The banners of Bellacria lined the horizon. Opposite the vast plains, the encampments of Albina and Equitania stood in defiance.

The distance between the two camps barely fell outside the maximum range of cannon fire. It was too far for infantry to advance, yet close enough for cavalry to engage immediately.

A keen observer could see the enemy flags even from this distance. By simply identifying the noble emblems, scouts could assess the scale of the enemy forces, returning periodically to report on the enemy’s deployment.

It was akin to a powder keg. With the slightest sound of cannon fire, this place would become a colossal coliseum—a kind of place where the only means of communication would be blood, steel, and gunpowder.

The gathering of each nation’s maximum military strength implied that the outcome of the holy war would hinge upon this single engagement. Each commander had been tirelessly preparing for the battle since their encampments were set up, working through the nights for flawless combat readiness.

Tension hung like a taut string, ready to snap at any moment.

– Clatter, clatter, clatter.

A group of horsemen crossed the hills of the plains, waving a white flag.

“Envoy from Bellacria!!”

When the scout rushed in and opened the command tent, everyone in the headquarters felt a shared sentiment.

So, it has come.

The Saint quickly scanned Ivan’s eyes. Ivan nodded briefly.

‘Is it a declaration of war?’

‘Perhaps.’

At the same time, Ivan contemplated briefly.

In a large-scale engagement like this, the conditions that determine victory or defeat are the quantity and quality of superhuman troops. The 1st Legion of Bellacria was among the most formidable forces in the Southern Six Nations. To make matters worse, remnants of the defeated 2nd Legion had rallied together, swelling their numbers.

On the other hand, Equitania stood as a half-formed legion, and Albina had been weakened just weeks prior in battle. Even if they clashed at the same scale, a favorable outcome was not guaranteed.

In such a front, even if one were to win, the losses would be significant.

Lost in thought, the scout dashed back into the tent.

“Th-the Papal Enclave! The seal of Ovidis has arrived! An envoy from the Papal Enclave is here!”

At the scout’s words, everyone sprang to their feet. The Pope personally appearing on the battlefield indicated his intention to mediate the conflict. There was no other reason for the Pope to stand at the front lines of a holy war.

The faces of the anxious nobles of Albina lit up with hope. In contrast, Ivan and the Saint exchanged simultaneous glances.

‘How astonishing. Everything is playing out just as planned.’

The Saint gazed at Ivan, marveling softly. Ivan nodded slightly without a word and stood up.

With an axe concealed in his cloak, he positioned himself protectively beside the Saint and began walking toward the plains where the envoy resided.

Among the encampments, knights from Equitania and Albina guided their mounts across the plains. They had arranged their cavalry to match the enemy numbers.

In broad daylight, under the midday sunlight, a small tent stood in the center between the two legions. Knights bearing the flags of Bellacria and the Papal Enclave held their positions high.

– Clatter, clatter, clatter.

As they slowly approached on horseback, the opposing cavalry spread wide. It was a formation meant for immediate response, yet lacking an intention to attack.

– Whoosh.

As the leading knight whistled, the knights on this side scattered in a similar manner. The Saint, Ivan, and the Grand Duke of Albina made their way through the gap toward the tent.

Inside the tent was a knight accompanied by a squire and an elderly priest. When Ivan gently tapped the Saint on the shoulder, she shook her head briefly.

It was a signal that the Pope was not present. Loosening his grip on the axe he held, he continued walking forward.

“Welcome, heroes of Albina.”

It suggested from the start that Equitania’s participation was being outright denied. The weapon-bearing knight’s words were decidedly political in nature.

“Good to see you. I am Ludovico del Fiori, rightful representative of His Majesty, Dominico della Visale of Albina.”

“I am Diego de la Serna, Count of Bellacria 1st Legion.”

The two nobles exchanged glances, acknowledging one another. As the Count gestured, a squire approached and presented a silver cup to the Duke.

The cup, filled with crushed ice, was placed before the Duke. Without even glancing at it, the Duke looked at the Count.

Traditionally, offering drinking water during wartime was an act of goodwill—an assurance that they would not kill even if victorious.

“Are you declaring war? If you have something to say, say it quickly. We are fully prepared for battle.”

“Your impatience is typical of an Albina man.”

The Count chuckled lightly, tapping the table.

“Our preparations are complete as well, so war could start at any moment. However, it saddens me that blood will flow on this beautiful land.”

“Time is precious. I’ve heard enough.”

“Wouldn’t it be a waste of time to leave at this point?”

As the Duke stood up, the Count of Bellacria said with a smile.

“Withdraw your troops.”

“It seems you lack the capability for negotiation. I can understand your nation’s level.”

“Even if I lack negotiation skills, I possess full authority in this matter. Sit down. This is the last chance.”

The Count rapped the table and scanned the Duke, the Saint, and Ivan beneath his helmet.

“Continue the holy war. We shall forget past grievances. I will not demand reparations for the blood spilled by your nation.”

“What about the blood spilled by my country?”

