“Your Eminence!”

Leon’s group rushed to Irexana’s side in alarm. Even at a glance, his condition looked dire. The smell of blood thickened as they drew closer. Though his bleeding had already stopped—no doubt sealed off through Aura control—the dark stains covering his robes showed how much he’d lost earlier.

Elahan’s healing light enveloped him, but a body drained of its very vitality couldn’t recover so easily. Even so, Irexana forced himself upright.

He muttered, “I’m alright now, Saintess. Please, save your strength.”

“But...” Elahan muttered, unable to get rid of the concern in her eyes.

“These wounds aren’t serious. You must not forget that the enemy we must defeat still remains.”

His tone was stern, leaving no room for argument. Adela stepped beside him and asked, “The Devourer. Did you finish it off properly?”

“Yes. I confirmed its banishment. Fortunately, its regeneration and immortality weren’t particularly strong. Destroying the brain was enough to kill it.”

“So that thing could use necromancy, but not revive itself? What a joke.”

“If it had been capable of turning itself into a lich, I would likely be dead.”

The two cardinals exchanged information as casually as if they were discussing the weather. Neither Adela, questioning a man half-dead before her, nor Irexana, speaking of his own death with such composure, showed the slightest unease. To them, battles against beings from other dimensions like transcendents or Evil bishops were nothing new.

After finishing his report, Irexana turned to Leon. Despite the pain he must have been feeling, not a hint of it showed on his face.

“Hero. What of the Revolutionary and Ferma armies? Now that Nekator has been repelled and they’ve entered the city, I imagine the next issue must be...”

Leon nodded, already following his train of thought.

“Yes. They’re debating whether or not to attack the White Peak Palace. Lyon opposes it, while Marquis Valter and the Ferma army seem eager to begin their assault at once.”

“I see. Exactly as expected. Morse will have predicted that discord.”

“The Bishop of Chaos?” Leon asked.

“Yes,” Irexana answered as he inclined his head. “The argument between those two factions is meaningless. It’s not something that will be resolved overnight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the initiative in this situation lies with the enemy.”

Adela seemed to understand immediately, but Karen and Elahan, still lacking tactical sense, tilted their heads in confusion. Leon’s expression wasn’t much different. So, Irexana elaborated.

“At this point, we can neither retreat nor launch a reckless assault. As Prince Lyon said, the White Peak Palace’s defenses are beyond precedent. Even at full strength, success would be uncertain, and we’ve suffered severe losses. Cardinal Dominic and I are both out of commission, and Master Grania can no longer fight effectively, either.”

He was right. Though Irexana was in better condition than Dominic, he would still need at least a month of rest before he could fight again. And Grania, still recovering from the wound Edgar had dealt him, was barely hanging on. For a mage—physically weaker than an Aura Master—to have joined the Calelum campaign at all was a miracle.

Leon, weighed down by the grim reality, spoke with frustration.

“So we just... wait? Until the Evil Order and that Morse bastard finish whatever they’re planning?”

“No.”

Irexana’s firm denial caught everyone off guard—enough that even Adela, who had been listening lazily, turned her head in surprise.

“A direct assault on the White Peak Palace is likely impossible with our current strength. But Prince Lyon should be capable of bypassing its security systems. That’s the only wild card we have left.”

“But... Lyon opposed attacking the Palace,” Leon said.

“And rightly so. He might be willing to enter himself and allow his men through, but giving foreign elites free rein within the palace grounds? That would be unthinkable.”

“Ah... of course. I understand now.”

Leon finally realized Lyon’s dilemma. As an imperial royal, Lyon could pass through the palace’s protective wards unharmed. However, an operation of that scale would require the participation of both the Holy Church and the Ferma army.

If he gave them that same access, it would be no different from creating assassins who could infiltrate the imperial residence at will.

“So we’re caught in the trap of politics...” Leon muttered.

“There’s no helping it.”

Leon and Irexana exchanged bitter smiles.

It was inevitable. The Evil Order had sacrificed hundreds of thousands of lives in Calelum for this scheme. No one could predict what catastrophe awaited once their ritual was complete—yet here they were, drawing lines and debating hypotheticals of the future while the world burned in this moment.

“Heh. Pathetic,” Adela scoffed. “Keep this up and the Clyde Empire will be wiped clean off the map.”

It was harsh, but it was even scarier because she wasn’t wrong. Even now, Calelum’s citizens were gone. Completely wiped out. Neighboring nations were advancing, seizing key territories.

Even if Lyon took the throne immediately and tried to stabilize the empire, nearly half the land would already be lost. Another month or two of hesitation, and Clyde would collapse entirely.

“Hero,” Irexana said at last. “I’ll return to Portroi with Cardinal Dominic to monitor the situation. The Holy Iron Inquisitors who are no longer fit for battle will withdraw with us.”

Staying on the front lines with such wounds would only burden the others. Leon knew that as well and nodded silently.

Adela stepped forward, patted Irexana’s shoulder twice, and said, “Then I’ll stay here with Anna. Tell old Lark and that big-eared bastard to get their asses over here if they can.”

“I understand. Neither of them seemed fit to move, but given the circumstances...” Irexana smiled faintly and turned to leave. “Hero, I can only apologize for stepping back after making such grand claims.”

“Your Eminence...”

“May fortune favor you. Saintess, Karen—may you both return victorious, alongside the Hero.”

Leaving those words behind, Irexana walked away, and not once did his stride falter. His mozzetta—the cloak symbolizing a cardinal—was soaked in blood, and his battered frame looked frail enough to collapse at any moment.

Yet no one watching him felt anything other than admiration.

