“The holy army led by the Great Light, the Father of Saints, the Head of Angels, please grant us victory over the tyrannical powers and the rulers of darkness...”

The bishop, his hair and beard streaked with gray, knelt before the white marble cross, his trembling voice barely decipherable as he recited his prayer to the Great Light.

Behind him stretched the vast emptiness of the cathedral, swallowed by the night’s shadows. The distant screams had faded into nothingness, leaving a silence so profound it was almost palpable.

The bishop’s legs quivered uncontrollably. Just fifteen minutes earlier, a man with a demonic presence had stormed into the church, slaughtering the guards with brutal efficiency before turning his wrath upon the clergy.

He had sent a distress signal to the King of Blackfort Kingdom, but whether help would arrive in time was uncertain.

Even if it did, it might be too late, the bishop thought mournfully. He could still vividly recall how the church’s most formidable high-ranking knight had been crushed to a pulp by that man as if he were merely a small chick.

The creak of a door opening in the desolate cathedral startled the bishop, followed by the sharp sound of footsteps.

“Clop, clop,” growing louder and more deliberate.

“The holy army led by the Great Light, and the Father of Saints, the Head of Angels...”

The bishop stumbled to his feet, his recitation growing louder and more frantic, his body inching closer to the cross behind him as though it might offer him some minuscule sense of security.

At last, a tall, slender figure emerged from the darkness before him.

A strikingly handsome young man, with fair skin, soft chestnut hair, and a face adorned with a shy, youthful smile that conjured images of golden wheat fields and a baron’s son.

Yet the bishop, seeing him, screamed in terror as if confronted by a demon: “Who are you?! No matter who you are, you cannot escape the judgment of the Great Light, nor the decree of the Knights.”

“My dear bishop, do not be afraid. Please, relax,” the young man extended his hand in a gesture meant to calm the bishop’s agitation, but it only had the opposite effect. The bishop recoiled from the young man’s hand as if it were a snake or a scorpion, frantically retreating despite the lack of space behind him.

For he had witnessed firsthand how those very hands had extracted countless hearts from the faithful.

The young man smiled, his demeanor as graceful as the most refined noble.

“I only wish to ask you a few questions.”

Ten minutes later, Carlo had what he sought.

He nonchalantly discarded the bishop’s terror-stricken head onto the floor and wiped the blood from his hands.

Before him lay a yellowed piece of parchment, documenting that twenty years ago, the church had sent four cardinal red robes to perform a baptism for a baby named Xyla.

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The baby was merely the daughter of an ordinary merchant.

Carlo’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. After killing Oliver and his companions, he had purged the churches of two kingdoms without success, but at this third location, he had finally found what he was looking for.

If he was not mistaken, this baby was the Child of Divine Grace, presumably the protagonist of the “X” saga.

As he pondered, Carlo spread his demon wings and flew out of the cathedral. Below him, a blazing fire dragon roared into the church like a hellish tempest. The rescue cavalry sent by the King of Blackfort had arrived.

...

In the dimly lit basement, the flickering flames barely illuminated the space.

Two robust men were bound to wooden stakes, struggling and cursing, spewing a stream of foul and vulgar epithets.

In front of them stood a woman draped in black robes. Her smooth, brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her exposed neck was white and unblemished. However, her face was twisted and scarred as if burned by malevolent flames, giving her an appearance of grotesque horror.

The woman tossed bizarre and grotesque ingredients into a large cauldron—things like the left ear of a black cat, the eyes of a frog, and the legs of a spider. A fierce fire roared beneath the cauldron, causing the liquid inside to bubble and shift colors from blood-red to deep blue, then to a repulsive, murky green.

The woman scooped a spoonful of the green liquid with a long wooden ladle, much like a chef tasting her own soup.

She nodded in satisfaction and extinguished the flames.

“How is it? Is it ready?” A sultry voice interrupted, and Sophia, with her white skin, black dress, and red lips, appeared in the chamber.

“We’ll see once we test it,” Talia replied coolly.

Sophia glanced at the now motionless men, her fleeting charm eliciting infatuated looks from the two perverts.

“This is the thirteenth batch. Now that the mercenaries outside have sensed something and all have hidden away like rats, we might have to use my guards next.”

Talia remained unfazed. “This time, it will work.”

“Oh, will it?” Sophia’s lips, as delicate as rose petals, curled slightly. “You said the same for the previous twelve attempts.”

Talia ignored her, walking over with a spoonful of green liquid towards one of the mercenaries.

“What are you going to do?” The man cried out in terror, then cursed, “You damned ugly woman, filthy slut, whore... Stay away from me.”

Talia roughly pried open the man’s mouth and poured the entire spoonful of green liquid down his throat.

The man, having swallowed the liquid, emitted harsh, grating sounds as if his throat were being squeezed, his features contorting in excruciating pain.

Does it really taste that bad? Talia wondered, then swiftly slit his throat.

The next step was crucial: testing whether the potion had worked.

Talia’s lips quivered as she chanted a series of strange, awkward syllables.

“Corpse Ghost Technique!”

A gray light emanated from her hand and enveloped the dead man’s corpse.

The next moment, the corpse stirred. Its skin rapidly decomposed, forming green pustules that burst open, releasing a pungent stench.

“Ugh...” The ghastly-looking man’s throat emitted a low growl as he broke free from his bindings and...

Bit savagely at his terrified companion.

“Ah!” A shrill scream pierced the basement, muffled by the thick stone walls.

Moments later, two corpse ghosts emerged.

“Wow~” Sophia feigned surprise, covering her mouth. “You actually succeeded.”

Talia shot her a glance but remained silent.

A week prior, Talia had killed the archbishop of the Lorr Kingdom. On the same day, the king had died suddenly, and Princess Sophia had ascended the throne as the new queen.

By a twist of fate, the two women had come together— a meeting of the serpent and the scorpion.

Sophia had shared with Talia the “Witch’s Legacy of Kalapos” discovered in her stepmother’s chamber. Talia, undoubtedly a prodigy in witchcraft, had combined the knowledge from Kalapos’s notes with the demonic magic taught by Carlo, ingeniously refining the “Corpse Ghost Technique.”

A plague-like, self-spreading Corpse Ghost Technique with even greater toxicity, stronger corpse power, and a longer lifespan.

“I suggest you start with the nearby Cinnabar Thorn Kingdom,” Sophia proposed. “I hear their king recently died, and the kingdom is in chaos— a perfect breeding ground for suffering.”

Talia nodded silently and then suddenly asked, “When do you plan to start the war against the church?”

Sophia’s face lit up with a sinister smile. “That depends on when your army of corpse ghosts is ready.”

Little did Carlo know that his two “maids” were already plotting how to boost his experience points.