The next day, Grania bowed his head as Leon’s group sat across from him.

“Once again, I offer you my deepest thanks.”

Since becoming Archmage, there had been only a handful of times he’d ever lowered his head to anyone. However, to those who had saved his disciple’s life, pride meant nothing.

Adela looked slightly taken aback at the uncharacteristic humility of an old enemy, while the other three accepted the gesture with calm composure. It was, after all, the act of saving someone from the Evil Order’s schemes. Knowing what they knew, they couldn’t have ignored it even if they’d wanted to.

“Please raise your head, Master Grania,” Leon said politely to move the discussion when Grania didn’t do so even after several seconds. “What matters now isn’t the past, but what lies ahead. We need to identify the Evil Order’s agents hiding within the Empire and eliminate them.”

Grania met his gaze, his expression grave as he mused, “Hmm... You’re right about that. However, any information I have is decades old. Since relinquishing the Archmage’s seat, I haven’t set foot in Calelum once.”

Information lived and died by its freshness. Whether it was a minute old, an hour old, a day, or a week, its value could differ a hundredfold. Even so, Leon didn’t falter.

“When you say decades, how long do you exactly mean?”

“I officially retired twenty-five years ago. Resigned my title thirty years past.”

“That much should be fine.”

“Hm?”

At Grania’s puzzled look, Leon shared the conclusion he’d discussed with his companions several times.

“We thought about the Evil Order’s plots that are spread across the Empire and the methods they used to manipulate great men like you and Sir Dayton. Such schemes can’t be built in just a few years. It’s possible this conspiracy was already in motion before the Mad Emperor even seized the throne.”

“Oho...!”

“If there’s anything you can recall—anything at all, however small—please tell us.”

Finding Leon’s words reasonable, Grania set down his teacup and sank into deep thought. No, “recollection” was the right word.

A mage’s memory and thought speed already far surpassed those of ordinary people. For a Grand Mage like Grania, there was hardly a mind in the world that could compare. And indeed, within three short minutes, he had scanned through his memories from one minute ago to thirty years past.

“The Chancellor...” he muttered.

When Grania finally spoke, the name that left his lips belonged to one of the most powerful men in the Empire—the office second only to the Emperor himself.

During the Great Purge, when countless nobles from viscounts to earls had been executed, most of Calelum’s bureaucrats had not only survived but thrived. And among them, none had more authority or influence than the current Chancellor, Esrom.

“I only met him a few times, but every time I did, I felt an odd unease, kind of like a strange sense of familiarity. Even when he was a low-ranking clerk in the palace, he had a way of gathering followers.”

“You’re saying Chancellor Esrom is suspicious?” Leon asked.

“I am. During the Mad Emperor’s uprising, there were rumors that the Chancellor was the one truly commanding the Imperial Army. I don’t know who spread it, but nearly everyone who repeated that rumor... vanished.”

“Vanished” was unlikely to mean they simply left. If they’d been silenced, it meant there was something worth hiding, something serious enough to kill for. On top of that, the shushing was so thorough that even the former Archmage hadn’t known.

At that moment, Karen’s eyes widened as she muttered the name Esrom under her breath several times. A realization struck her.

“Ah!”

Ignoring the others’ curious looks, she grabbed a pen and a few sheets of paper nearby, scribbling furiously. She wrote and rewrote several letters, rearranging them into three syllables. She spelled out Esrom’s name and reversed it.

“MORSE.”

Seeing that name, Adela slammed her fist down instinctively with a loud bang. The corner of the sofa exploded, wooden splinters flying everywhere. She stared at her own hand in shock, lips moving soundlessly.

The outburst, however, gave Grania—who was just as shaken—a moment to collect himself.

“You still haven’t broken that habit of smashing things first, have you?” Grania teased.

“S-shut up!”

The brief scuffle between the two helped the others regain their composure. It was a shocking revelation. Coincidence wasn’t impossible, but all five of them knew that this was the truth.

“Morse... Of all people, it had to be him. The sole and absolute leader of Chaos.”

Grania’s voice sank low and heavy. Among the Evil Order’s three great sects, Chaos was the most lawless. It was a den of lunatics who couldn’t even coexist with the others.