“Compensation will be made.”

As the Duke settled back into his seat, the Saint flinched. Ivan squeezed her shoulder and patted her lightly. He felt her excited body slowly calming down.

The negotiations felt like walking on thin ice.

“It is appropriate to denounce being swayed by the words of apostates; however, evil always seeps into the hearts of the faithful. If you repent, I shall not raise the issue.”

“Is that your price?”

“I will concede half of the apostates’ lands.”

This meant that half of the territories that the forces of the holy war would occupy in the future—specifically the vast agricultural regions right next to Albina—would be ceded.

As the Duke fell silent, the Count laughed beneath his helmet.

“Hand over that apostate and witch currently in attendance. Disarm the apostates’ forces stationed in your nation and hold a trial under the Pope’s authority. Open the borders and allow the holy army to march through. My country will not covet even a single grain of millet from your lands.”

Considering the Count’s words, the Duke turned his head. He gazed into the anxious eyes of the Saint, then eyed Ivan beside her.

He took a moment in silence, choosing his words. Ivan also quietly manipulated the axe handle concealed in his cloak. It would take him less than three seconds to kill everyone in this room and escape.

A moment later, the Grand Duke of Albina sighed heavily and smiled.

“Will you accept the negotiations?”

“How amusing.”

“Amusing?”

“The state of war exists between our countries. We had agreed to communicate only through force. Given how things have unfolded, is it not the fault of those bandits you refer to as the ‘2nd Legion’ for the many war crimes committed on our territory?”

“….”

“Are you demanding we handover without an apology and compensation regarding that? And to open the borders? Is that not amusing? Did we appear to you as fools?”

As the Duke stood up, the Count of Bellacria grinned sadly.

“There will be bloodshed.”

“Enough blood must flow.”

The negotiations were over. Now all that remained was to prove justice through force. Ivan released his grip from the axe handle, turning away while guiding the Saint.

Behind them, the elderly priest shouted roughly.

“Patricia!!”

The Saint turned her head. The priest glared at her, filled with indignation.

“Many righteous men have died because of your words! Because of your apostasy, two nations will crumble, and thousands upon thousands of citizens will drown in blood! Under the pretext of heresy, they will be executed, and their souls shall find no salvation in this world! That is your sin!”

The priest was near tears. A faithful priest sincerely believed the Saint to be an apostate. The Saint sighed softly and turned her body.

“If the Lord punishes the sins of this land, surely, only I will be singled out as a sinner. Bishop. You do not mean to suggest that the innocent souls of the people will be punished indiscriminately, do you?”

“Such words…! They are heretical! In the Lord’s law, heretics—!”

“Heretics!!”

The Saint shouted, trembling.

“If there are heretics in this world! If there are apostates!! You must reflect upon yourselves!”

“How dare you!!”

“Have all the faithful on this land offended the Lord’s will? Do you truly believe that? Because of one person’s apostasy, because of the mere fall of a maiden, did the Lord’s great love depart from this land? If the Lord has chosen to take away his sacred power from us for some reason, should we not first suspect the one who harbors the only sacred power?”

The Saint strode boldly toward the Bishop. The knights attempting to block her retreated, suppressed by her aura.

The Bishop, standing alone before her, could only gaze at the Saint with trembling eyes, unable to raise his hand to push her away.

The Saint’s gaze fixed upon the Bishop. Her fiery green eyes, heavy and piercing.

“If the Pope is truly pure, why is it that the Lord’s strength is not with you, who follow his will?”

“…”

“In the midst of apostasy and obedience, we have always learned to hold doubt as a virtue. Bishop Verdi. Just as you doubt me, you should also doubt that value commonly known as justice.”

“I will not be swayed by your heretical words, witch…”

“I do not waver. Bishop. However, was it not blind faith that we must be most cautious of?”

The Saint gazed sorrowfully at the elderly Bishop before turning away. Ivan silently followed behind her.

They remained quiet, the Saint keeping her head down, trembling shoulders until they returned to the encampment.

Finally, when the cavalry scattered to their respective tents, and they were left alone—

“Brother….”

The Saint clutched at Ivan’s garment, sobbing.

“Please tell me I’m doing well.”

“You are doing your best.”

“Please say that all those who die because of my commands will be saved.”

“Their deaths will be compensated.”

“Please say that the resentment of those who will die in the future will only reach me.”

“The righteous do not harbor resentment toward death; they will not blame you. No one will.”

“Ugh… sob….”

The Saint nestled in Ivan’s embrace, trembling quietly.

“I am… afraid… I fear for the souls of those many good people who will perish by my choosing. The weight of it now… it’s too heavy to bear.”

“It is the same for everyone.”

Ivan’s hand floundered in the air. The Saint’s body pressed against him, hot and trembling. He awkwardly bent his arm and patted her small back.

“It has been for everyone.”

“You too, Brother…?”

“Even Maximilian felt the same.”

“He did. We all have…”

As the Saint’s sobs calmed down, she pulled on Ivan’s arm, wrapping it around the nape of her neck.

