{Chapter: 55: Royal Capital Raid And Shadows Beneath The Altar}
The leader of the cult—tall, thin, with a snake-emblazoned amulet around his neck—stepped forward. He sneered beneath his mask.
"Heretic Hunters? How quaint," the man said. "You came faster than expected. We haven't even started tonight's ritual. We haven't even started yet and you came straight to our door. It seems that you have planted a traitor among us, and he is of a high status..."
After saying that, in front of the astonished gazes of Safi and others, he pulled out a dagger from his waist at lightning speed, turned around, and stabbed it into the chest of another masked man next to him, without giving the other party any chance to react.
The blade sunk in deep, tearing flesh and muscle. The man he stabbed—young, masked—gasped, choked, and fell to his knees. Blood poured down his robes.
"Kalai, although I already knew you were a traitor and passed on a lot of information when we weren't paying attention, I didn't expect you to act so quickly. You took action before we even finished planning the operation. It really caught me off guard."
The dying man, Kalai, looked up at him with pure disbelief. After a burst of sharp pain, he looked at the other person's hideous face so close to him.
The man named Kalai opened his eyes wide, his flushed face full of disbelief, and he obviously hadn't reacted yet.
His legs went limp and he knelt on the ground, blood gushing out of his mouth. He wanted to say something but couldn't make a sound: "You you he"
After finishing off the other party, he looked at Safi and the others who were already stunned, and said with a disdainful smile: "So, are you angry that you didn't save your own people? Too slow, priest."
The room was still, except for the gentle drip of blood trickling from the lifeless man sprawled across the cold stone floor. His body lay twisted at an unnatural angle, a faint expression of confusion forever frozen on his pale face. The torchlight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls as the heavy scent of iron hung in the air.
Standing nearby, Bishop Safi exhaled slowly and raised his hands in a passive gesture, trying to defuse the tension that had coiled thickly around the room like a noose.
With a voice that attempted sincerity but carried an undertone of caution, he said, "...Well, I think you must have misunderstood something. Our church had initially planned to plant an informant within the Evil Tongue Society, but we faced a shortage of manpower. So, the operative you're talking about was reassigned long ago to another region. He has nothing to do with this place."
His tone remained steady, his face unreadable—an expression honed by years of politics, subterfuge, and watching allies turn into enemies.
But instead of calming the situation, Safi's explanation drew only a bitter laugh from the other man—one full of scorn and accusation.
A blade gleamed in the man's hand. He was tall, cloaked in an aura of paranoia sharpened by trauma and betrayal. With a flick of his wrist, he cast the blood from his dagger like a serpent shedding venom, then sneered in open disgust.
"Laies!" he spat the name with venom. "Don't think I'm so foolish that I can't see through your lies. You're just trying to divert my attention!"
And before Safi could respond, the man turned suddenly and struck.
The dagger moved like lightning—silent and precise. It plunged deep into the side of another one of his own subordinates. The victim staggered, gasped, and fell, clutching his side. His mouth opened, but no sound came out—only a gurgle of blood.
A ripple of horror moved through the onlookers.
Unlike the first time, the strike had been deliberately restrained. The blade avoided the vital organs, but whatever substance had been laced on its surface worked quickly. The stabbed man convulsed, limbs locking up before falling limp like a puppet with its strings cut. The paralytic poison was potent, his body reduced to a frozen shell—alive, but unable to speak or scream.
Calmly, as if he had just cleaned dust from a shelf, the assailant looked back at Safi.
"I'm not stupid. I know you've planted two spies among us. One's dead," he nodded toward the corpse, "but this one—this one's still breathing. A meritorious agent, no doubt. A shame to lose him, no? You wouldn't abandon your own man so easily, Bishop Safi."
Murmurs spread among the surrounding men. Some exchanged confused glances. Doubt began to form, and with it, the fragile unity of the group started to crack. A few looked toward the fallen bodies with concern—others shifted uneasily, weighing truth against manipulation.
Safi sensed it immediately. The balance of the room teetered dangerously close to collapse.
"I already told you," he said, keeping his voice level but firm, "there are no infiltrators from our side in your ranks. These people were never ours. What you're doing is your madness."
