Chapter 185: The Little Prince (4)
Chapter 185: The Little Prince (4)
“Hold her tight.”
Suppressing a surge of dark excitement, Inquisitor Abel tightened his grip on his mace. The Crusaders flanking Frey wrenched her arms back, their hold tightening. They knew exactly what was about to happen.
This one is stubborn, too.
Even facing the Inquisitor’s instruments of holy pain, Frey didn’t so much as blink.
Of course, the Crusaders thought. They’re all like that at first.
They knew her defiance wouldn’t last. It had been the same when they first arrived in the City of Stars, Antoine. Those calling themselves Star Priestesses were all draped in insufferable pride. Even when captured, they would glare at the Crusaders with wide, defiant eyes.
But there was a pattern.
There’s no way they can endure it.
No matter how iron-clad their pride, they were merely fragile women. Imagination and reality were two very different things. These Star Priestesses, who acted as if they were prepared for a martyr’s death, would be weeping and begging for the sweet release of execution within thirty minutes. It was only natural. Even soldiers seasoned in the fires of war couldn't acclimate to the Inquisitor's brand of pain; how could priestesses who spent their lives in quiet prayer endure the tortures of a man like Abel?
“I shall begin with that wicked tongue of yours.”
Abel stepped toward Priestess Frey, his eyes bloodshot with zeal. The Crusaders braced themselves, ready to pin her down when she inevitably began to struggle frantically.
And then—
Whish!
A sharp whistle cut through the air.
“Aaaaagh!”
The sound of the wind was instantly drowned out by a guttural scream. Hearing a heavy thud, the Crusaders spun around to find Inquisitor Abel collapsed, groaning in agony. For a moment, confusion reigned. Then they saw it: a bolt embedded deep in Abel’s thigh. A bolt fired from a crossbow.
There was another sinner...
It wasn't just the girl and the Star Priestess. There were three sinners in hiding. No—they couldn't be sure it was only three. There were at least three.
“Heretics! You lied to us!”
An enraged Crusader raised his mace, stomping toward the cowering residents of Antoine. However, another Crusader caught his wrist.
“They must be punished, but not now.”
“What do you mean?!”
“We must protect our brother. Isn't that why we wear this steel?”
Protect our brother. The words snapped the enraged man back to his senses.
Inquisitor Abel could perform many miracles through Divine Power, but unlike the Crusaders, he lacked the physical resilience to protect himself. What if there was more than one crossbow? What if they had other ranged weapons? They were blind to the enemy's numbers. Thus, instead of slaughtering the civilians, the Crusaders formed a tight defensive circle around the fallen Inquisitor.
“Brothers, I am sorry...” Abel hissed, watching the Crusaders stand firm. He glared at Priestess Frey and the girl, his eyes wide with fury.
So that’s why they surrendered so easily...
Was it all a ruse to hide the others?
Abel was more enraged by the fact that they had dared to lie to an Inquisitor of the Order than by the bolt in his leg. He bit his lip so hard it bled. As the crimson droplets fell, he watched the residents of Antoine fleeing the restaurant in a panic.
Why were they running?
Ah, they were all complicit. Not a single soul had confessed there were more sinners. They had only offered up the Star Priestess and the girl. To Abel, it was a blatant, collective deception. And to deceive an Inquisitor was to deceive the Chief God Himself. The moment that thought took hold, a cold, uncontrollable rage settled over him.
“Protect me... just a little longer.”
Abel dipped his finger into the blood pooling from his thigh. He began to trace a cross on the ground, his voice rising in a rhythmic chant. He was preparing to invoke the Inquisitor’s Authority he had deployed upon entering Antoine—an Authority that should have already swallowed the city.
“Before Inquisitor Abel, no sinner shall escape.”
Abel suppressed his boiling rage and channeled his Divine Power. The Authority began to ripple outward from the blood-stained cross at the city’s entrance.
“...We will stay and guard him,” the lead Crusader commanded. “The rest of you, go capture that wretch.”
“Yes, brother.”
“Do not kill him. The Inquisitor will demand a personal account of his sins.”
There were eight Crusaders in total. There was no need for all of them to stand idle. Four remained to guard Abel, while the other four marched toward the shadows from which the bolt had been fired. They went to seize the sinner who had dared to spill the holy blood of an Inquisitor.
And then...
“Aaaaagh!”