However, its Bishop, Morse, was different. Each time he was witnessed, his appearance, voice, and presence changed entirely. A monster who could walk beside Despair or Destruction, biding his time over decades, spinning his schemes with inhuman patience. He was a madman, yet more calculating than any sane man, a lunatic among lunatics.

“There must be other bishops besides him. No matter how powerful Morse is, he couldn’t control the entire Clyde Empire alone,” Leon suggested.

Adela nodded and said, “Agreed. The question is who they are. If it’s a weaker one, our current strength is enough to crush them. But if it’s an Archbishop or even one of those just beneath that rank... Even five Masters together might not be enough to guarantee victory.”

“The Masters residing in the capital might be under their control too, just like Dayton and me,” Grania added grimly. “We’ll need to tread carefully.”

“Then it might be best to wait for Irexana’s arrival,” Adela said.

As the five of them sat together, discussing their strategy and next moves, “it” came without warning, convulsing the ground violently.

Even Grania’s residence, shielded by powerful wards, shuddered under the immense force. Teacups shattered, the floor quaked, and everyone instinctively braced themselves.

“W–what the hell!? An earthquake!?” Karen exclaimed.

“That’s impossible! The terrain between Portroi and Calelum could never produce earthquakes!”

“Then what is this shaking!?”

“It’s someone’s doing—that’s what it is!”

At Grania’s shout, all four faces hardened in realization. They remembered what had been said yesterday. The moment a curse rebounds upon its caster, the caster learns the curse has been broken, and there was only one person who could have dispelled the curse that bound Edgar: Saintess Elahan.

If the Evil Order had recognized her presence, it was almost certain they would strike immediately to erase her.

“Let’s move!”

Without needing to say more, all of them burst out of the residence. The tremors were growing closer, thundering toward them with deliberate, taunting steps, as if declaring war. And then, he showed up.

As soon as Leon stepped outside and looked beyond the horizon, his body went rigid with tension. All he could manage was a single, startled ‘Ah!’.

An overwhelming presence pressed down on him. Strength couldn’t be fully judged by presence alone, but this was heavier, darker, more oppressive than even Irexana’s. Every sharpened sense in his body felt as if a tidal wave had struck him. The only thing he’d ever felt stronger than this was the Giant King, Kasim.

Adela’s scream-like voice rang out beside him before he even realized she’d moved to his side.

“The Bishop of Destruction, Nekator?”

Leon and Karen didn’t recognize the name, but Grania and Elahan did. This was one of the Nine Hells, and the monstrous representative of the Evil Order’s sect of Destruction.

From kilometers away, laughter exploded across the sky. The mad, gleeful laughter froze the blood of all who heard it.

“Hahahahahahahahahaha!”

He hadn’t used Lion’s Roar like Adela. He was simply laughing, but even that emotion alone shattered the air itself. The atmosphere twisted into a storm, buildings crumbled, and the ground overturned. Every living being caught in its path was torn apart into nothing but red mist.

It was a truly terrifying spectacle. Leon’s instincts screamed to charge out and stop the monster, but his body wouldn’t move.

El Cid’s voice echoed, —That’s natural. He’s not an opponent you can do anything about alone. Even if he reached that level through heresy, power is still power. He stands at the threshold of the Grandmaster’s realm.

A Grandmaster...!

Leon’s breath caught in his throat. The idea that a mere bishop of the Evil Order could approach that exalted height left him speechless, and the others were no different. He wasn’t someone they could simply attack and seize control of the fight. They would have to stay fully alert, observe his moves, and respond at the right moment.

Grania stepped back several paces. Elahan and Adela advanced three, forming a battle line. Frontline and rearguard, each role clear.

“Mr. Hero, call me if you need me,” Karen whispered from Leon’s shadow.

“Got it.”

Her assassin’s instincts told her the approaching presence was that of a warrior. This was a foe they couldn’t defeat in open combat—not even once in a hundred battles. So, she would blend into the darkness and wait for the perfect moment.

“He’s coming!” Grania warned, and as if that were its signal, the creature accelerated.

With a single step, it crossed hundreds of meters. A sonic boom burst from its back, sending up a storm of dust.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise? Long time no see, Adela!”

