BOOM
A crusader crashed against the golden statue of Goddess Lumina behind the altar, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the once pristine relic.
The man's lifeless body slid down with a dull thud, blood smearing the polished marble floor.
And he wasn't the only one who died.
Countless others were either torn to shreds by the cultists—or by the man who appeared to be their leader. Their corpses now littered the cathedral like discarded props in a play.
Even some of the cultists who'd been overwhelmed earlier were dead now, crushed by a force that didn't discriminate between friend or foe.
But their losses didn't matter.
Not to him.
The man in the black cloak stood amid the carnage, motionless save for the slight flutter of his cloak, stirred by a wind that seemed to exist for him and him alone.
He tilted his head slightly, as if admiring a painting.
A mural of death.
Each movement he'd made had been deliberate. Calculated. Beautiful.
He hadn't even broken a sweat.
The cathedral—once a sanctum of divine reverence—was soaked in crimson. The towering stone pillars, carved with scripture meant to inspire faith, now bore the fractures of despair.
Gore painted the silver filigree in ugly streaks.
Stained glass windows were reduced to jagged holes, sunlight bleeding through like wounds in the very skin of the divine.
Then the air shifted.
It was subtle—like the world holding its breath.
"Enough."
The voice rang out through the hall, calm and commanding.
The surviving cultists turned their heads in surprise. The leader didn't.
A tall figure strode forward, robes of white and gold flowing behind him. Silver hair gleaming. A staff aglow with radiant energy in his hand.
Bishop Alfonse.
The highest-ranking clergy in this branch. The one who had conducted the Hero Candidate's awakening ceremony earlier.
The reason he hadn't appeared until now was because he'd been securing the candidate's safety.
And now...
Well.
He hadn't come back to preach.
"In nomine Luminae, purgabit lux vestra peccata."
He raised his hand and snapped his fingers.
FWOOOOSH!
A barrage of Holy Arrows materialized in the air—dozens of them, pulsing with divine wrath.
They rained down like vengeful stars.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Golden light erupted throughout the cathedral. Screams followed.
One cultist tried to run. "Blasphe—!"
"Tenebris dissipetur. Ligatum."
Chains of light exploded from the ground, binding him mid-run. A glowing whip coiled around his throat.
CRACK!
His neck snapped like a twig.
The bishop advanced, light constructs forming around him—swords, glyphs, halos. His staff buzzed with power.
And then—
CLANG!
The cultist leader stepped forward, dragging his blackened longsword across the marble with a slow, screeching grind that sent chills up the spine.
He stopped only a few feet from Alfonse, lifting his head.
His hood still cast a shadow over his face.
"You're the one in charge here, huh," Alfonse said, his voice cold.
The leader chuckled.
Not a laugh.
A giggle.
"You're the last one left, huh? Oh, how adorable."
His voice was melodic. Mocking. Unstable.
"You sound so sure of yourself." He tilted his head the other way. "I love that. The hope. The righteousness. It makes the moment your bones crack... so delicious."
Alfonse's grip tightened. "You're deranged."
"Compliments won't save you, bishop."
CLANG!
Their weapons collided.
The cathedral shuddered.
Alfonse unleashed radiant shockwaves. The cultist leader backflipped, landing gracefully.
The fight ignited in a fury—CLANG-CLANG-CLANG—each blow laced with intent to kill.
BOOM!
The leader's mana-fueled kick launched Alfonse into a pillar, splitting it like firewood.
Before the dust settled—
"Ventus, accipe gladium!"
A slicing blade of wind tore through the rubble.
It nicked the cultist's cheek.
Blood trickled down.
He touched it with his fingers, then licked it.
His grin widened.
"Finally... someone who bites back."
He raised his left hand.
"Umbra, meus clypeus. Umbra, meus gladius."
Darkness poured from him like liquid madness. His arm became a shadow-forged shield, his sword twisted into something more monstrous.
They clashed again.
Light vs. Dark. Wind vs. Void.
The cathedral trembled with every blow.
"Ventus, comprime!"
Alfonse condensed wind pressure and slammed it down.
BOOOOOOM!!!
The cathedral ruptured. Rubble crashed down.
Silence.
Then—
SHNK!
A blade stabbed through the smoke.
The leader stepped through, his cloak in tatters, eyes now visible—void black, brimming with manic glee.
"Peekaboo."
Alfonse recoiled, blood dripping from his side.
He retaliated, sending wind blades slicing through the cultist's arm.
The man only laughed.
His blood fell like ink. But he didn't care. He never cared.
"Umbra, obvolvat."
Darkness wrapped around his leg.
CRACK!
A spinning kick broke Alfonse's ribs, sending him hurtling into the altar.
The bishop gasped, trying to stand.
"The goddess will judge you..."
The leader walked forward slowly.
And smiled.
"Tell her to get in line."
SHNK!
His blade impaled the bishop.
Alfonse's staff fell. The light faded from it.
"...Lady... Lumina... please... for... give... me..."
Stillness.
The leader ripped his blade free. Breathing ragged, but his smile unwavering.
Blood on his lips. Joy in his eyes.
He looked toward the ruined cathedral entrance, eager for more.
Then—
THUUUUUUUUMM!
The cathedral groaned.
And he felt it.
A wave of mana that crushed his lungs. Bent his knees.
'What… is this…?'
He stumbled back a step. Just one.
But it was enough.
That grin?
It twitched.
For the first time since arriving...
The cultist leader didn't look thrilled.
He looked curious.
And very, very interested.