Chapter 146
Chapter 146
Translator: True Detective
Chapter 146: Lan Qi Made a Mess
2024-05-22 — Author: Poor Xixi
Inside a dimly lit bedroom on the second floor of the ancient castle, old grandeur blended with elegance, silence mingled with solemnity. The lamps remained unlit.
Murals on the walls depicted scenes from the Honing Empire, while the deep wood-grain panels and ceilings exuded a heavy sense of history.
On one side of the room, the enormous glass window stood half-curtained. Beyond, the castle courtyard and the distant forested hills were shrouded in night, only the faint moonlight spilling in through the window and scattering into the corners of the room.
At the center stood a spacious four-poster bed: a carved wooden frame, a soft mattress draped in pristine white sheets and quilt covers, flanked by two large feather pillows. It all looked luxurious yet inviting, as if beckoning the guest to drift into dreams.
This room seemed to hold both the castle’s history and a sense of privacy for guests—an ideal place for quiet rest.
But… the atmosphere was anything but tranquil.
Beside the bed, an oak high-back chair was chained tight with iron shackles. A petite girl sat there, unconscious. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, her skin pale as paper, her delicate fingers hanging weakly at her sides.
Iron chains bound her body to the chair, and cold, heavy shackles wound around her ankles like steel serpents, leaving her no chance to flee.
She was the little priestess among the three Kreyth Empire girls—the second traitor besides the so-called Saint of Destruction. Now unconscious, she looked fragile and pitiful, no different from the innocent mask she had worn daily. It was hard to reconcile this image with that of a vicious Resurrectionist.
As if her acting had seeped into her very bones.
Layer upon layer of physical and magical restraints weighed on her. She still had one Bloodkin ability she could activate, but its offensive nature was so weak that she posed no threat at all.
No one knew how long the silence lingered.
Suddenly, the creak of the wooden door split the stillness, carrying with it the chill of a late autumn cliffside night.
The door slowly opened. A tall figure appeared at the threshold. In the pale moonlight, his straight frame cast a long shadow.
He carried a bucket of water, walking step by step into the room. Each footfall was heavy, accompanied by the faint clink of armor.
He stopped at the chair and, without hesitation, tipped the bucket.
Cold water crashed down onto the girl.
“Ah!”
She jolted awake with a cough, her blue eyes flickering in terror.
She instinctively thrashed, but the tight chains pinned her immovably.
“You—!”
Her cry stuck in her throat when she got a clear look at the paladin.
His gaze was cold, merciless. He stared down at her like a stranger, without even a trace of pity. The sudden shift in demeanor sent a chill flooding through her.
This morning… even this afternoon… hadn’t he been different?
Now, in the dimness, tied helplessly in the chair, she became the focal point of her own fear.
The ornate furniture seemed to press in, filling the room with suffocating weight.
Moments later, the door creaked again.
Two more figures entered. The executioner wore thick linen gloves. The priest carried an old mop.
Their eyes were just as cold.
They moved with seasoned calm, as though preparing not for punishment but for routine cleanup.
“What… what are you going to do?”
The priestess’s legs trembled uncontrollably. Something about these three was terrifyingly wrong.
The paladin ignored her cries, setting the empty bucket at her side.
The executioner didn’t even glanced at her.
Instead, he spread out a roll of surgical knives—relics left in the castle—on the table.
“You might bleed a lot. But that bucket should be enough.”
He picked up a scalpel, its blade glinting faintly as he inspected it.
The priestess’s pupils shook violently. She glanceddown at the bucket by her feet.
Her face went ashen. Cold sweat drenched her brow. Even one glimpse of that yawning bucket was too much for her imagination to bear.
Compared to their daytime selves, these three were like completely different people. No longer the steadfast followers of the Goddess of Fate—more like demons disguised as clergy.
“Are… are you really clergy of the Goddess of Fate?”
Her lips trembled.
“Praise the Goddess!”
All three turned toward her, grinning hideously as they spoke in unison.
“You—you… AHHHHHHHHH!!!”
——
Meanwhile, in Room 201 down the hall.
The screams soon carried through the walls.
Footsteps pattered cheerfully as the Great Poet of Love bounded in, arms spread wide.
“Done!”
With a smug grin, she patted Lan Qi’s shoulder lightly, seeking praise.
“From now on, leave reforming bad students to you, Director Lanfu of Discipline.”
“Well done.” Lan Qi smiled approvingly.
His team was growing ever more complete.
With everything in place, Purgatory Corridor Academy would rise to greatness once more.
And he, again, would serve as its headmaster.
“Heh!”
The Poet of Love planted her fists on her hips and nodded proudly.
“Where the hell did you even learn that, Poet of Love?”
Huperion stared in disbelief.
Sometimes the Poet of Love seemed decent, sometimes utterly wicked.
Just hearing the Resurrectionist’s desperate, broken screams next door made Huperion want to plug her ears and pretend none of it existed.
She felt like her karmic balance was draining away by the second.
After this trip to the Shadow World, she swore she’d never dare set foot in the Goddess’s temple again.
“This sort of thing—you’re supposed to be born knowing it! Huperion, you’re a disgrace to demons!”
The Poet squinted an eye at her, full of disdain, and scolded sharply.
“…”
Huperion was speechless.
Being scolded by a demon for being a disgrace… and yet, strangely, her heart felt a little warm.
Still, she quickly repented in her mind—no, she should be heavy-hearted right now!
And yet, she couldn’t figure out why the Poet of Love had such intelligence and independence, indistinguishable from a true living being.
If not for seeing Lan Qi summon her through a magic card, no one would ever guess she was a construct—not even the vampire envoy who had inspected their academy last time.
“All right, Secretary Huperion. Next, it’s our turn to have a little chat with this Kreyth noble lady.”
Lan Qi’s voice snapped her back. She straightened in her chair.
Across from them sat the noble sorceress of the Kreyth Empire.
Of the three Kreyth girls, the knightly Saint of Destruction was dead, the traitorous priestess was screaming under torture next door.
Only this noble sorceress remained—alone, not a Resurrectionist.
She leaned weakly against the chair, brown hair falling across her cheek, her eyes dulled and lifeless.
She showed no intention of speaking, nor resisting.
After all, in five hours, it would all be over.
Everyone would die to the Bloodkin.
Her Kreyth Empire would fall with her.
No one could save them.