His hair was the color of blood. His eyes gleamed like embedded rubies, and though he smiled, there wasn’t a trace of humanity in it.

His face was too perfect, too beautiful, and sculpted like a statue, yet it was cloaked in the stench of blood and death. It was as if a monster were merely pretending to be human. The Bishop of Destruction, Nekator, spoke.

“It’s been forty years, hasn’t it? You’re still a little brat!”

Adela’s temper exploded when her button was pushed.

“You son of a bitch, what did you just say? You’ve got a lot of nerve, you tomato-headed bastard! The one who got his ass handed to him by Lark and ran off crying is calling me a brat!?”

“Hahahaha! Still got that mouth on you, huh? Good! Very good! Adela just isn’t Adela unless she’s got a filthy tongue!”

“Good, my ass! Go fuck yourself!”

Even as Adela spat curses, she didn’t rush in and only growled. Even one bearing the title “Rampage” hesitated to strike first, proof of how fearsome Nekator truly was.

Leon’s group, too, searched for an opening as the two traded words, but no matter what they imagined trying, instinct told them it would end in disaster. He wasn’t even in a clear battle stance, yet there wasn’t a single gap to exploit. From that posture alone, Leon felt a familiar kind of pressure.

Is it... Naturality...?

—Yeah, but it’s not complete. True Naturality is freedom through the perfect balance of offense and defense. That one’s tilted toward aggression. Even when blocking or evading would serve him better, he’ll counterattack instead.

Even so, Naturality was a state where every movement, without conscious thought, aligned perfectly with the world’s laws. Even reaching that realm at all was terrifying. As Leon grasped the essence of what stood before him, tense and focused, Nekator resumed running his mouth.

“Grania,” Nekator grinned, childlike despite the ruin behind him. “You actually managed to slip your leash? I thought I wouldn’t get to fight you thanks to Brother Morse’s schemes.”

Then, smiling with pure delight, he added, “Finally! I can fight you at last!”

He was happy. No malice, no hatred, no killing intent—only joy.

A born battle maniac. A slaughter addict. Yet not out of cruelty; he simply fought and killed because it was fun. Though he held the rank of one of the Nine Hells, he cared more for martial skill than sorcery. That, too, was why his power was second only to the Archbishops.

“Well then,” Nekator said, his eyes bright. “Shall we begin? Four Masters... no, five? I can’t even sense one of you. Now this is exciting!”

His cheeks flushed as if he were a maiden in love. Four Aura Masters and one Grand Mage.

Even for the Second of the Nine Hells, Nekator of Destruction, this was not a fight he could easily win.

Yet he neither backed down nor feared them. After all, he was a lunatic who preferred a thrilling death to a dull life.

“Here I come, okay?”

With that, Nekator took a step forward. Or rather, tried to, when another voice interjected.

“Master!”

“Edgar? You fool! What are you doing out here in that condition!?”

From within Grania’s residence, Edgar came running. It had been barely a day since he regained consciousness. His body should have been weak and his mind exhausted, but somehow, he had grasped the situation.

“I can’t let you fight alone, Master!” he shouted.

“Are you in any state to be worrying about me!?”

“This disaster came from my mistake! Even if I die here, I must wash away that shame!”

For a brief moment, Grania smiled proudly at his disciple’s resolve—then turned away, pretending indifference, showing his stubborn, unspoken affection.

“Hmph! Do as you like! When have you ever listened to me anyway!?”

Even weakened, having another Grand Mage was still formidable. Nekator’s odds dropped below twenty percent as six Masters now encircled him.

Standing in front of Edgar, Grania barked, “Edgar! Keep your focus! If you get yourself killed, this time through your own foolishness, I won’t save you!”

“Yes, Master!”

Perhaps that was why no one expected what happened next.

With a squelch, the hem of Grania’s robe bloomed red. Blood and entrails poured from the gaping hole torn through his abdomen. Even with a fatal wound, Grania neither tried to heal it nor retreat—he only turned, trembling, to look behind him.

He had to.

“Edgar...?”

“Yes, Master.”

Edgar smiled, exuding an unpleasant energy like rotten mud.

woo: petition to feed Edgar to the Winter Serpent