Saint Cyril’s gaze swept over the Great Knight as he spoke calmly. "We are not completely ignorant. The Church Court’s secret archives contain fragmented records from the age of the ancient convergence. After the passage at Eagle’s Beak Peak opened, we also used certain special means to conduct some... limited reconnaissance. We have already made some educated guesses about the general direction and the characteristics of the areas where the anchor points might be."

"As for how to get in..." He looked toward the ten Temple Knights. "The Templar Order’s sacred resonance technique, combined with the Divine Power of the God of Truth channeled by myself and the Valken Metropolitan Bishop, can briefly open a relatively stable path near the passage. However, this path will be extremely volatile and can only be maintained for a limited time. It cannot bear the weight of Extraordinary beings or large armies. That is why this mission requires a small, elite squad of powerful individuals at the Peak of Mortality."

The Valken Metropolitan Bishop took over, his voice as cold as ice. "Your objective is to enter the designated area in the Deep Red Wilderness through the path we and the Temple Knights create. You will search for and destroy the anchor points showing abnormal energy signatures. Once done, you are to withdraw immediately. The Templar Order will dispatch an elite squad to fight alongside you. Bishop Cyril and I will remain here to maintain the path and deal with any potential backlash."

"The thirty-two of you," his gaze was electric as it swept over every Great Knight, "represent the pinnacle of mortal might. This mission is far more perilous than any mortal war ever fought. You will face an unknown environment, powerful monsters adapted to the Laws of the Otherworld, and potentially, enemies far beyond your imagination. But if you succeed, you will have eradicated a grave threat to the Continent, to the world, and to our faith. Your deeds will be immortalized in the annals of history!"

The hall fell into a brief, dead silence.

Only heavy breathing and the soft scrape of armor could be heard.

’Delving deep into the Otherworld on a decapitation strike... This isn’t just an adventure; it’s a suicidal gamble.’

But the words of the Ironspine Duke and the two bishops had elevated the mission, framing it as a matter of the Continent’s survival and the glory of their faith.

The Commander of the Imperial Guard from the Rotalia Empire finally spoke, his voice muffled by his Face Armor, carrying a metallic timbre. "Mission duration? How long will the path be maintained? Specific intelligence on the target area? Estimated enemy strength?"

The Valken Metropolitan Bishop answered, "The path can be maintained for twelve hours at most. Intelligence on the target area will be distributed before the operation begins. As for enemy strength... it is unknown. But be prepared to face individuals who have surpassed the Peak of Mortality, and perhaps even more bizarre entities. That is why so many of you are needed for this."

The elder of the Storm Twin Blades, a tall, lean man with a scar across his cheek, licked his lips. His eyes glinted with the mixture of excitement and gravity unique to an adventurer. "And the reward? What do those who survive get?"

It was a pragmatic question, and one on the minds of many of the Great Knights.

They had answered the summons out of a sense of faith and duty, to be sure, but none of them wanted to die for nothing.

Saint Cyril’s gaze grew profound. "If you succeed, the Church Court will bestow upon you the title of ’Holy Protector.’ You and your family will receive the Church Court’s permanent protection and a greater share of its resources. Your Kingdoms and respective Lords will also reward you generously. And if you fail..."

He did not continue, but the implication was clear.

The atmosphere in the hall grew even more complex.

Fear, calculation, ambition, duty, apprehension toward the unknown—a myriad of emotions churned within the hearts of these powerhouses who stood at the apex of the mortal realm.

Some men’s eyes flickered as they secretly calculated the risks and rewards.

Others frowned, seemingly weighing their own strength against the demands of the mission.

And still others, like the old Great Knight, had calm eyes, as if they had long ago disregarded life and death.

Murphy, meanwhile, stood amidst the crowd, remaining silent.

Finally, the voice of the Ironspine Duke, Hakon, rang out, bringing the short pre-battle briefing to a close. "The mission details are clear. You all have one day. Before this time tomorrow, settle your personal affairs and make your final preparations. The necessary supplies, copies of the map, and basic intelligence will be delivered to your quarters shortly. This will be a perilous journey. I urge you all to take care."

His gray-blue eyes slowly swept over the men below. He said nothing more, but his gaze spoke volumes.

The Valken Metropolitan Bishop coldly bit out a single word: "Dismissed."

The three dignitaries on the stone dais said no more. Bishop Cyril closed his eyes again, as if his earlier words had cost him a great deal of effort.

The flamboyant Great Knight from the Albion Islands straightened his spine and was the first to move. His deep red velvet robe swept across the floor, leaving a faint air of arrogance in his wake.

The steps of Rotalia’s Commander of the Iron Wall Guard were heavy and steady. The grinding of his Black Armor was exceptionally clear in the silent hall, making him sound like a walking fortress.

The Storm Twin Blades Brothers exchanged a glance and tacitly melted into the edge of the crowd. Their movements were as nimble as a cat’s, their eyes still warily scanning their surroundings.

The highlander in the Wolf Fur Cloak let out a low grunt, stamped his foot hard on the ground, and strode away without a backward glance, exuding an air of savage valor.

They exchanged almost no words with one another; when their eyes met, it was only for a fleeting moment before they looked away.

The Church Court’s decree had bound them all to this ship, one that seemed destined to sail on a sea of blood. But the passengers aboard it did not all share the same intentions.

Murphy blended in with the crowd and departed.

As he went, several gazes—some overt, some subtle—fell upon him.

They were filled with scrutiny, doubt, and undisguised coldness.

As the representative from the Golden Coast passed by his side, he let out a soft, inscrutable snort.