But the man only sneered deeper. "Still denying? Then you leave us with no way out. It seems that even if you have to sacrifice your own, you'd do it without hesitation—just to protect your secrets."
As if to punctuate his accusation, he raised his boot and drove it brutally into the side of the paralyzed man. A sickening thud echoed across the chamber as the victim groaned faintly.
"Speak!" the man roared, his eyes wide with the fervor of obsession. "Speak, and tell us who you are! I want to hear what that sanctimonious old fox has to say about your betrayal!"
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, from the ground, the wounded man stirred. Blood trickled from the corner of his lips as he looked up—his expression twisted in a mixture of agony, fury, and disbelief.
"You absolute fool," he wheezed. His voice was strained but filled with venom. "I'm not part of their church, you paranoid idiot. I'm from the royal bloodline of the Principality of Ar. We supported your cult's growth from the shadows to stir unrest in the Principality of Marton. And you—you murdered your own ally, thinking I'm some wretched pawn of the church… I swear on my ancestors… a delusional fool! You—!"
He coughed violently, choking on his own words as crimson frothed from his lips.
As the revelation settled, a stunned silence gripped the room.
Safi raised an eyebrow and shrugged, finally allowing a small smirk to touch the corner of his mouth. "I told you," he said simply. "But you never listen, do you?"
Then, without hesitation, he snapped his fingers.
It was a quiet signal—but the effect was immediate.
Blades were drawn. Incantations whispered. A divine shimmer lit up the edge of his war hammer.
His followers surged forward, cloaks swirling, blades drawn. The chamber erupted into chaos once more, steel meeting steel, fire arrows igniting in bursts of light and shadow.
And Safi himself moved like a thunderclap.
He gripped his war hammer—an ornate weapon infused with divine magic—and stormed through the crowd with singular intent. His eyes locked on the man who had started this mess.
There would be no negotiation. No mercy.
He drove his war hammer through the battlefield, straight toward the man who had slaughtered his own followers. With a roar, he swung the weapon in a crushing arc.
He had made a decision.
This man's skull would crack beneath the weight of righteousness.
He was going to smash the man's head in—personally.
---
Some time later, the battle was over.
Silence returned, broken only by the occasional groan of the dying and the low hiss of extinguishing flames. Blood soaked the stone floor. Limbs twitched in death spasms. The scent of burnt flesh mingled with mana and despair.
The air smelled of ash, steel, and death.
Safi exhaled, his breath heavy from the exertion. He wiped his weapon clean and gave a nod to his team.
"We're done here. Let's move."
One by one, they filed out of the shattered stronghold, their silhouettes retreating into the night.
And in that silence… a figure emerged.
A tall, elegant shape cloaked in shadow descended into the blood-soaked chamber. He moved with unhurried steps, calm and regal, like a nobleman surveying a battlefield turned garden.
It was Dex.
Eyes like deep-cut obsidian scanned the wreckage with disinterest. Without bending his knees, he extended a hand—and the air shimmered.
From every fallen corpse, every drifting remnant of a soul not yet claimed by the divine, threads of spiritual energy rose like mist. They coalesced, forming a brilliant crystal in his palm—translucent, glowing, filled with sorrow, hatred, regret, and fear.
He popped it into his mouth like a delicacy.
Chewed thoughtfully.
"Hmm," he murmured, savoring the taste. "A touch bitter…" Dex commented: "Although there are a lot of emotions and a lot of nonsense, it tastes good."
There was no remorse. No joy. Just a cold observation.
He had shed no blood, lifted no sword, and uttered no command. And yet, the souls now fed him—sustained him. The world's judgment did not weigh upon him. There would be no punishment. No celestial gaze would pierce his back.
The world would not judge him, nor would its oppressive forces seek to crush him beneath their gaze.
And that suited him just fine.
Because the sin was not his.
"Why stain my hands," Dex whispered into the still air, "when others will do the work for me?"
This was the cycle. Let fools drown each other in their delusions of control, loyalty, good, bad, and ideology. Let them ignite the fires of hatred, then die choking on the smoke. The battlefield was just a grand banquet. And he? He merely dined upon the aftermath.
Efficient.
Ruthless.
Unburdened.
As Dex turned to leave, the light dimmed once more, and the silence reclaimed the room. The battle was over—but the games had just begun.