image [https://i.imgur.com/eY2gF5l.png]

When Mila regained consciousness, she was confronted with a chilling sight. The holy knights, led by Samille, lay strewn and lifeless, casualties of an unfathomable ordeal. The cultists had vanished without a trace, leaving behind an air of malevolence that hung heavily in the air. Something unnatural and sinister had unfolded, though its exact nature eluded her comprehension.

Rising from the ground, Mila surveyed the grim aftermath of the clash. Samille, a distant figure, knelt in silence, her hand still tightly clutching her sword. Immobilized and mute, she appeared frozen in time.

With each measured step Mila took, an undercurrent of foreboding enveloped her. The entire company of holy knights, Samille included, had been incapacitated by a lone adversary. How had Yosef attained such staggering power? Could Mila herself have succumbed to a siMilar fate had she accepted Arbious's proposal? The notion gnawed at her thoughts.

Now standing before Samille, Mila fixed her gaze upon her leader. Samille's eyes were shut, evoking an illusion of rest. She yet breathed; life persisted within her.

Gently, Mila drew closer, laying her hand upon Samille's shoulder.

Time seemed suspended, its passage uncertain, events hazy and disjointed. Mila's recollections were punctuated by a piercing, tormented scream, beyond which her memory plunged into darkness.

At the instant Mila's hand connected with Samille's form, a whisper of insight brushed against her consciousness. "Graybeard," the word surfaced, dread seizing her heart.

Swiftly, Samille's hand responded, enclosing Mila's in a firm grasp.

"How do you stand among the living?" She questioned.

Caught off guard, Mila stammered, her voice tinged with urgency. "I Don't understand!"

"How. Are. You. Alive?"

"Let go of me!"

Complying with Mila's plea, Samille relinquished her grip, ascending to her feet with a deliberate, almost menacing motion. An inferno of anger blazed within her. "Why did you not fight?"

Mila grappled for words, her capacity for action outstripped by her vulnerability. Amidst the unfolding conflict, the confrontation with Yosef had paralyzed her with fear.

"I understand now... It's not betrayal, it's fear..."

Samille turned, addressing the fallen soldiers. "The battlefield spares no haven for the fearful. Those who shun death's gaze should decline the king's summons."

In that moment, Mila's thoughts raced. "But I was never granted a choice!"

Silencing her internal protest, she voiced a query instead. "Graybeard. What of Graybeard?"

"The dwarf who accompanied you?" Samille inquired. "Truthfully, I possess no knowledge."

The wind surged, whipping Samille's cape and tousling her flowing hair. "Had I known he bore that scripture, I could have taken precautions... Regretfully, that time has lapsed, and these valiant soldiers have paid the price for my shortcomings."

"Do you know what has happened here?"

Mila found Samille's gaze fixed upon her, her visage an enigma of impassivity. Her hand gravitated deliberately to the hilt of her sheathed sword, words unfurling as she commenced, "This was the result of the second infernal scripture. The ability it wields is known as the 'Cries of a Thousand Souls.' A spell of nearly eighth-tier magnitude, exclusive to the scripture itself. As its name implies, a thousand souls must be claimed on the eve of its invocation..."

"A thousand lives... No... you're don't mean that the annihilation of the entire town was orchestrated to unleash this spell upon you?"

"The prime target wasn't us. You were their true objective. Yet it defies reason that they failed to seize you."

How can she address this so casually? A thousand lives extinguished, and her demeanor remains so detached...

"If you assume that I'm a kind of fiend devoid of empathy for these lost lives, you may not be far from the truth," Samille responded. "Considering my position, I've borne witness to death on a far greater scale. I... I've grown accustomed to such sights. Yet this... This was a failure brought on by my own overconfidence, and for that, countless people have died."

"But that's not a perspective one should ever grow ACCUSTOMED TO!" Mila's words surged forth, her frustration manifesting as an almost vehement outcry. "And don't you dare claim this was because of you! It would be an insult to all those who have fought for you!"

