Faith 5
Shyrta was the secret swordsmanship of Orkin, passed down through generations since the first emperor forged a pact with a dragon. Among its seven forms and three ultimate arts, the seventh form stood apart from the others—an extreme single strike focused solely on speed.
It circulated aura stored in the heart rapidly through the arteries and into every tiny capillary throughout the body. The aura spreading to every corner granted speed beyond human limits in an instant. Finally, the aura entering the brain vessels compressed perceived time to its extreme.
The result was a single strike like a beam of light. Unable to use aura, Licht substituted mana. In the end, a knight's aura and a mage's mana were fundamentally the same; only their refinement differed. The extension of perceived time through will followed a similar principle. The only difference was the severe backlash.
It forced the impossible by overloading the body with the mystery of mana. Naturally, it couldn't be used repeatedly. A final strike employed only when victory was assured. Radiatio.
"This... is impossible...."
Sernos muttered with a hollow expression. No reply came. The priests behind him shared the same sentiment.
The backlash is lighter than expected.
Licht steadied his breath quietly. He slowly released the mana permeating every corner of his body outward. Even using the final form of Shyrta with only five circles, his condition wasn't as bad as he'd feared. It was just that the form's speed was vastly slower than in his past life, when he'd reached the 8th Circle.
If the opponent had been a Swordmaster...
No need to think. It would have been blocked outright. The moment his killing blow was parried, Licht's body would stiffen from the instantaneous backlash, and that tiny gap would decide life or death.
It had landed properly because the foe wasn't the 1st Seat but the 7th Executor. If my body were in perfect shape, he might have reacted.
Carus was exhausted from the prolonged battle. Having taken a direct hit from the mana blade just moments before, he couldn't have kept his wits about him.
Still.
Everything below that struck true. Carus hadn't even realized he was dead until his head was severed. The others were the same. No one present had properly tracked Licht's movements.
Licht spun the Ascension Sword once. Blood from the slain Carus dripped from the blade. At the same time, golden sword light flashed.
Sschwick!
"Gaaahhh!"
Sernos's arms fell away.
"Pathetic tricks."
The faint holy power stirring. Such petty remnants couldn't touch him. Licht wordlessly stomped the ground.
Pabababak!
Dozens of spikes erupted from the floor and walls around Sernos and the passage, just as before. Leaving one archbishop alive was enough. The priests slyly backing toward the passage were impaled and died instantly. Frail bodies like theirs couldn't dodge stone spikes without warning—let alone without being knights.
"Damn, that's brutally savage."
"...Is it over?"
With the situation more or less settled, Jack and Ranin approached from the corner of the chamber where they'd quietly hidden. They muttered in disbelief at the scene before them.
"Palenia's Executor... I didn't see that wrong, right?"
"Not even the low seats—the seventh Executor is a monster...."
"I'm too numb to be surprised anymore. It's not the first time traveling with the young master. Don't overthink it—they're already dead."
"That's not the point. Executors move only on the Pope's orders. If word of this reaches the Holy See..."
"...We're fucked, in other words?"
"Possibly."
Jack and Ranin raised uneasy gazes. Sernos, the real power behind the Alder Archdiocese, was crawling toward his severed arms, gasping and choking.
Kwaduduk!
Licht crushed Sernos's severed arms underfoot. Bones and flesh crumbled. A touch of mana made them shatter effortlessly. Someone of archbishop rank could reattach limbs given enough time. That was precisely why he'd pulverized both arms.
"You heretic bastard...!"
"Still haven't grasped the situation?"
The rosary around his neck came loose. Licht levitated it with mana and examined it closely.
"If you bluffed on faith in a trinket like this, it's pathetic."
Whether by hunch or not, no other holy artifacts appeared. Kriduduk. The rosary crumpled under omnidirectional pressure.
Sernos ground his teeth, slithering across the floor.
"You... This is blasphemy. You dare defy His Holiness the Pope? Divine punishment will fall!"
Licht didn't answer. A hollow laugh escaped him involuntarily. He stabbed the Ascension Sword into his thigh, drawing a groan-mixed sound from Sernos.
"Kuhuk...!"
The stump of his severed arm was already healing, enveloped in pale yellow light. Executors were one thing, but those of sufficient rank seemed to possess holy power of a different caliber altogether.
What to do with him.
Licht pondered as he withdrew the embedded Ascension Sword. One thing's certain.
He had to take the head of Jeron Alder, firstborn son of Alder. He'd resolved that the moment he headed from El Sion to the Alder Duchy. It was far too late to back out now. Helping the second son, Millein, was for that very reason. Killing the firstborn would naturally make Millein the next heir.
The issue is securing justification.
He couldn't just lop off the firstborn's head without cause. Dealing with an Expert knight was one thing; a whole nation was another. Storming the lord's castle and killing Jeron outright wouldn't install Millein as grand duke—it would instantly make enemies of the entire Alder family.
What he needed now was proof of the second son's assassination plot.
And evidence of the full truth behind the grand duke's collapse. He said his brother was suspicious, clearly.
Millein had said the once-robust grand duke's sudden fall was odd. Sernos claimed Jeron wouldn't stoop to fratricide, but as if.
Licht didn't buy Sernos's words.
