Blood flowed like streams, and the tearing of flesh became a twisted melody. The living, wailing in despair, joined the ghoul ranks, spreading terror across the entire city-state.

Lord Morris, ruler of the border town, stood with furrowed brows, staring down at the ghoul army, now barely a hundred paces from his manor. The veins in his neck bulged, throbbing with tension.

"Rhon, what news from the bishop?"

A knight, bloodstained and weary, hurried over and bowed.

"The bishop will be here any moment."

"Good." Morris allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

This catastrophe, brought forth by wicked sorcerers, might still have a solution as long as the Church intervened.

As they spoke, a portly, white-robed elder arrived, his face etched with worry—far deeper than Morris's own.

"Bishop, is there a way to kill these ghouls?" Morris's voice trembled with urgency.

The aging bishop spoke in a low, grave tone. "The ghouls are not the true danger. It is those two demonic incarnations that are the source of this disaster."

Following the bishop's gaze, Morris looked toward the distant edge of the ghoul horde. Atop a crumbling tower, two faint silhouettes stood. A flicker of hatred flared in Morris’s eyes. He knew where the real threat lay. Just ten minutes ago, his strongest captain had been crushed to death by one of the sorcerers, as easily as if he were a child’s toy.

With bare hands.

Weren’t sorcerers supposed to be weak, physically frail? That was all lies. His captain, on the verge of becoming a high-ranking knight, had fought valiantly against the ghouls, only to now be counted among their number.

Damn it!

"What is your advice, Bishop?" Morris's voice grew darker, his eyes cold.

The bishop sighed and pulled a yellowed scroll from within his robes. "This scroll holds a seal of holy light. It may be able to destroy the demons... but we must get within ten meters of them for it to unleash its full power."

Morris’s eyes gleamed with hope. "Rhon!"

"Understood!" Rhon, ever loyal, needed no further instruction. He stepped forward, accepting the grim task without hesitation.

Morris looked at the young knight’s face, his heart heavy with sorrow. Rhon had served as the lieutenant to his fallen captain, and with most of the city’s knights either dead or turned, he was now among the last of Morris’s warriors.

"Go." Morris took the scroll from the bishop and placed it in Rhon’s hands. "The honor of the knights rides with you."

"Yes!" Rhon’s face was a mask of resolve as he placed his hand over his heart, delivering what might be his final salute before he turned and dashed away.

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"Hold the line! Give Rhon time!" Morris drew his sword and leaped from the makeshift barricade, cleaving a nearby ghoul in two.

"Hold the line!" The guards roared, their collective cry momentarily pushing the ghoul army back.

Rhon moved swiftly through the side streets, hugging the walls of abandoned homes. The ghouls, gathered thick on the main thoroughfare, were less likely to notice him there.

He could now see the sorcerers clearly. One looked like a twisted demon, while the other, though disturbingly handsome, had eyes far more terrifying than the beast beside him.

Die, you monsters! Rhon’s mind burned with hatred as he crept closer. Just a few more meters, and he would be within range to unleash the holy light.

Once he reached the scroll’s range, he would tear it open, bathe the evil in holy radiance, and bring an end to this nightmare.

It was a noble plan—until the handsome demon turned and smiled directly at him.

Rhon’s blood ran cold.

He saw me?!

How could that be?!

In an instant, that terrible smile was in front of him.

"What’s that in your hand? Mind if I take a look?"

It was too late. Rhon had made his choice. They would die together. In a strange, twisted way, he felt a surge of triumph. At this distance, not even a demon could escape the power of the holy light.

"For the honor of the knights!"

Rhon tried to shout, but the words stuck in his throat. His entire body felt as though it were shackled in iron. He collapsed to the ground, motionless as a felled tree.

All he could do was watch as a pale, elegant hand reached down and plucked the fallen scroll from his grasp.

A voice filled with faint surprise said, "Oh, a magic scroll?"

Then came the endless tide of blood, and the sensation of ghouls tearing into his flesh...

...

Karlo toyed with the scroll he had just acquired. It radiated a loathsome aura—the scent of heaven itself.

Casually, he tore it open and flung it behind the ghoul army. A blinding holy light erupted, consuming dozens of ghouls and leaving only ash in its wake.

Impressive, Karlo thought, raising an eyebrow. With his current strength, had that scroll struck him directly, he would have been seriously injured, perhaps even killed.

A close call.

Karlo’s gaze shifted to the lord’s manor, now on the verge of collapse. In less than fifteen minutes, the last bastion would fall beneath the relentless tide of the undead. And yet, he felt no sense of triumph.

After ascending to the rank of higher demon, his experience bar had grown exponentially. The small city, with its meager population of eight or nine hundred, would barely make a dent in his progress.

This would be the last time he bothered with such trivial tasks. The system had offered him more efficient paths to power. Whether it was hunting the agents of heaven or seeking out the so-called Children of Divine Grace, the rewards would be far greater.

Children of Divine Grace... Who are they, and where are they hiding?

Karlo pondered the thought, but suddenly, his left arm burned. He pulled back his robe to reveal the demonic tattoo on his arm glowing with a fierce heat. The image of the demon face roared silently, as though sensing something near.

A Child of Divine Grace... had come to him?

Karlo’s eyes gleamed with hunger as he licked his lips.

...

Rhon had failed.

Morris felt despair settle into his bones. Was this truly the end?

"Bishop, is there any other way?" Morris asked, his voice heavy with resignation.

The bishop shook his head. As a lower-ranking clergyman, his knowledge of battle magic was limited to a few simple light and healing spells. Chanting and prayer were his strengths, not fighting.

"Now, all we can do is pray for the descent of holy light." The bishop fell to his knees, his face radiating devout faith. "The light will not forsake us. I believe this."

One by one, Morris’s guards fell, and his sword arm grew heavier with each swing. Against the endless tide of ghouls, human strength was finite.

Morris did not know when he would fall—perhaps in five minutes, perhaps in the next second. He could already feel the ghouls closing in, ready to tear him apart.

But then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a radiant light. It was the reflection of holy light.

From the distant tower, a figure cloaked in brilliant white light flew through the air, and the oppressive darkness around them seemed to shudder and recede.

Morris’s heart surged with hope. The holy light... had truly descended.