Chapter 61: The Witch and the Noble Lady (6)
Chapter 61: The Witch and the Noble Lady (6)
Translation: Godtl
Just as swindlers flock to the wealthy, cultists gravitate toward the powerful.
Historically, it's not uncommon for prosperous nobles to fall into ruin after becoming entangled with black mages.
That's why noble families with any sense drill the dangers of the End Cult into their children from an early age.
Penelope had also heard countless warnings about the perils of black mages since childhood...
But if she were honest, none of it ever felt particularly real.
Tales of sacrificing ten thousand people to summon an evil god's familiars, or creating patchwork humans through horrific experiments...
Didn't it all sound too fantastical to be believable?
Frankly, the Inquisitors and Royal Counter-Intelligence Bureau who appeared at even the slightest suspicion of black magic involvement were ten times more terrifying.
So when Hamel and his followers first appeared, she'd thought, "Maybe I can help somehow?"
After all, despite appearances, Penelope was a 5th-Rank Alchemist who'd once defeated the Undertaker.
But today, she understood with bone-deep certainty why black mages were symbols of terror.
"Grow Mushroom Grow."
Isolde chanted as she scattered spores.
This was the very first original magic she'd ever shown them.
The spell that had transformed charging golems into mushroom beds.
Archbishop Hamel had clearly been hit by it.
The effect manifested identically.
Colorful mushrooms sprouted explosively through Hamel's skin.
The angelic beauty's face grotesquely transformed, though only briefly...
"Again with this? For such infamous magic, it's rather unimpressive."
As if time reversed, the sprouting mushrooms disappeared.
Instead, mushrooms grew from the arm of one follower standing like a screen behind Hamel.
"Kyaaah! Pain is purification! Darkness is rest! The end is glory!!!"
Through some unknown method, the follower who'd already taken several spells in Hamel's stead screamed horribly yet didn't break formation.
The white hood covering their face turned crimson at the mouth as they recited prayers again and again.
The fanatical follower's prayers didn't last long.
"Mother of sinners, consume all creation."
As Hamel piously made the sign of the cross—
Crunch! Crack-crack-crack!
The follower's body crumpled.
This wasn't figurative language.
Limbs shattered and flesh compacted as a human was reduced to a peanut-sized sphere.
Whoosh.
Not a drop of blood remained as the "former follower" floated up and was swallowed by a yawning black void in midair...
Then the space around Isolde twisted.
The same attack that had taken Isolde's arm during the initial ambush.
Fzzzt!
Emerald sparks flickered across the defensive barrier Isolde had erected.
Above it, distinct tooth marks remained as if a massive maw lined with spear-like fangs had taken a vicious bite.
Watching this exchange, Penelope neatly abandoned any thought of "maybe I can help somehow."
In this battle beyond common sense, she would only be a hindrance.
"...Cough."
"A-Are you okay?"
Isolde's slender frame swayed violently before she coughed up bloody phlegm.
Even her normally expressionless face clearly showed exhaustion.
"My, my reserves are running low. Though I must say, this has been a disappointingly dull fight compared to what I'd expected."
Hamel sensed the scales of battle tipping.
The two had been exchanging blows at roughly equal levels.
Strictly speaking, one could argue Isolde held a slight advantage.
While Isolde had breached Hamel's defenses multiple times with successful attacks, his space-crushing "maw" had been blocked by her barrier after the initial ambush.
"Yet wicked magic can never overcome true faith."
But Hamel was not alone.
There were devout followers who would willingly become sacrifices—summoning the "Mouth" by offering themselves when gravely wounded or on the brink of death.
In a battle of attrition, Isolde stood no chance.
And that was before she had lost an arm to the initial ambush.
The calculation was complete.
Just two more exchanges, and Isolde would be incapacitated.
"Witch, why not discard all your catalysts and surrender now? He is merciful. If you repent and atone for your past sins, the path to salvation may yet open for you."
Instead of pressing his attack, Hamel spread his arms wide, urging her to yield.
Isolde had been the Cult's sworn enemy since time immemorial—an adversary beyond redemption.
Yet it would also be troublesome if excessive force left her body too damaged.
The "Great Plan" did not end with merely judging the Witch.
Through the ritual, she was to be transformed into a "Spawning Ground."
As a formidable alchemist, Isolde possessed the ideal conditions for incubating a powerful Familiar.
After all, did she not owe it to the countless innocent followers who had died by her hand to guide this unbeliever to paradise?
"..."
Instead of answering, Isolde quietly closed her eyes.
As if she already knew what fate awaited her.
"...Count to three, then run."
"...What?"
A whisper meant only for Penelope's ears.
Isolde gathered her mana.