"Kek, kekeke...."
A sneering laugh echoed then. Looking down, he saw Sernos staring back, lips curled in mockery.
"Fool. Don't think this is the end."
"......"
"Executors are His blades. And though excommunicated, you've slain two of them."
"Still delusional."
"Think you can escape?"
Sernos's eyes were serene, as if he'd forsaken life. "I see your thoughts plainly. No more words from me—kill me quickly. That will be your final victory."
"I won't kill you."
"Planning torture? Useless. Think mere pain can test my faith?"
"You're mistaken."
Licht pinned Sernos's fallen body with his knee. The grip on his nape and the sharp blade pressing into his back.
"Mistaken? What..."
"I said I won't kill you."
He meant it literally. He wouldn't kill him. The death of an ordinary high priest was one matter; an archbishop's was another entirely. To elevate Millein to grand duke on paper alone, Sernos had to live. Above all...
A witness.
Every word from Sernos would serve as the strongest evidence. The testimony of Palenia's archbishop, sworn to god. Its weight was immeasurable. If he exposed all the firstborn's misdeeds before everyone...
"You don't get it. Didn't I say? Torture won't..."
"You'll see."
Interrogation had many methods. Inflicting wounds for pain was common but least effective. Well-trained assassins wouldn't crack under ordinary torment. Thus, vital interrogations paired torture with other tools: drugs to cloud the mind, hallucinatory magic.
And Licht, rolling through countless battlefields, was seasoned in such matters. His method was simple—not drugs or magic, but pain transcending human limits.
Force mana into the heart, spread it throughout the body, then reverse the blood flow from arteries to veins in one go.
"Wait, what are you...?"
"Too late."
Sernos's body and eyes trembled violently as realization dawned. Licht ignored it, pressing down on his back near the heart. Pure white light bloomed over his hand.
Pristine mana began infiltrating Sernos's body.
"Ah, aaa...!"
"Now."
Veins in his limbs bulged as if to burst.
"You'll beg for death."
Wududuk!
The blood flow twisted. ***
"Still no word?"
"Yes. Archbishop Sernos's side has cut off all contact. Not even communication magic stones—they're barring entry to Bailen Cathedral itself."
In the grand duke of Alder's office, Jeron drummed the desk with a furrowed brow. The steward standing before him bowed his head deeply after reporting.
"It's not just Palenia's priests. We loaned them over ten knights, and no news?"
"......"
"Is that what you're telling me now?!"
Bam!
Jeron slammed the desk. The steward trembled faintly, gauging his mood.
"It's been days already. We've waited this long—that's generous enough. What? Barring entry?"
"My apologies."
"What the hell is Alang doing?! He should report to me first once it's done!"
"My apologies."
"Those damn bastards...!"
Jeron gnashed his teeth. The steward repeated the same phrase endlessly.
The eleven knights loaned to Sernos hadn't returned since that night. No contact either. After that, Sernos had severed all communication for some reason, and when Alder knights politely approached Bailen Cathedral, Sernos himself emerged to deny entry.
"Shall we send knights again? He looked pale, as if ill—maybe he refused due to poor health."
"No."
Jeron replied with a displeased scowl. The steward shut his mouth, reading the mood.
Did they defect to that brat?
The one possibility he'd contemplated but desperately denied. They're all dead. Everyone except Archbishop Sernos. No word from Alang because of that... Sernos begged for his life and struck some deal.
All killed by that whelp named Licht Sientia. Jeron's face twisted. A bad feeling. Instinct, perhaps. The unease since Millein's failed assassination had been growing.
Ridiculous. Kill a Palenian Executor? The seventh seat, no less—by some seventeen-year-old punk?
He scoffed at his own thought. And it wasn't just Executors. Archbishop Sernos was there too. Kill them all alone? No passerby would buy such nonsense.
Yet Jeron couldn't shake the anxiety. This situation pointed to that absurd possibility.
"The house is in turmoil."
"......"
"Sir Werner and Sir Nikolai vanishing suddenly is a big issue. And His Grace the Grand Duke growing frailer by the day."
Two Expert knights gone in a blink. One was top-tier Expert. Ill timing amplified the rumors.
"The succession rite?"
"Preparations are complete. A few factions remain neutral to the end, but... they're a minority and will follow the tide."
"All that's left... is when Father passes."
The steward glanced up slightly at Jeron. No guilt in his self-spoken words. An attitude as if wishing death on his own father, the grand duke. He swallowed inwardly. Having judged the second son hopeless, he'd shifted from neutral to the firstborn's side—but guilt lingered.
An uncomfortable silence flowed briefly. As Jeron, still grim-faced, moved to dismiss the steward—
"Young master! Young master!"
Bang!
The office door flew open. A young butler rushed in, panting.
"Insolent! You think this is some safe haven to barge in?"
"It's dire!"
"Dire?"
Jeron stopped the steward's scolding.
"Explain."
"His Grace the Grand Duke..."
"Father?"
"He's in critical condition. They say he won't last the night..."
The steward's eyes widened. He glanced sideways at the young butler.
"...I see."
Before the desk that had been the grand duke's until recently.
"Prepare. I'll go myself."
A faint smile tugged at Jeron's lips as he rose slowly.