Vol 3. Chapter 55: How Do You Compare to the Demon Pillars?

[Virtue +80]

[Current Virtue: 2854]

[Virtue +80]

[Current Virtue: 2934]

[Virtue +350]

[Current Virtue: 3284]

[Virtue] was shooting up like crazy, but Vanessa didn’t notice.

The instant Vanessa carried Isatia into the air, the ground beneath them was blasted by a massive slab of earthen energy and shattered to powder.

Isatia stared downward without a word. As she turned her head, a soft, immaculate feather brushed past her ear. She instinctively reached for it; the feather melted at her fingertips and blossomed into countless warm motes of light. Heat spread across her palm with a faint tickle, and the torn, cracked tiger’s mouth of her hand healed in an instant.

The feathers shed by the Blessing Angel were the goddess’s boon—bearing powerful healing.

Isatia suddenly recalled what she had once read in books—back when the Saintess of the Dawn still lived, how the Holy Capital of the Church held the Festival of Holy Healing.

At the stroke of midnight, the bells of the Holy Capital would peal on the dot. At that moment, the Saintess of the Dawn would appear in formal dress atop the cathedral’s belfry, unfold wings of immaculate blessing, and glide above the cheering crowd, letting her feathers dust every believer—healing each one’s lingering wounds and ailments.

It was the Blessing Angel’s gift to all the faithful.

After the Facilis line fell into dead blood, that portion of the festival naturally couldn’t continue—but the custom remained. A maiden would still dress as the “Blessing Angel” and scatter feathers from the air. Yet it was just a custom now: the feathers carried no healing, and what crossed the sky was no longer the true Blessing Angel.

Having read those accounts, Isatia had often imagined how joyous and lively it must have been.

But all feasts come to an end.

As the descendant of the Dawn Goddess, even Facilis hadn’t escaped the judgment of time and change, and had ended in this fate.

Outside the Holy Capital, the “Angel’s Benediction” segment had disappeared for nearly a century. Barring surprises, it would be history—left for later generations to imagine through cold lines of text in history books. Even the people of the Holy Capital knew there would no longer be true angels winging over their heads to grant them blessing.

Today, in this dead secret realm, Isatia experienced—firsthand—the Angel’s Benediction of a hundred years ago.

A feather landed in her hand. By traditional custom, did that mean she had received the blessing of the Dawn Goddess and the Saintess?

At the thought, Isatia shook her head.

Why was she thinking of such things? And what meaning had “blessing” now?

The hub clock tower of her Sea of Mind had collapsed. The [Perennial Imperial Diadem], bequeathed by her forebears, had vanished. What followed would be the thorough decline of House Lanteville.

And she herself—only kept alive for the moment by holy light—would sooner or later become a living dead who never woke again.

Holding Isatia, Vanessa had no idea her thoughts were this tangled. All of Vanessa’s focus was on the enemy—every shred of attention fixed on Kantesius.

As expected, Kantesius had revived again. Here, he could not be killed. Add his Spirit Soul and he was the king of hard-to-kill.

However, with [Immaculate Holy Feathers] she could fly, and Kantesius could not. His magic was primitive; in an air-to-ground fight, that was a huge advantage.

Vanessa swept her wings and dove from the sky toward Kantesius.

The feminine [Armor Fortress] had grown more ornate and detailed after its upgrade: a few luxurious feather-weaves trailed behind; two tassels marked with holy-flame crosses fell from the edge of her white lotus-leaf skirt; white high-heeled boots, hair ornaments, gloves, and the half-soft pectoral across her chest all bore added fittings and intricate gilt filigree—motifs of wings and holy flame.

She flew with elegance, like a celestial maiden descending.

Vanessa dove—only a feint.

As Kantesius swung the spiked mace in counterattack, Vanessa flashed to his opposite side. The long high-heeled boot whipped in a spinning kick and smashed into Kantesius’s neck.

A crisp crack rang out. Kantesius flew like a cut kite, crashing through several walls again.

Isatia’s eyes flickered with surprise.

Frightening power.

Yes, she had speed behind it, but with a light kick she’d snapped his neck and booted that mountain of meat that far. Before Vinny’s bloodline had awakened, even gripping that ice spear in both hands and hacking with all his might at Kantesius’s neck, the blow had been caught and stalled by thick muscle.

“Heh heh...” As Vanessa landed, a chill-laced laugh rolled from the direction Kantesius had flown.