"So you insist on remaining a sinner to the bitter end? Though I suppose if mere words could have swayed you, the feud between you and the Cult would never have lasted this long."
Ignoring Hamel, Isolde continued drawing mana in rapid succession.
Vrrrrrr—
An extraordinary energy converged upon her.
Mana scraped from the very dregs of her reserves—its density unmistakable.
She clutched a fistful of catalysts, gripping them until her hand could hold no more.
"W-what in the world are you—?!"
Hamel, who had remained composed until now, spat out his bewilderment.
This was no attempt at a proper spell.
With no strength left to spare, she was disregarding control entirely—forcing a reckless surge of power to induce a magical overload.
In short, she meant to self-destruct.
————!!!!!
Vivid emerald sparks, like fireworks, filled the cavern again and again.
Blinding shockwaves reverberated, birthing deafening explosions as thick dust clouded their vision.
"...Cough, cough...!"
Isolde collapsed to her knees, vomiting blood incessantly.
A puddle the size of a cushion swiftly soaked through her robes.
Though she had barely managed to contain the blast radius, the price for wielding such a chaotic spell was a body left in ruins.
She couldn't even twitch a finger now, let alone flee.
With that level of force, she had judged it enough to at least cripple him.
But soon, Isolde realized her miscalculation.
"Did you truly believe I would stand before you unprepared?"
The smoke, thick as a smokescreen, began to clear.
Hamel stood at the epicenter of the blast—utterly unharmed.
Five skulls floated around his shoulders—none other than the infamous Vermilion Cloth, a Demon Eater beyond compare, which had absorbed the brunt of the magical assault.
"Still, that sent chills down my spine."
To overload five Demon Eaters in an instant with an improvised suicide technique...
No wonder she had been classified as the Cult's archenemy.
But the outcome was clear.
Isolde's last resort had failed.
And now, perfectly incapacitated, she was ripe for the ritual.
Hamel strode leisurely toward Isolde, who could barely lift her gaze.
From his sleeve, a large centipede slithered out, coiling around his hand.
A necessary component for preparing the "Spawning Ground."
"Now then, shall we bring this long-standing feud to a close?"
Just then, Penelope leapt forward—as if to shield Isolde.
"Wait, hold on."
"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten. The young lady is still here."
"I wish to speak with you."
"Oh ho, how unexpected. I thought you'd try to run away."
To be perfectly honest...
She desperately wanted to run away right then.
It was obvious these two had bad blood between them, and wasn't Penelope just an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire?
Staying here would get her nowhere, and the best course of action in this situation would be to call for help from other extermination squads.
Isolde had probably told her to run with that in mind.
The problem was that Isolde, who was supposed to buy her time, had been subdued so easily.
The escape-and-call-for-help plan had gone down the drain.
But she wasn't about to sit around waiting to die.
Just when light had finally entered her life—how could she let it end like this?
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Time for a frontal assault.
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Penelope solemnly intoned:
"Long live the End."
Plan A: If you can't beat them, join them.
There was a high probability that the Cult's target wasn't Penelope.
Just look at the scale of this fight.
Penelope was nothing more than Shrimp A, unfairly caught in a battle between whales.
If she showed goodwill toward the End Cult and promised to cooperate willingly...
Wasn't there a chance?
A cold silence fell.
Hamel wore a dumbfounded expression, and even Isolde, who looked like she was struggling immensely, had a "What the hell are you doing?" look on her face.
Most people would have been too embarrassed and awkward to say another word in this atmosphere.
But Penelope was not most people.
Years of honing her poker face in high society.
Regularly showing up at places where backbiting whispers followed her everywhere wasn't something an ordinary person could endure.
Penelope had the mental fortitude to last until retirement even if some corrupt corporation tried to fire her by taking away her desk.
Undeterred by their lack of response, she brazenly tried again.
"Long, long live the End."
Her second attempt at gaining favor, delivered with the solemn reverence of a nun at prayer.
Hamel's expression changed.
"'Long live the End'... What a resonant phrase. Long live the End."
His blank face transformed into a benevolent smile, as if he'd found a kindred spirit.
It seemed to be working.
She couldn't let this momentum slip away.
Adopting the antiquated speech of a noble lady—so affected it might give someone hives—she introduced herself.
"Though belated, I shall make my introductions. I am Penelope Rosemore."
"Rosemore?"
Perhaps it was her imagination, but the Archbishop seemed to pause at the name 'Rosemore.'
"Yes, the second daughter of the Rosemore Count Family. I have heard much about the End Cult. They say yours is the one true religion that nobly pursues truth amidst these chaotic times of false claims and deception."
She would use every advantage available.
It was unlikely these reckless fanatics would suddenly be intimidated by the Rosemore name.
