth; he really was in a good mood.
"By the way, did you need something from me?" Blake asked.
"As a matter of fact, I did, Lord Blake." Lariboide's smile faded, his expression turning solemn.
"I just received word from the palace. His Majesty... he has ordered you to attend the court council tomorrow."
Blake raised an eyebrow at Lariboide's words. He thought for a moment, then nodded.
"I see. This is my problem to deal with, then."
"Then we leave everything in your capable hands, Lord Blake."
When Blake returned to his room, Ophelia had already packed her clothes. She sat quietly on the balcony, gazing down at the capital's night view, her expression calm. She turned at the sound of the door opening, then gave Blake a shy, apologetic smile. If not for the slight redness of her eyes, no one would have guessed she had been crying.
"You're back, Lord Blake." Ophelia's gaze drifted naturally to the box in Blake's hand, just as Lariboide's had done earlier.
"What's that?"
"Just a little compensation for mental distress I collected from the Church of the Divine Light," Blake repeated his earlier answer word for word. He patted the box with a grin.
"You won't have to worry about the Twilight Forest's finances anymore."
"How much is in it?" Ophelia's curiosity was piqued.
"About ten million gold coins. The church is richer than I thought."
"Ten million...?" Ophelia's eyes widened in shock, despite her lingering sadness. She stared at the jewel-encrusted box in disbelief—earlier, she had been wondering how much money they could get by selling the box itself to cover the forest's debts.
"Lord Blake... if I may ask, how exactly did you get this money?"
"Just a trivial matter. Hardly worth mentioning."
"...You know that's not what I want to hear."
"Modesty is a traditional virtue of the nobility, Lady Ophelia." Blake tapped the table lightly.
"Do I look like the kind of person who goes around bragging about his exploits?"
No, you certainly don't. I still know nothing about your past. Ophelia shot him a playful glare. To be honest, Blake had never said a single word about his own life—she knew practically nothing about him.
"But that's not the issue right now. As a matter of fact, I just heard from Lariboide." Blake paused, then turned to look at Ophelia.
"The king has ordered me to attend the court council tomorrow... So, Lady Ophelia, what do you plan to do? Will you come with me?"
Ophelia's calm expression flickered at his words. She stared silently at Blake for a long moment, saying nothing.
Seconds ticked by.
Finally, Ophelia nodded slowly, her expression firm and resolute.
"I'll go with you, Lord Blake."
"Then you've made your choice?"
"Yes, my lord." Ophelia placed a hand over her heart, her eyes shining with determination.
"This is my decision."