***

In the end, no agreement was reached between the Revolutionary Army and Ferma. The discord that began with a quarrel between Lyon and Valter quickly spread throughout the ranks.

One joint campaign was never going to close the rift between the two historical enemies. Now, soldiers from both sides glared at one another across the campfires, hands resting on their weapons as if the smallest spark might ignite open conflict.

The number of night watchguards skyrocketed. Officially, they were on alert for the Evil Order lurking within the White Peak Palace. However, hardly anyone truly believed that.

“Pathetic fools,” Adela muttered coldly, staring at the flickering lights in the distance.

Even united, they would barely be enough to stand against the Evil Order. Yet here they were, squabbling over pride while acting as if victory were already theirs. To her, it was beyond absurd.

“―――――.”

Sitting beside her, Holy Iron Inquisitor Angela crossed her hands several times in quick, precise motions to communicate. To most, the movements would’ve been too fast to follow, but Adela read them easily.

“What? ‘The fuller your hands, the harder it is to open your fists,’ huh? Not a bad metaphor. There’s an old tale like that, isn’t there? A child reaches into a jar full of sweets, grabs a handful, and can’t pull his arm out until he lets go.”

“―――――――.”

“You don’t need to defend them. If they want to call themselves adults, they should learn to think and realize things for themselves. If someone always has to teach you what’s right, that kind of ignorance is a sin in itself.”

“――――.”

“Fine, fine, I get your point. You’re not wrong. So don’t sulk.”

It was a strange sight—almost endearing. Adela and Angela looked like sisters as they spoke, their communication quick and seamless.

I’ve never seen Lady Angela so lively before, Leon thought.

The last time he’d traveled with her, she’d been utterly stoic. Yet now, before Adela, she fidgeted and gestured like a child. And Adela—normally curt to everyone—was unusually gentle with her, patting her shoulder or brushing her hair as they talked.

Only then did Leon truly feel their bond as mentor and student.

“It’s been a while, Hero,” a man greeted.

Leon turned toward the firelight and blinked in surprise.

“Sir Geoff?”

“Yes. Do you remember me?”

“Of course! You had my back in the mines!”

It was Geoff, the Holy Iron Inquisitor who had fought alongside him during the hunt for the monster Kaleider in the Mirror Canyon. An elite veteran blessed with a high-tier sacred spell, he was the fifth-ranked knight of the Holy Iron Inquisitors. It would be difficult to forget a man of that calibre.

“I’m honored you remember, Hero. To greet you again in person... this is the greatest fortune of my life.”

“Hey, Sir Geoff! You’re not stealing my thunder, are you?”

“Sir Damien! You’re here too,” Leon said, glad to see the familiar faces.

And it wasn’t just them. The moment Geoff stepped forward, nearly thirty Holy Iron Inquisitors who had remained in Calelum gathered around Leon. Unlike Saintesses, who appeared every generation, a Hero had not appeared in three centuries.

There had been pretenders before—those who bore Stigmata or divine power and called themselves Heroes—but Leon was the only true Hero, chosen by the Holy Sword El-Cid.

Among the faithful, this was inevitable.

—Surrounded by muscle-bound knights and women who smell like iron instead of perfume—quite the fan club you’ve got there.

Leon’s eyebrow twitched at El-Cid’s dry laughter as the crowd pressed closer.

Within the Holy Church, the Hero was the Goddess’s chosen representative, the savior of light. Popularity wasn’t the point—faith was. If he commanded them into the jaws of death, they would charge without hesitation.

You’re teasing me, aren’t you?

—Of course, I am.

Leon’s shoulders tensed, and his body gave a slight shiver, just enough for those nearby to notice.

“The Hero is trembling!”

“Add more wood to the fire!”

“Bring him a cloak! No—if there isn’t one, make one!”

“Use my cloak! It’s bear hide, tanned by my own hands!”

The knights panicked over every small movement, their devotion almost overwhelming. Each of them was the kind of person who governed several minor territories, who had faced and defeated countless evils. They were the fangs of the Church—men and women whose faith was proven through endurance and suffering, unmoved by temptation or fear.

And yet here they were, flushed with excitement like boys seeing their childhood idol for the first time.

“To think I’d live to see the true Hero... I can die without regrets.”

“Not me. I’ll only rest easy after fighting beside him in the Holy War.”

“With the Goddess’s blessing, victory will surely be ours.”

Some clasped their hands in prayer, others simply stared in reverent silence, barely daring to blink. The fervor was so overwhelming that Leon’s face turned hot. And the one who rescued him from the situation was Anna.

“Hero, may I please have a word?”

When she asked, the Holy Iron Inquisitors quickly stepped aside and fell silent, unwilling to seem unruly before a Cardinal.

Leon exhaled, finally able to compose himself, and answered, “Of course, Your Eminence. Please, go ahead.”

Anna leaned closer and lowered her voice. “The Revolutionary Army has sent someone.”

“A messenger...?”

“Not quite. It’s Prince Lyon himself. He says he wishes to speak with you privately.”

Leon blinked, uncertain what to make of it, but then recalled Irexana’s words. Perhaps this would be the breakthrough they needed, a way to end the stalemate surrounding the White Peak Palace. That alone was reason enough to meet him.

“I’ll see him.”

Whether or not he could persuade Lyon was uncertain, but standing idle accomplished nothing.

A cold wind swept through the ruins of Calelum, as if mourning the fallen city. Columns of smoke rose where bodies were still being burned. The stench of blood clung to clothing and skin, a suffocating reminder of what had been lost. It was a nightmare made real.

And yet, above it all, the moon shone as bright and clear as ever.