Samille's laughter, a gentle resonance, rippled through the air, her grip on the sword easing. "You are far too innocent for a battlefield. This place is not for the likes of you."

"What do you know about me anyway?" Was what Mila wanted to say, yet her focus veered toward the church, ignoring her comment. "And what about those trapped inside?"

The shift in Samille's expression betrayed unease as their shared attention turned to the church. A foreboding apprehension entwined their hearts. With a measured tone, Samille responded, "Perhaps it's best that we abstain from venturing there."

"I can't accept that." Mila's assertion was unwavering. "If Graybeard is within those walls, I must confront whatever awaits."

A peculiar reservation tinged Samille's demeanor. "I strongly advise against doing so."

Interrupting, Mila reaffirmed her stance with resolute conviction. "I will find Graybeard-. with, or Without you."

Without awaiting Samille's response, Mila embarked toward the church, her determination propelling her forward in that very instant.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7fgH3qs.png]

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They stood in front of the church, a mix of nervousness and apprehension washing over them. Mila wore a concerned expression as she rested her hand on the door handle.

"Having second thoughts?" Samille asked.

"No," Mila replied, her voice firm.

A distant banging noise emanated from within the church, though its origin remained unclear to the two.

With a deliberate push, Mila opened the right door while Samille did the same with the left. Both doors swung inward simultaneously, granting them entrance. A somber, church-like chant reverberated through the halls, and a small number of people were present. These individuals, however, faced away from the entrance, seemingly oblivious to the newcomers.

At the very end of the chamber a large cross was placed. Before it, a mound of corpses. Those present were praying to the bloodied cross, yet to no avail for light had abandoned this church.

Their hands were raised in a posture of prayer, yet no audible words emerged from their lips. It was a cacophony of madness, a repetition of despair evident in their voices.

An unsettling feeling settled upon them. Recognizing this unease, Samille drew her sword.

"No!"

Mila's voice pierced the air, her eyes locking onto a severed head by the door.

It was Joan's. His face bore an expression of sheer terror. Wide eyes stared outwards, mouth frozen in a silent scream.

Blood extended from his body to the door, evidence that his head had rolled some distance.

With a tinge of sorrow, Samille knelt beside the head, her hand reaching to gently close his lifeless eyes. "Joan... I'm sorry. I couldn't protect you."

"Did you know him...?" Mila's voice wavered with despair.

She remembered the tales Joan and Contii had shared, their shared journey growing up and their commitment to becoming holy knights, defenders against injustice. Now, Joan's fate had been irrevocably sealed.

"Yes," Samille said, a note of sadness in her voice. "Fortunately, it seems he wasn't subjected to torture... He had a swift death..."

"Tortured?"

Samille rose to her feet after closing his eyes, with great force, she struck her foot to the ground beneath, resonating with a loud thud, a gesture that puzzled Mila.

"What are you doing?" Mila whispered, perplexed.

The congregation continued their fervent prayers, heads bowing rhythmically. Samille pointed discreetly to a figure amidst the worshippers. "I provoked them deliberately. These people have been corrupted, driven to madness. We have no choice but to end their suffering."

"Corrupted?"

"Mila, look over there."

Samille shifted her finger away from the man she indicated earlier, pointing instead to the far end of the church.

A dwarf occupied one of the pews, his gaze locked forward. It had to be Graybeard.

Mila's excitement overwhelmed her restraint. "Graybeard!" she exclaimed, dashing towards him.

Curiosity piqued among the praying figures, but Mila paid no mind. Graybeard's presence filled her with exuberance. Samille followed more slowly, her sword directed at the onlookers, poised for any unexpected movement.

"Graybeard!" Mila embraced him from behind, planting a kiss on his head, as if reuniting with family. "Graybeard! I've missed you so much!" Her voice echoed with a blend of melancholy, relief, and joy. Graybeard's appearance signaled an end to the battle, an opportunity to finally converse.

Yet Graybeard remained motionless, his response nonexistent.