Not long after the four disappeared into the dark interior of the restaurant, a scream tore through the air. At first, the guards thought their brothers had finished the job, but the realization hit them like a physical blow.
...What is this?
The scream belonged to a Crusader.
*
Even firing a single crossbow is a struggle.
Damn this wretched body.
Even pulling the stirrup to reload a bolt was an exhausting ordeal. I could manage it if I strained myself, but since my position was compromised after the first shot, I had to move immediately.
My general location was known, but they lacked specifics. They couldn't tell if I was alone or part of a larger group. I knew from our last encounter that these Crusaders didn't possess a supersense like "The Path." They were just lumps of muscle wrapped in sturdy armor. If they had been even at the level of a "Sword Walker," my bolt wouldn't have touched the Inquisitor. They would have sensed the killing intent and blocked it.
Four Crusaders stayed behind to protect the Inquisitor. Not bad.
Shooting him in the thigh had been a calculated move. I could have aimed for his head, but I didn't know the exact nature of his current Authority. Some Inquisitors possessed powers that triggered upon lethal damage—turning them into ethereal beings or reflecting the killing blow back at the attacker. Besides, a wounded leader was a better anchor for the enemy than a dead one.
There were nine enemies in total. In a situation where I was heavily outnumbered, reducing their numbers by one was good, but inflicting a critical wound that required protection was better. They weren't a regular army; they were religious fanatics. The Crusaders would never abandon a wounded Inquisitor. They would huddle around him, fearing the next bolt.
I didn't expect four of them to break off, though.
I had hoped for two at most. Still, neutralizing five men with a single bolt—the Inquisitor and his four guards—was a solid trade.
“Come out peacefully, sinner!”
‘Sinner,’ huh?
They were approaching in a group, assuming there were multiple targets. Idiots. They were leaking information just by flapping their lips. This is what happens when you haven't tasted the bitterness of real combat. They’ve spent their lives in the peaceful Southern Continent crushing defenseless civilians; their sense of danger had completely atrophied.
Though they’re still not to be taken lightly.
A Crusader’s strength lay in their full plate armor and the Divine Power that could knit flesh and bone in seconds. They were built to be hard to kill.
With my current strength, I can't pierce that steel. I have to aim for the gaps—the joints, the neck, or the narrow slits of the visor.
But aiming for gaps was risky. What if the blade caught on a bone? With this weak frame, could I really drive a blade through muscle and sinew deep enough to kill instantly? I might not even have the strength to pull the sword back out. I had to fight smart. I had to be certain.
The Inquisitor is still chanting.
I didn't know when he’d finish. Regardless, I couldn't let him complete that Authority. From what I remembered, Inquisitors possessed the power to turn ethereal, ignoring all physical force except for "Mystery," and the ability to manifest chains that never missed their mark.
The one I captured at the end spilled everything.
I had squeezed the information out of him back then, never knowing when it might be useful. He’d told me the Inquisitor had four primary abilities: Ethereal Form and the Chains of Punishment. Then there was "Punishment Time," which amplified a target's pain five to ten times for torture, and "Repentance Time," a wide-range mental assault.
He didn't chant for the first two. And he wouldn't use the third in a skirmish. That leaves the fourth—he’s planning to drop a mental nuke on the city.
Could my current self withstand a mental attack? I couldn't trust this body's resilience. I had to keep the four approaching Crusaders at bay while simultaneously breaking through the guards to silence the Inquisitor.
Sigh.
Why do the difficult tasks always fall to me?
“I say it again, come out now—!”
Well, what can you do? I still have to do what needs to be done.
Why does that moron keep shouting?
Listening to the rhythmic clanking of their armor, I scaled the wall and hung from the ceiling beams. Full plate armor offers excellent protection, but the noise it makes is deafening to a trained ear. Even if my strength had waned, my senses remained sharp. I had always been excessively suspicious, even before I ever picked up a sword.
The crossbow is reloaded.
I took four glass vials from my pouch. Timing it to the rhythm of their footsteps, I hurled them.
“Ugh!”
Crash!
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the hall. The men, already on edge after the first bolt, swung their maces wildly at the projectiles. They were too tense. They should have just let the vials hit them; a bolt would barely scratch their plate, let alone glass.
“Ack, cough!”
“W-what is this?”
The items I’d scavenged from the shops in Antoine were proving their worth. As the vials shattered, a fine red powder billowed around the Crusaders.