“When a woman trembles and weeps, she needs a proper embrace.”

“What about the vow of purity?”

“I am now an apostate. Is there a need to uphold the three virtues of a priest?”

“I suppose not.”

It was not entirely incorrect, so Ivan nodded quietly.

Isabelle, running in with a clean towel soaked in water from behind the tent, halted at the sight.

The towel fell to the ground with a thud and got dirtied by dust.

*

“Your Holiness.”

Bishop Verdi knelt before the Pope’s tent. He lifted his sunken face to look at the Pope.

He tried to find the radiance filled with the sacred power. In the meantime, he struggled to perceive the Lord’s will and strength.

However, the smooth, taut white skin, the impossibly youthful appearance of someone approaching their 70s—he could not feel the Lord’s glory or intent.

It was only then he realized.

“Your Holiness. The conference has collapsed.”

“Is that so…?”

The Pope mumbled quietly, shrouded in darkness. The gentle voice that always resonated now sounded inexplicably sharp.

The Bishop lifted his quivering eyes to the Pope.

The Pope was gazing down at him from the shadows.

“…Your Holiness?”

“Bishop Verdi. Doubt has sprouted in your heart.”

“I… Your Holiness. I swear by the great will of the Lord and the heavenly glory…”

– The veil has been torn.

“What?!”

If he didn’t mishear, that voice echoed from behind the Pope. It was too thick and deep to be the Pope’s voice—a gender-neutral, sharply beautiful voice that could not be determined whether it belonged to a male or female.

It resonated within his mind, in fact, echoed in his very soul.

A sweet scent of musk began to fill the tent.

“Your Holiness…?”

“No, this is….”

– Shh.

A white fingertip emerged from the Pope’s shoulder. There was no physical space behind him for a person to stand, yet—

The ghostly hand crawled up the Pope’s shoulder like a spider, clicking as it moved.

The Bishop stared at the Pope in a daze, confusion washing over him.

“This is… this is…?”

– Indeed, so very much the Saint. To so easily break my veil with but a few words. This is why priests are bothersome.

“Keep your promise!! Demon, you’ve promised not to intervene in this matter—.”

– No, we make no promises. Priest. The situation has deviated, and your plans have unraveled. Did you not say that a holy war would peacefully end and quell discontentment? How has that plan fared now? It has flowed only in opposition to your words.

“There’s still time. There’s still….”

– There is no longer any. Old priest. No matter how this war ends, humanity will never again unite to fight or have the capability to fight. All the seeds you have sown have blossomed into discord. I will now act directly.

“Our… contract….”

– The Seven Dragon Lords have no contracts. They only declare.

A purple veil draped around the Pope’s eyes. With a choked sound, Bishop Verdi screamed for breath as he collapsed.

“Patricia… the Saint’s words… were right—cough!!*”

The Pope slowly rose and walked over the convulsing Bishop.

“I… I am the peace of this land… Oh, Lord. Lord… I am wrong… My sin….”

– You are all sinners. Just as you have always said. Oh, race born of original sin. How absurd it is to cling to a God who punishes you while begging for salvation. Come, rest in my embrace. True happiness and peace reside in this hand.

“Evil, evil….”

The Pope’s voice was steadily fading. Soon, the white fingers pressed harshly against his eyes.

– You need only wish. I shall grant it. You need only offer. I shall fulfill it. I will bestow upon you all the comfort and pleasure of this world. What I desire is only one thing—

The prosperity of you all. That is all.

What a humble ruler that is.

Freedom is but an illusion, so offer that illusion, and I shall fill it with truth.

A small mouth appeared beside the Pope’s ear, whispering sweetly.

The Pope fell to his knees, tears streaming down beneath the hands that covered his eyes.

*

The Saint, nestled in Ivan’s embrace, suddenly looked up in shock.

Meanwhile, Ivan stared beyond the horizon with a hardened expression.

The midday sun was being veiled by clouds. A purplish cloud obscured the sun, filtering the sunlight as if it passed through stained glass.

“Vestige of the… Lamerics…!”

The Saint let out a suppressed groan. Ivan detached her and thought.

This means there’s no longer a need to hide. Since all plans have gone awry, there is no need to look back.

The Seven Dragon Lords that command the beasts are threatening. However, what of the Seven Dragon Lords who command the legion of humans?

What if the wielder of the most powerful human army commanded and marched with the Seven Dragon Lords?

Ivan spun the axe handle in his hand as he turned.

“E-excuse me, Brother?!”

“To the command post. Assemble everyone.”

“Yes, yes!!”

The Saint raced away into the encampment. While glancing back at her retreating figure, Ivan set off toward the encampment where his company awaited.

The holy war, in other words, the war is not the role of the Hero Party.

The path the Hero Party must take always extends toward the enemy’s depths, toward the heart of the Seven Dragon Lords.

Therefore, from this moment forward, it is the Hero Party’s time.

The war has ended. Now, it is time for the hunt.

EP36. Holy War.