Turning to face him, Mila peered down at Graybeard, who hadn't risen to meet her.

"Mila... I fear we're too late."

"What do you mean, too late?"

"These people have all descended into madness. Can't you see it?"

"No, Graybeard couldn't possibly succumb to that."

Samille, wary of delivering grim tidings, chose silence. Her defenses remained on high alert as the congregation's gaze rested upon them.

Graybeard's voice slowly rumbled, his gaze turning toward Mila.

"Miss... Who might you be?"

"It's me, Mila! Don't play games, Gray! We have to go—this entire city could be in danger."

"This city? Mila? Gray? These names are unfamiliar, Miss..."

Graybeard rose, gently pushing Mila aside.

"I must continue my prayer... Please, you should leave now..."

Kneeling, Graybeard initiated his prayer, the other worshipers joining in.

His voice harmonized with the madness that gripped the rest, their chants disjointed, a haunting chorus that sent shivers down their spines. Graybeard pounded his forehead against the ground, each impact more forceful than the last.

Mila was baffled. What was transpiring? She shook her head in confusion.

She reached out to restrain Graybeard from self-inflicted harm, yet he resisted, pushing her aside to continue his frenzied devotion.

"It's the witch's work... These souls are beyond redemption, Mila. We have no choice but to end their suffering."

"End their suffering? Is that all you can do for them as a champion of light? No... There must be another way. We can still help them!"

When Mila deemed her as a champion of light, a sense of unease washed over her, yet she continued bewildered at her words. "If we don't release them from this torment, they will persist in harming themselves, perhaps even harming you... Mila, we are left with no alternatives. These people are beyond the benevolence of light."

"Release them from torment?! I cannot allow you to do that. Not with Gray!"

Swiftly, without warning, Samille struck Mila's head with the hilt of her sword, a blow of considerable force that sent her sprawling face-first onto the ground. Graybeard's eye twitched imperceptibly at the sight, but he swiftly returned to his repetitive chanting.

Samille, however, didn't overlook Graybeard's slight twitch. She stood over Mila's prone form, observing as Graybeard and the other worshippers continued their ritualistic head-banging in eerie unison.

The fingerprints of Morgana Blackblood were unmistakable in this sinister scene. Recognition came almost instantaneously. Morgana, a sadistic and profoundly perilous entity, loomed in her mind's eye. Tales of her atrocities circulated widely—horrors that could send even lesser gods shrieking in terror. Her power was an aberration, capable of inducing maddening insanity in anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. Whispers told of those ensnared in her cult, each once subjected to her torturous clutches. She derived pleasure from breaking down individuals, reducing them to mere shadows of their humanity.

Yet, Graybeard's fleeting eye twitch unveiled an aspect she had not witnessed before. As he rhythmically struck his head, it was as if a spark of emotion remained, punctuating the repetitive madness with moments of coherence, however brief.

A glimmer of hope ignited within her, however dim. Maybe, just maybe, there existed a chance to rescue him from this abyss.

Ending Graybeard's life there and then would inevitably invoke Mila's wrath. Samille's duty was clear—to train her, a royal mandate from the king himself.

Her contemplations were a labyrinth of uncertainty, the gravity of the situation hanging heavily upon her. In the midst of her introspection, the congregated figures—Graybeard the lone exception—shifted their attention in unison, their hollow growls and faceless visages propelling them toward her like anguished phantoms. A procession of tormented souls shuffled closer, each step a struggle that bore witness to their inner torment.

But her resolve remained unshaken. With a fluid grace, she unsheathed her sword and cut down the corrupted congregation, one by one, their forms falling in twisted surrender. Graybeard alone remained untouched by her blade, a flicker of potential salvation amidst the carnage.

With purposeful precision, she sheathed her sword.

"At the very least, I must get these two to safety... No... Rather three, I sensed another faint breath still present when making my way here... He must be alive as well..." her voice murmured to the desolate chamber, her form standing atop the mound of lifeless bodies.