Chapter 362
Chapter 362
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: Saint and Completer (18)
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Screeeeech—
Boom!
“Let’s see...”
At that moment, the Professor, who had reached the castle walls with just a couple of leaps, landed on the roof of one of the sub-castles in Koern Lord’s Castle and surveyed the cityscape.
“...They might actually break through if things go well?”
He’d told the holy knights to follow his pace and catch up quickly. But honestly, he hadn’t expected them to punch through from the main gate all the way to the lord’s castle against Koern’s forces numbering in the tens of thousands. This was the western front’s greatest stronghold, swarming with hero units, master knights, and veteran soldiers as skilled as knights—like ants everywhere. Even the church’s finest holy knights couldn’t non-lethally carve through that, right?
The key was the commotion. He’d planned to scatter and pick off the saint’s forces one by one. But the moment they heard, they flipped the table and started a “show of force.” Who could ignore knights in gleaming white armor, shining with holy light, charging while shouting [Enlighten them! Enlighten them!]? Right now, the sound of thousands of soldiers beating on the holy knights echoed through the city like gongs.
By now, Koern’s commanders were probably yelling at each other, something like, “Th-this isn’t what we planned!”
[...So you told them to follow knowing they couldn’t break through? Just to cause a ruckus and die pointlessly?]
‘Do I look crazy enough to waste those precious forces? They won’t die anyway. They just can’t break through—that’s all. They’re not the type to get killed by a few master knights and tens of thousands of soldiers.’
He’d ordered them to follow because he was absolutely certain they wouldn’t die while stirring up chaos. Hadn’t he seen them in the great desert, holding the line with just a few hundred against swarms of elite mutants in that sea of sand—and even pushing back?
They’d headbutt grade-3 mutants whose claws could slice steel like rotten wood, swinging their maces. They’d get chomped in giant mutant jaws but wriggle out with flailing arms. Just when you thought they were finally out of commission, someone would shout “Latura!” or “Holy light!” and they’d spring back up, charging again.
From the start, these were people who’d survived even the aftershocks of a dragon’s breath—not a direct hit. And what was dragon’s breath? A technique that warped the mana structure in the area, causing permanent environmental changes.
That battlefield in the great desert was probably a nightmare now—lightning striking from clear skies, flames erupting from barren ground. The holy knights Gregory had brought were superhumans who’d emerged alive from such hell, fighting enemies.
‘They dove into that man-frying sand sea, swimming fancy freestyle—puh-wak puh-wak—then leaped out in front of me like salmon on sand. Steam rising from their armor, and Gregory goes, “Are you alright, Saint?” That’s when I knew—these guys won’t go down easy anywhere.’
[Oh yeah, I remember that. Full plate mail with a massive tower shield on their backs, right? They swam well. Or sand-swimming?]
‘Whatever. Those holy knights might lack raw attack power, but their defense is on my level. That’s why I tossed them into Koern—figured they’d cause a long, loud, eye-catching ruckus.’
But...
Looking down from here, weren’t they breaking through better than expected?
“...Those bastards. They must’ve been starving for a real fight.”
He blinked—what was this?—but one glance at the soldiers’ armor rushing over in a horde told him everything.
Knights bellowing loudly, soldiers swarming after them. Their armor gleaming like new.
Meanwhile, other soldiers facing the noisy knights with indifference. Their armor dented and scratched to hell.
No need to explain—who came from where was obvious.
‘Even the same armor... They dragged in peasants without proper gear and armed them all with shiny new supply armor. From one to ten, they’ve been hoarding every bit for themselves.’
The result? A fractured army even within the same city. When one knight drew his sword on Lordric soldiers defying the commander’s orders, a hero-looking figure blocked him. Why wouldn’t they?
Those who went to battle were deployed more often to fill the gaps left by those who didn’t. Meaning, the heroes who fought every battle ended up seeing familiar faces.
‘You still alive, huh?’
‘Heh heh, unlike those high-and-mighty folks in their tall castle, it’s thanks to you brave souls rolling in this dumpster, right?’
No comparison between those covered in blood on the front lines every time and the ones spouting nonsense about supply escorts or VIP protection while hunkered down in the castle, sleeping.
Even the hero units gathered here had abandoned the alliance commanders.
The result was right now. Instead of tens of thousands of war machines packing the roads to the castle—bursting at the seams—the noble’s private guards in fresh armor, barely different from recruits despite a year at war. And the noble knights berating their awkward movements.
The holy knights didn’t even need to swing weapons. Shove the front one hard, and their own gear’s weight would topple them like dominoes. As for the rest? Aura built on rotten morale wouldn’t scratch holy knights armed with faith in the light.
Boom! Kurrr rumble boooom!
“Whoa. If I space out, they’ll enter the castle before me. Gotta set an example as the saint. Hm.”
Seeing the holy knights in wedge formation plowing through with tower shields, he felt he couldn’t afford to lounge anymore and turned toward the castle.
A bit early, but by now, our noble friends inside must be ripe with delicious anxiety.