“So that’s it. You even have a ‘fake skin’? Little beauty, you fooled even your king.”

“What strength.” Kantesius stepped out unscathed, smiling meat without mirth as he rolled his joints with exaggerated crackles. “I’ve never met a woman stronger than me.”

“But tell me, what’s your relationship with the Dusk Demon?” Kantesius suddenly demanded.

“The Dusk Demon?” Vanessa’s dark brows lifted. She recalled the name—from history class. Legend said the Dawn Goddess founded the Church for all beings, and then led the faithful to crush the Dusk Demon, restoring peace to the Tyrelis Continent.

The era of the Dawn Goddess and the Dusk Demon belonged to antiquity, likely earlier than Marsmo. Yet the Dusk Demon’s fame then was much greater than the Dawn Goddess’s—at least the people of Marsmo had heard of the Dusk Demon, while the Dawn Goddess seemed unknown to them.

By then the Church of the Dawn should have existed, but likely at small scale and far away. After all, Marsmo’s conquests covered only the central swathe of the continent, far from the Old Tyrelis Empire’s dominion over the whole. The result: Marsmo’s people had little contact with distant civilizations.

So why was Kantesius linking her to the Dusk Demon?

“I have nothing to do with the Dusk Demon,” Vanessa said truthfully.

If anything could be called a “connection,” it was that her very ancient ancestor had defeated and sealed the Dusk Demon. Whether that counted was another matter.

“I’ve seen the Dusk Demon’s portrait,” Kantesius narrowed his eyes at Vanessa. “Are you the demon-king queen who worships the Dusk Demon?”

That baffled not only Vanessa but Isatia as well. How did the descendant of the goddess who annihilated the Dusk Demon end up mistaken for the demon’s devotee and leader?

“You and the Dusk Demon are very alike,” Kantesius said, staring hard at her.

“Most improper ancient king, have your eyes gone dull from too many ages in your tomb? Or has your memory failed?” Vanessa set Isatia down gently and twirled the warhammer through a few flowered arcs. “I have nothing to do with the Dusk Demon.”

“Eh, whatever. Why should I care if you do or don’t? Beauty, I’m only interested in you,” Kantesius chuckled.

“I can hear them on you—countless miserable, uncanny souls wailing,” Vanessa said, gaze steady on him.

“Wailing? No—you heard wrong, little beauty. They’re happy. They’re thrilled.” Kantesius lifted both hands high. “Born a pack of lowly useless trash, to offer their final value for their king—to take a blade for him, life for life—that is their supreme honor!”

“Ever since you entered my domain, every slave you saw, every soldier, every person of Marsmo—now they all cloak me.”

“Divinity praised my merit and resurrected me, adding centuries of Marsmo’s wisdom, national fortune, breath of life, rise and fall—onto me. My Spirit Soul went from holding a mere hundred souls... to infinite!”

“Think of it—so many lives and fates piled on me, more than the sand in the desert. Power that bends the world’s course—it belongs to the King of Marsmo!”

“What do you think you’re doing? You are making yourselves enemies of an entire civilization.”

“Cruel king of old—if the wronged souls bound into your Spirit Soul had the right to resist you, they would unhesitatingly make you taste the same pain they suffered,” Vanessa said. The polite gentleness that often touched her face was gone.

“Resist me? Ha! A joke. The biggest joke! I built Marsmo’s prosperity. Who dares rebel against the great Kantesius!?” He laughed, wild.

“No—you did not build Marsmo’s prosperity. The people of Marsmo—and the slaves you forced into service—built Marsmo’s appearance of prosperity and grandeur,” Vanessa said, voice gentle yet intent, every word earnest. Laid behind her, Isatia listened as well.

“As one of the mightiest civilizations the Tyrelis Continent ever knew, Marsmo’s credit can belong to many—but never to you, a debauched tyrant.”

“Dull, unfeeling tyrant—have you ever, even for a moment, repented of your deeds?” Vanessa demanded.

“Repent? For that herd of cattle and consumables?” Kantesius scoffed. “Little beauty, you must be joking. I’ve felt every sort of emotion in my life—except the word ‘repent.’”

“Cruel King of Marsmo—you are unfit to be king, and unfit to be human.”

“Return freedom to these poor souls. Afterwards, you will receive the judgment your sins deserve.” Vanessa’s fingers tightened on the mithril warhammer, each word hammered out.

