* * *
The next holy day arrived.
After finishing his duties as a devout, Ranshel scanned the area with sharp eyes, searching for his academy classmate, Kon.
Soon, he spotted a small boy with a round head, crouching and glancing around nervously.
Before Kon could sneak off into a restricted area like last time, Ranshel caught him.
Everything went smoothly after that.
Hearing Ranshel say he was searching for a deeper way to express his faith, Kon kindly offered to bring him to his prayer group.
“It’s special. The Archbishop himself leads it. He’s the one closest to the divine right now. Just being near him fills your soul with grace.”
Kon spoke excitedly, but Ranshel grew increasingly certain of one thing.
‘He’s not in his right mind.’
Kon was worshiping the Archbishop, not the god.
That was not normal devotion.
Hadn’t Frey said something similar?
—There’s a secret prayer group hosted by the Archbishop.
And everyone who attends ends up blindly following him.
Like they’re under some kind of strange spell…
To call the Archbishop—who ranks below both the High Pontiff and the Oracle—the closest to God was absurd.
Whether spell or curse, something unnatural was at work.
If this group grew, it wouldn’t be hard to overthrow the High Pontiff and strip Frey of her position.
‘Anyway, all I need is proof.’
Ranshel needed evidence that the Archbishop was a heretic worshiping demons.
There had to be something he could use at the prayer gathering.
“This way.”
Ranshel followed as Kon led him to the same place as before.
Unlike last time, they weren’t stopped by the guards—Ranshel soon saw why.
“May the grace of God be with you.”
Kon discreetly handed the guards silver coins.
One of them inspected the coins under a lamp, then waved them through.
‘So… it was just about money?’
Ranshel clicked his tongue internally.
What kind of people working in a sacred sanctuary were this greedy?
He followed Kon inside.
Beyond the gate, a hallway appeared.
At the end of it was another door.
Behind that door, bright light spilled out.
The wall-mounted stones seemed to be made of a special, glowing material—possibly flamecrystals.
“We’ll check your belongings.”
Soldiers in gleaming white armor lined the wide hallway.
“They’re the Holy Guard. Don’t try to hide anything. Just show them everything.”
While Kon whispered that, Ranshel slipped a hidden dagger from his clothes down to the floor and kicked it behind the door they had entered through.
‘It’s risky being unarmed, but I’ve got no choice.’
After passing the inspection, the two continued down the corridor.
Soon, they reached a massive door engraved with ornate vine patterns—clearly the place where the prayer gathering was held.
Next to the door stood a knight in gleaming white armor, from head to toe.
As soon as they approached, the knight swiftly drew the sword at his waist.
The silver badge on his chest shimmered under the light, as did the blade in his hand.
“…Commander?”
Kon hesitated, stopping in his tracks with a flicker of unease.
A knight was approaching directly toward them, sword in hand.
“W-We’ve already been searched. I’ve been attending the prayer meetings regularly, and he’s my peer from the academy. Our master is a devout believer too, so you really don’t have to be so suspicious…”
Swish—!
It happened in an instant.
The knight swung his sword and slashed Kon in one clean stroke.
It was swift and precise.
Kon’s small and slender body split in half and collapsed to the ground.
Ranshel instinctively tried to back away, but the knight leapt forward with lightning speed, blocking his retreat with the tip of his sword.
“……”
He could’ve asked what the hell this was, demanded an explanation, or insisted on his innocence—but Ranshel quickly realized that none of that would matter with this man.
That blade’s ruthless arc, the way he moved soundlessly, his brutality in cutting down someone without a moment’s hesitation…
“…It’s been a while.”
Ranshel muttered in a low voice.
At that, the knight finally lowered his sword and removed his helmet.
A cascade of faded, brittle white hair spilled out, and a man with pitch-black, lifeless eyes gave him a crooked smile.
“If I hadn’t recognized you, I was just going to kill you… Ranshel.”
A hoarse voice crept out like poison. Ranshel clenched his stiffening fingers into a fist.
‘Ah, I’m screwed…’
This man was the greatest living assassin—the first son of Nameless, Baha.
Why the hell he had to be here, of all people, was beyond him.
By nature, assassins aren’t suited to becoming knights.
Their physical strength and endurance are usually subpar.
But for those who transcend their limits, such things are no longer barriers.
Nameless is an institution that trains assassins.
It ranks its “sons” by skill, and trains them according to their designated order and roles.
But they don’t follow the conventional methods of training—no wooden swords or typical drills like ordinary knights.
Especially the First and Second sons, who are typically adopted into noble families.
They receive far more attention and resources than the others.
Like the rest, they are periodically dosed with poison to build resistance.
But with these two, their developed tolerance is pushed further with the use of demonic herbs to make up for any physical deficiencies.
They’re given dosages that would normally melt a person’s organs into mush.
Their bodies are broken and rebuilt again and again through a relentless cycle of destruction and regeneration.
The Baha standing there now was, in every sense, a drug-soaked addict whose blood had likely been replaced with demonic toxins.
Even his white hair was a visible symptom of that long-term poisoning.
And that pristine-looking armor, combined with his pale hair, lent him a false air of holiness that only made him more terrifying.
‘There’s no way I can win this.’
That thing wasn’t even human anymore.
A body altered with poisons and infused with dark herbs—he wouldn’t even live out a fraction of a normal lifespan.
That was the cost of creating such a vessel.
Even if Ranshel had a dagger, he might be able to last a little longer.
But his only weapon had been discarded long ago.
He had to buy time with words—anything to create an opening to escape.
Ranshel tried to keep his voice calm.
“But why are you—?”
He never got to finish.
He had to bend backward suddenly, as a blade stabbed straight toward him and skimmed just above his head.
Ranshel rolled to the side and repositioned himself.
And from that moment on, the attacks never ceased.
He barely dodged the swift, stabbing strikes, but his footwork was gradually slowing.
Cuts began to appear on his skin, thin lines of red trailing down his limbs.
Strands of severed hair scattered across the ground.
There wasn’t even a moment to speak.
Baha toyed with him like a cat playing with a mouse, slashing mercilessly and without pause.
Eventually, just as Ranshel’s focus began to slip from exhaustion, it happened—his foot slid on a clump of Kon’s bloody hair.
The blade that he had narrowly avoided all this time finally sank deep into his flesh.
Just one strike, but it cut straight down to the bone in his left leg.
A flash of silver.
A spray of blood.
* * *