One of the many recipes created by the Adventurer of Soaring.
To be precise, it was invented by his son. A Sneeze Inducer made from common spices and animal byproducts. I hadn't expected to use it so soon, but it was a nasty little tool. The powder was designed to hook into the mucous membranes of the nose and throat. Once it started, the sneezing wouldn't stop for a long time.
They could clear it with self-healing, but they’ll think it’s a waste of Divine Power on a petty trick.
I would feel the same way.
I dropped from the ceiling, intentionally letting my boots hit the floor with a heavy thud. Hearing me, the Crusaders stumbled toward the sound, coughing incessantly and dragging their maces.
“You... cough... how long... hack... can these tricks... cough!”
I tracked the clanking of their armor, gauging their positions. While my ears focused on the pursuit, my eyes scanned the environment.
The kitchen.
This was a restaurant, after all. The storage room where Frey and the girl had been hiding was adjacent to the kitchen, connected by a service passage. The girl had likely hoped I would use it to escape while she bought time.
But I don't run.
I mapped the kitchen in an instant. It had been in full swing just moments ago. I saw a pot of soup simmering over a low flame, a vat of boiling oil, knives, an awl, and a small hammer. There was even a toolbox near the back. A heavy curtain hung over the entrance, waist-to-ceiling, to hide the mess of the kitchen from the patrons.
...To think I have to go through all this trouble just to kill these guys.
Being weak is truly miserable.
*
“Cough, hack!”
The Crusaders pressed on, sneezing violently. They didn't know what kind of alchemical trick had been played, but they refused to let a "petty sinner" stop them. Gripping their maces, they marched toward the kitchen, which reeked of spices and grease. Just as they were about to storm in, the lead Crusader raised a hand.
“Hack, h-halt!”
“Why?” the man behind him wheezed.
“T-the floor.”
They looked down. Beneath the hem of the kitchen curtain, the floor was littered with shards of glass and upright nails. It was a clumsy trap, far too weak to pierce a Crusader’s steel sabatons, but they had already been stung by the sinner’s tricks. They hesitated, wondering what the real threat was.
“He’s plotting... cough... more nonsense!”
They all agreed. The lead Crusader narrowed his eyes, scanning the floor for hidden wires or pressure plates. But he was looking in the wrong direction. Arhan’s real trap had already been sprung. The glass and nails were merely bait to fix their "gaze" downward.
“I’ll take a look—urk.”
The lead Crusader’s head snapped back with a sickening crack. The others watched in a daze as his body hit the floor with a heavy thud. He didn't move. He didn't heal.
“...Huh?”
Something was protruding from the fallen man’s eye slit. It looked like a crude, makeshift spear—a kitchen tool lashed to a handle. A child’s toy. And yet, it had just killed a Crusader of the Order, a man who had transcended human limits.
The light of Authority... didn't trigger...
There was no healing because there was no life left to sustain. The spear had driven through the eye and deep into the brain, killing him instantly. The survivors stared at the curtain. There was a single, small puncture hole in the fabric at eye level.
How?
The curtain blocked all vision. How could someone from behind that veil aim so precisely at a moving target's eye slit with enough force to kill? It was impossible. Furthermore, no feet were visible beneath the curtain. Was the sinner flying? Was it a ghost?
“Get a grip. It’s a trick!”
“A trick...?”
“Just like the powder... cough... he’s using tricks! He must be hanging from the ceiling. I don’t know how he knew... hack... our position, but he’s up there!”
The Crusader’s eyes cleared with desperate focus.
“I’m going in. I’ll keep my head down and guard my face with my arms. The rest of you... cough... follow me!”
It was a sound tactical adjustment. The sinner relied on crude weapons and ambush. As long as they protected their vitals and stayed low, his toys couldn't hurt them. And as long as they didn't die instantly, they were invincible.
“I’m going—”
“Ugh!”
As the second Crusader ducked under the curtain, something liquid splashed across his visor and arms. He instinctively closed his eyes and turned his head, but the scent hit him immediately. The heavy, cloying smell of cooking oil.
“...!”
Then, a heavy dishcloth landed on his face.
The cloth was already ablaze. The moment it touched the oil-soaked Crusader, the fire erupted into a roaring inferno. He didn't even have time to scream. He thrashed on the ground as the fire sucked the oxygen from his lungs and charred his face black.
Two dead. And they still hadn't even seen the sinner’s face.