But if she exuded an aura of potential cooperation, might there not be some opening?
"Truly, one would expect nothing less from a scion of a distinguished family. Your understanding is most correct. My apologies for the late introduction—I am Hamel, appointed Archbishop of the End Cult."
"Oh my, an Archbishop...! I had some inkling from the auspicious atmosphere."
"Haha, rank matters little. What's important is upright faith."
"My, what a wonderful saying—worthy of becoming a family motto."
Was this actually working?
Astonishingly, the atmosphere grew somewhat convivial.
Hamel, having seemingly forgotten about Isolde altogether, began lamenting how the youth these days didn't understand the value of religion, and how prejudice and oppression against the Cult were just frames constructed by the establishment.
Penelope, quick on the uptake, chimed in with appropriate responses while testing the waters.
"If only there were more enlightened nobles like yourself, my lady. For an unbeliever to awaken alone without proper guidance... Truth cannot be hidden by the palm of one's hand."
"What perfect timing!"
"Wouldn't it be possible for me to join the End Cult and receive greater teachings?"
"Huh?"
"Don't you think meeting Archbishop Hamel today itself was 'His' divine guidance? If I could learn His words more closely, I'd have no greater wish... And our family's influence could be of great help too."
Truthfully, her family's influence amounted to less than a rat's fart, but she figured she might as well gild everything she could while she had the chance.
Even if Black Mages were evil, they were still human—wouldn't they weigh the pros and cons when accepting new devotees?
At that moment.
"...!"
Penelope's heart nearly dropped out of her chest.
Because Hamel had suddenly tilted his neck at a sharp 90-degree angle, his narrow eyes crinkling with amusement as he brought his face alarmingly close to hers.
Though their gazes merely met, she felt an uncanny sensation—as if sharp awls were digging deep into the very core of her being.
"W-why are you looking at me like that, sir?"
"You lied. The regret and frustration filling your heart are excellent conditions for becoming a devotee. But... I still see light remaining in you."
What the—?
The atmosphere had been going so well—how had she been found out?
Or had this been his scheme all along, just to toy with her?
"Doubt is a sin. Yet falsely claiming faith is an even greater sin than doubt."
Hamel's voice, which had been brimming with mercy, turned icy cold.
This was a disaster.
She had to make a surprise attack.
Penelope frantically tried to move her hand toward the Palette at her waist.
But her body wouldn't budge a single millimeter.
It was as if invisible chains had tightly bound her.
"I shall begin the ritual."
"What shall we do with this woman?"
"A alchemist's skull makes fine material. We won't need anything below the neck."
"Yes, Your Eminence."
As Hamel turned to Isolde, one of the devotees approached Penelope, drawing a ritual knife.
She could see the blade glinting in the light, still stained with blood.
Was this really the end?
Was there truly no way out?
It felt like a cruel joke.
After enduring humiliation for so long, just when things were finally looking up—
She was about to meet her end in some absurd, laughable accident.
At that moment, what surfaced in Penelope's mind was something entirely unexpected—a regret that, in hindsight, seemed almost trivial.
'...I shouldn't have fought with Jurgen.'
If this was truly her final moment, then it meant their last interaction had been a quarrel.
She regretted not properly thanking him.
Jurgen would be devastated.
Serena would probably cry her eyes out too.
What about her sister? Would she make them pay again for laying hands on Rosemore blood?
Pointless musings.
After death, there would be nothing left anyway.
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut, determined to face death with at least some dignity.
Then—
BOOM!
"GAAAH!"
A deafening explosion and screams rang out simultaneously.
A violent gust of wind, like that of a train passing right before her, whipped through Penelope's bangs.
When she opened her eyes again—
Her vision was filled with the broad back of a man.
Her tear-blurred sight made it hard to see clearly, but his build and frame looked familiar.
"Jurgen...?"
Had Jurgen come all the way here?
To save her?
That seemed too unrealistic to be true.
As the wind subsided and her tears cleared, the owner of that broad back finally came into focus.
"You are..."
The man's profile, visible at an angle, was nothing like Jurgen's.
Penelope had no trouble recognizing who he was.
Though she'd never met him in person, she'd seen his photo countless times.
Messy black hair casually swept aside, beneath which lay sharp, piercing eyes.
A jawline and tightly pressed lips that fit the clichéd description of "sculpted" perfectly.
And within those calm eyes fixed on the enemy, she could sense an unfathomable, condensed power.
It was as if the gods had forged a sharp blade into human form.
No mistake.
There was no way she could be wrong.
Because the man before her was Britannia's greatest alchemist and—
"Han-bin... nim?"
—the person Penelope respected most in the world.