He straightened his pristine white robe—splattered with a bit of blood at the hem—plucked a broken tooth from between his knuckles, and tidied his “saintly” appearance. Then, the Professor leaped toward the source of the commanders’ shouts echoing even from the sub-castle’s peak.
Whiiiish—
Thud!
A conference hall for nobles, perched high like Hedelrn Castle. Landing on its balcony, he could see everything inside. Various nobles ringed around a huge round table—same as in Hedelrn. Noisy, angry, blaming each other.
The slight difference? Besides the loudmouths, a few standout elders watched the nobles coldly.
‘Ah, found him.’
Spotting the flushed face he sought among the red ones, the Professor kicked the door open and strode in.
Nobles crowded the balcony too, but whatever—no need to mind them.
Bam!
Crash-clang-shatter!
The balcony door shattered under his kick, sweeping several nobles ahead—who spewed blood and tumbled.
Whoosh!
“Baron Pongpadu! Baron Volnerie!”
“Squeeeeal! Ow, it hurts! I’m dying! Dyyyying!!!!”
“Th-there’s a splinter in my chest! Call a priest—get a high priest now!”
Mmm~ Pig squeals at a whiff of blood. Perfect start for today’s role.
“Priest! Bring a prieeest! Prieeeest!!!”
Savoring the room’s stares for a moment, he couldn’t ignore their desperate pleas and approached the flailing nobles.
“D-don’t come closer!”
“What, didn’t you ask for a priest? Can’t you tell from this robe? I’m a priest among priests—the greatest priest in the entire Holy Light Church. Hold still. I’ll heal you nice and clean.”
“R-really...?”
“Of course~ I swear on the revered Ro Haram’s name.”
Splurt!
“Squeeeeeeeeeeal—!!!!”
Just that the healing followed battlefield hack medicine he’d picked up.
He yanked the wood shard from the gut, then jammed it shut with silk undergarment. That’s how you treat wounds like that. On the battlefield.
Bang!
“You... you madman! Just because we asked to travel together, you assault a city at war and ambush the commanders? No matter how mighty the Holy Light’s prestige, you think you’ll survive antagonizing every nation represented here?”
Amid the noble’s screams—flesh torn with the shard—a mustachioed noble slammed the table, denouncing him.
‘Got guts.’
Look at those shifty eyes. Nobles are the problem. Impossible for them to face anything without political calculus.
His opening was performative aggression: pressure on the victim’s nation while signaling talk with others. Figured after showing his hand, he’d soften—and speaking first in awkward spots earns favor from the highborn.
Too bad. Even if they spoke “noble tongue,” he had no intention of hearing with “noble ears.”
“Wow, that’s a big deal. Spot on. Even if the church is at its peak, antagonizing all you nobles and your nations spells doom.”
“Ahem! Right. Now you grasp the situation. No matter how famous a saint you are—”
“Then no choice. Gotta kill everyone here too? Like in Hedelrn.”
“Wh-what?”
“Exactly? I’ve started this mess—if it spreads, our Holy Light brothers suffer. As saint, how can I stand by? Gotta do something.”
Every noble here was from prestigious houses. No matter his eloquence, out-talking a dozen sly old foxes from noble society was tough.
‘Then don’t talk. Simple.’
Diplomacy’s foundation? Not words—power.
Power. Raw force. Political clout, wealth, military might—whatever. Power you can wield fully face-to-face. Like nukes.
Logic of power. If they approached with noble ways, he’d counter with primal diplomacy: power.
“G-guards! Knights—gurk!”
“Come on, mustachioed noble who says managing in war’s so haaard? Listen up.”
Screeech—
“Grahhh! Gwaa, gwaaaah!”
The noble thrashed in his huge grip, but couldn’t budge as he ripped out the mustache raw.
“First: We’re madmen. True Holy Light followers ignore worldly eyes for Ro Haram’s work. Faith’s refined collective madness—we’re insane.”
Rip, riiiip.
“Aaauuuugh! Gwaaaaaah!!!”
“Second: Embarrassing to say, but I’m church-certified saint. First to receive the light’s will, touched by His hand—so use ‘utmost honorifics’ for this saint. Not ‘do it,’ ‘did it,’ casual crap.”
Riiiip—tug tug tuuug.
“Aauughh! Gyaa! Augh! Pleeease! Aaaah!”
“Hey now, don’t interrupt the saint. Finally: Your minds are so steeped in evil I’ll ignore everything you say—you’re on evil’s doorstep. Got it, handsome mustache noble!”
“Aeeiia, aeeiiaaa! Uuugh, gwaaa....”
“Mmm, good! Holy teachings working already! You get it. Shaved the mustache for a fresh start. Souvenir—keep it.”
“Pleeease, pleeease mercy....”
Handing back the dripping mustache clump, the noble clutched his philtrum, mumbling pleas.
‘Yeah. That’s the look I wanted.’
