Chapter 411: The Method

“You did it on purpose?”

“Magic can be thrown around carelessly, but words can’t. When did I ever—alright, alright, stop staring at me like that, I admit it.”

Realizing she couldn’t bluff her way out, Meladomir dropped her fake innocence and returned to her usual indifferent look, folding her arms and speaking proudly.

“I did do it on purpose.”

“...You nearly got your own disciple killed, and you still have the nerve to look that smug.”

The Pope lowered his head, his eyes full of pity.

“If I were that boy, I’d probably already be planning how to yank the breathing tube from your Magic Respirator when you’re old.”

“I’m forever eighteen. How could I ever grow old?”

Meladomir swung her little fist in irritation, her pink nightgown fluttering and revealing a pale sliver of her stomach. “Besides, everything I did was for his own good. As my disciple, he’ll definitely understand his teacher’s intentions!”

“Heh. Your so-called good intentions involved throwing five different powers into his body—each of which could kill him a few hundred times over—and letting them brawl it out inside?”

The Pope raised an eyebrow, thinking for a moment. Then, as if something occurred to him, his gaze sharpened on Meladomir, who was still floating a short distance away.

“I see now. You’ve reached that stage already. No wonder—someone like you wouldn’t allow any unexpected variable to interfere with your plan. Even the Withering King’s Divine Favor—though you don’t actually care about it.”

“It’s not that I’ve reached this stage. It’s that I had to. Your Sanctuary is advancing faster than mine.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

The Pope smirked and shook his head.

With a sweep of his sleeve, the artificial stars—apart from the moon that had fallen into Kanteville—resumed their fixed orbits. The night sky once again filled with countless constellations, forming a grand and ancient tapestry.

“For a thousand years, there has never been a recorded case of a Divine Favor causing side effects to its chosen or demanding some hidden price. ‘Divine Favor’—the very term implies the god’s special grace.

So it’s fundamentally different from a transaction. It carries no taint or corruption.

But even so, that grace came from the very same Evil God who’s now devouring the moon—and who knows what that being will do next.

Divine Favor implies connection, causality—an unbreakable bond. You’re afraid that god might use that boy to interfere with your plans at a critical moment, aren’t you?”

“Just a side benefit,” Meladomir replied.

“A side benefit?”

The Pope turned, a little taken aback.

“Of course. You already said I don’t care about such things, didn’t you? So naturally, this is just a little side cleanup.”

“Then what—”

“Why, for my dear disciple, of course,” Meladomir said sweetly. “I only want what’s best for him. As my pupil, how could he be satisfied with something that’s just a handout? That’s why when he chose to abandon the Divine Favor himself, I was actually pleased. It showed he wasn’t blinded by power.”

“...So you threw him straight into a fire pit?”

The Pope prided himself on viewing all things from above, but even he nearly found himself praying for Muen—hoping that when the poor boy eventually died at the hands of this wicked old loli, he’d at least leave behind an intact corpse.

“This ‘best thing’ of yours is a little too scorching to handle.”

“Of course. I told him from the very beginning—becoming my disciple meant walking a path of endless uncertainty and pain, one that could lead to total ruin at any moment. I think he’s mentally prepared for that.

And besides...”

Meladomir glanced toward Kanteville, her lips curling mercilessly.

“I’ve been running myself ragged for his sake, and he’s down there flirting with girls? And actually succeeding? Oh, I’d just love to tell his little girlfriend and fiancée all about that later.

Such disrespect for my hard work clearly deserves a little extra suffering.”

“That, I can agree with. Please, by all means, increase the dosage,” the Pope nodded, then added,

“But aren’t you afraid he’ll die down there?”

“Die?”

Meladomir tilted her head with an eerie smile.

“Shouldn’t that be your concern? Where are we right now? Whom do you serve? And who are you, Your Holiness?”

“...”

Where were they?

This was, of course, the Church—serving the Goddess of Life.

And he was her Pope, beneath the goddess but above all mankind.

If Muen actually died right under his nose, that would be a humiliation beyond repair.

“Even if I make sure he stays alive,” the Pope murmured, lowering his eyes, countless lights spinning in his pupils, “I still don’t believe he can succeed. Those powers can never balance. They’ll only consume one another and devour him in the process. And besides... with multiple Evil Gods involved, plus a million souls’ resentment, not even you can predict what will be born from that chaos.”

“What it becomes doesn’t matter,” Meladomir said, shrugging. “What matters is that whatever it is—it’ll belong entirely to him.

And as for balance... well, of course it’s impossible. Five forces can’t balance. You’d need an even number. So naturally, one more is missing.”

“Missing one?”

The Pope frowned. “What other power could Kanteville possibly—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because he suddenly realized that the damn, shameless little loli was staring right at him again—with that unnervingly hungry look, like she was eyeing a delicious cake.

“You... what do you mean by that?”

“Mean? I don’t mean anything.”

Meladomir leaned in with a look of mock innocence, rubbing her fingers together like a servant asking for a tip.

“It’s just, Your Holiness, have you perhaps forgotten something you promised me long ago?”

...

...

“Muen... Muen?”

Liya, panicked, caught Muen as he suddenly lost consciousness and carefully laid him flat on the ground.

She couldn’t know what he was experiencing, but from the contorted pain on his face, it was clear he was suffering terribly.

Terrifying forces clashed inside him—the crimson flames pouring into his body, only to flow back out blackened and impure.

“What... what should I do?”

Liya wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to smooth the furrow between his eyebrows, wishing # Nоvеlight # she could share his pain—but she was powerless.

In her earlier self-sacrifice, nearly all her Holy Light had been spent, and later, helping Muen bear the resentment had drained what little remained. She had no strength left to draw on.

“At least... I should make him a little more comfortable.”

Biting her lip, Liya suddenly lowered herself and pressed her body against his, rubbing her delicate form gently against his skin.

The friction of skin on skin sparked a tingling sensation. As Liya moved softly, something that had only just subsided began to rise again.

As she brushed against him, she suddenly felt something that—astonishingly—was still firm.

Liya froze for a moment, then her cheeks flushed pink.

She suddenly remembered: even if she couldn’t project Holy Light outward anymore, her entire body, sanctified from childhood, inherently radiated its power.

That was precisely why those enemies had tried to melt down her blood and bones for their rituals.

So...

Liya bit her lip.

If that’s the case... then that part of her should work too, shouldn’t it?