The cherry-haired maiden before them—spotless, righteous, sacred—was like an angel executing justice and divine wrath. For a moment, Isatia felt faint and dazzled.

“Judge me? Little beauty, big talk gets tongues torn out. Who do you think you are—to claim you can judge the King of Marsmo, the King of Kings?”

“In the name of the Dawn Goddess. In the name of Facilis.” Vanessa’s gaze snapped up.

She raised the warhammer and leveled it at Kantesius.

A searing blaze of light burst forth and blinded him.

Sight gone, Kantesius didn’t panic.

Why should he? In this secret realm he had an undying body. How could he possibly—

And then a gale tore his limbs clean off.

[Tempest Wind-God Kick]

Vanessa folded her wings, flipped in the air, and stamped straight down, heel-first, borne on a surging torrent of hurricane force.

She’d wondered before what [Annihilating Heavy Stomp] would become under the feminine [Armor Fortress]. Now she had her answer.

The feminine [Armor Fortress] replaced the earth-element [Annihilating Heavy Stomp] with a wind-element [Tempest Wind-God Kick]—shifting from mostly restraining and hindering to outright lethal.

That single kick left Kantesius completely paralyzed, his four limbs shorn by the storm and strewn across the floor.

The feel of snapping bone made Kantesius wince—but he didn’t seem afraid. He’d long since grown used to pain; it only excited him further. Even sprawled there, he could still laugh, as if none of the damage belonged to him.

So what? He couldn’t die anyway. In a moment, the tendons and bones would grow back.

“Heh. That all you’ve got? Little beauty, not vicious enough. Fallin’ for your king mid-fight? Starting to hold back?” He could still run his filthy mouth.

Vanessa ignored him. She simply laid a pale hand upon his heart.

Even though she loathed this lump of filth, she would see this final judgment through.

“Oh? Little beauty—what are you doing? Stroking your king’s chest?” Kantesius grinned without fear.

Then Vanessa murmured softly:

[All-Gods Consecration Flame]

“Hm?” Kantesius tried to puzzle out what the pink-haired girl intended. Very quickly, the heat in his chest told him.

Useless. She couldn’t kill—

No. Wrong.

For some reason, Kantesius’s face changed.

Rotten as he was, the instinct forged in conquest—on battlefields of blood and fire—was sharp as ever. Without it, he wouldn’t have lived this long.

This feeling... it was the same as when assassins came for him as a child. That unfamiliar yet familiar helplessness, like drowning, surged over him.

He’d thought, once absolute power was in his grasp, he’d never feel it again.

“[Grandlord of Enslaved Souls]!!” In panic, Kantesius hastily summoned his life-saving Spirit Soul.

For no reason he could name, a savage certainty told him: if he were struck dead by the “thing” in this pink-haired woman’s hand, he would vanish—in the truest sense!

Armor of bone and flesh flowed back over his body. At the same time, threads of inner flame rose in Vanessa’s palm—prismatic within, cherry-white without.

At the touch of a single spark on [Grandlord of Enslaved Souls], the Spirit Soul dulled and lost color—like a construct gone inert—then rapidly receded.

What... what was happening?!

Kantesius was utterly rattled.

His Spirit Soul—neutralized by one tiny spark of this strange flame?!

“D-don’t—don’t come any closer!” Kantesius roared. This shout was far louder than any of his earlier taunts. Only when people feel truly helpless, sensing doom upon them, do they shout that way.

In that instant, he was once more the unarmed child who knew no magic, cornered by assassins.

Why—why was this back again?!

He sat astride everyone’s neck, seated among the gods—an absolute strongman! How could he be feeling this again?!

No. No!

“Despairing?” Vanessa asked softly. “Good. Savor it.”

“Tyrant, your despair isn’t even one ten-thousandth of theirs.”

Sss-ss!

Sparks spattered across [Grandlord of Enslaved Souls]. The Spirit Soul withered and paled at a speed visible to the eye, like an ant swarm thrown into acid—collapsing in an instant.

The cherry-white, seven-hued, glassy flame was about to sweep over him.

“No—no! I am undying! I absolutely cannot die—impossible!!”

“I am the great Kantesius—revived only by the favor of divinity! I have gained divine authority—I am a god! You cannot kill a god!”

“A god? How do you compare to the Demon Pillars?” Isatia’s voice cut in from behind, sudden and cool. “This flame is what even the Demon Pillars fear. Burning you to death... is far too easy.”