What nobles fear most: ‘Someone reason won’t reach.’ No power, wealth, future—nothing matters.
Seeing the saint spill blood shamelessly before all these high nobles, they couldn’t help recalling his moniker.
Light’s Blind Zealots. Blinded by light, seeing nothing.
As realization dawned something was deeply wrong, clanking armor approached outside—drawn by desperate screams?
Metal clangs. Shouts. Hard metal clashes. Nobles turned triumphant, faces flushed, glancing his way.
Clank—
Huff huff, whooosh—haaaah....
“Latura, huff, Ro Haram, huff, Holy Light’s vessel, Gregory and Holy Knights! Here to hear the saint’s words!”
But instead of awaited knights, bloodstained white-armored figures poured in. Only then did the Professor feel they were ready to talk to the “church’s saint.”
“Hm. A bit late? Missed the intro. Brother Gregory.”
Boom!
“Failing the saint’s expectations—upon return, I’ll atone under purest light.”
“Atonement? You were late enlightening these fools—spreading light’s will, right? Don’t worry. Oh, clean up those downed ones.”
“Latura.”
Clank clank clank clank.
Holy knights dispersed, taking positions behind each noble’s chair.
One cast healing on a fallen noble; others cleared knight bodies at the door, filling the spots. Then, a noble who’d watched the chaos spoke amid terrified ones.
“...The saint’s awfully clumsy at expressing desires. Resorting to such theatrics.”
“Hahaha. Normally not like this, but the company demands it. Consideration’s a cleric’s virtue, no? Explaining human speech to beasts worse than half-animals takes complicated prep.”
“...Sure you can handle it? Truly antagonizing us all?”
Zigis Palem. Brought most funds and troops—de facto alliance commander with biggest say.
Brain behind that idiotic “encirclement annihilation.” Unlike the plan, Zigis wasn’t dumb—eyes said so.
Unbowed by fear...
They couldn’t die. Inept and greedy, they were support force heads—paying their men, reason they came. Kill them, command collapses irreversibly; over half might withdraw. Absorbing them was essential to match the enemy.
Scare, threaten, bribe—whatever to make them his limbs.
...Even risky gambles.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Deliberation brief, action swift.
“Gregory.”
“Yes, saint.”
“In any situation, I’m the church’s saint—my acts are Ro Haram’s will.”
“Undeniable truth.”
“...Believe it, no doubt.”
...Trust. His sincerity in the desert. Their devoted faith.
‘Latura. Here goes nothing.’
Tap.
Finishing short prayer, the saint strode to the table’s center amid frozen nobles.
“...Commanders. Care for a small miracle?”
“...Huh?”
Crack, crunch.
Closer fist than threat. For the steadfast unbowed by near fists,
‘A monstrous claw-fist closer than they could imagine.’
Crunch! Crack! Griiiind!
White robe tore; hideously swollen body morphed into a vicious red monster—power evident at a glance.
“M-monster... Monster!”
“H-holy knights! You’re holy knights! Kill that monster! Kill it now!”
Saint to mutant. Light’s incarnation to evil god’s essence. Holy knights’ faces hardened more than nobles at the transforming saint before them, but
“Latura... When we wandered dark paths, hesitate not to grasp Your hand....”
“Even in pitch-black night, believe dawn comes at end....”
“What’re you doing! Monster’s awakening!!! Holy knights! Holllly kniiiights!!!”
“Latura, Ro... Haram. Believe light’s will unwaveringly.”
“Latura.”
“Latura.”
They only prayed—never moved a step.
“...Latura. Saint, our guide. Still... with our light...?”
Just one word to quell their faint waver.
“...Grr rumble, haaah.”
To Gregory’s question, the red monster filling the center neatly folded razor claws, reverently answering.
“Latura.”
“Latura... Ro... Haram....”
That ended it. No questions, no doubts from holy knights.
And Zigis Palem’s ironclad resolve shook at the infamous red mutant and knight commander praying to each other.
“...The church. Killing Hedelrn’s commanders—was all church will!”
Hedelrn’s twelve commanders assassinated by red mutant. Rumors spreading: disguised saint arrived day before attack.
As noble politician, Zigis couldn’t help dread realization.
‘Fanatics... Fanatics forgetting their own faith! What do they seek? Taming what they deem evil god, no—enshrining as saint, faith’s core! Insane. Holy Light... truly mad!’
Praying red mutant. Its rumored atrocities. What did the church pursue? Deceiving themselves, the world, even their god—what for?
Zigis’s mind reeled trying to grasp their aim—then the monster’s head, his torso-sized, loomed before his nose.
Fear—not of fangs or claws, but boundless church madness.
“Latura, brother. Ready to talk now?”
Gravelly voice like scraping steel—Teldrat’s Duke Zigis Palem could only nod.
Had to know. Without their goal—even evil god’s spawn sainted—he’d suffocate under madness.
In delusion, Palem Duke choked.
‘Ah, Argalian Sword... If he returns, just him...!’
Zigis Palem’s hopes came to that.
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