Even a Scoundrel Gets Tired

55 – The Lunar Order

As the black-clad man finished speaking, the Pope felt a trace of demonic energy.

And at the same moment, the enormous arms he had created screamed.

As if his very existence offered a rebuff.

“…Are you of the Mazoku, perhaps?”

“Hahaha, Mazoku you say? The Benefactor would be quite disappointed to hear that.”

With those words, he shrugged off the Pope’s arms as if tossing a weightless ball.

Though they surely possessed considerable mass, he handled them as if they were a child’s limbs.

The Pope clicked his tongue, then brought his arms down once more in the same manner.

There was, of course, a difference this time.

Unlike before, the density of the holy power composing his arms had become incomparably thicker,

and with it, the weight of his arms had increased.

Moreover, the manipulation of the holy power had also been accelerated,

causing the movement of the arms, composed solely of holy power, to become much faster.

Increased force from increased weight and increased speed.

Arms wielding a power of an entirely different magnitude crashed down once again.

The Order had surrounded the grounds with spare holy power to protect against the complete collapse of the earth,

so it would not crumble even with all of his strength.

“Hmm, this might be a little dangerous…”

“I hadn’t realized the Pope was capable of this much.”

“Ha… hahaha… well, still, if it’s Lord Herkal…”

As they watched the arms bear down upon them,

the black-clad man, the elder, and Antonio spoke in turn.

The black-clad man and the elder spoke as if it were nothing of consequence,

but for Antonio, the scene was rather shocking.

Even as a man who once learned holy power and devoted himself to the priesthood,

such a spectacle was all but impossible.

To raise the density of holy power to such an extent was a feat beyond human comprehension,

yet to increase the speed of its manipulation while doing so?

Anyone who had even briefly entered the Order and learned holy power would know

how much concentration was required to increase the speed of manipulation.

And could it be solved with just concentration alone?

That too, could not be said to be true.

No matter how much a person trains their body and continues to practice a particular skill,

could they increase the speed at which blood flows through their own veins?

One hundred out of one hundred people would say that it was absolutely impossible, and the same was true for the speed of manipulating holy power.

Thus, unlike Antonio, who was purely admiring the spectacle,

the Pope who was performing this feat was having a rather miserable time.

As Antonio thought, performing these two actions simultaneously

was an exceedingly difficult task.

He had somehow made it possible by imbuing an immense amount of holy power into his body,

but that did not mean that the Pope’s body was without strain.

It felt as if every nook and cranny of his body was bursting apart, bit by bit.

It felt as though each delicate nerve was being pierced with a keen needle.

‘..Must end this quickly, the Saintess might also be entangled with those fiends.’

“For the peace of the Empire, you will die here now.”

“Haha.. This isn’t normally the strength I’d be using, but—”

Before the seemingly unhurried man could finish his sentence,

both arms slammed down with a *clang*, scattering debris across the floor.

And that was not all.

As he struck downwards, the Pope unleashed a torrent of high-density divine power.

These arms were formed with massive and dense Divine power, after all,

The destructive power of that explosion defied imagination.

Beautiful stained-glass windows and rubble shattered and crumbled from the explosive gale.

The smoke from the explosion, thicker than the dust a moment before,

filled the cathedral’s interior before slowly seeping out through cracks in the walls.

The Pope, catching his hat before it flew off, brushed the dust from his white robes

and offered a brief moment of silent prayer.

“Even a peaceful rest in His name would be too good for you, so to Hell you go…”

Though he never uttered those words of mourning aloud.

Though heavily wounded and barely able to stand, the Pope was deeply satisfied.

He had managed to capture the ones seemingly responsible for this incident, despite this grave injury.

At least the souls of the slain faithful could find some solace, he thought.

With that, he began his unsteady trek in search of the Saintess.

If the words of that traitor were to be believed, she was being held captive by those fiends.

As he turned his back on the now acrid-smelling smoke,

an unsettling sensation washed over him.

The feeling that something was tearing through the smoke, hurtling towards him.

Without turning around, he enveloped his entire body in divine power,

a *ting* sound echoed from behind as something fell and struck the floor.

“Hoo… Quite impressive, aren’t you.”

“..How are you still alive?”

The smoke parted once more.

This time, it wasn’t something flying through, but rather being rent asunder within the smoke itself.

The smoke cleared in an instant,

revealing the black-clad men, appearing impossibly unscathed.

“Answer me, how are you still alive?”

“Oh my, now you’re even emitting murderous intent, are you?”

“Spare me the idle chatter and answer the question…!”

As if in response to the Pope’s growing bloodlust,

a black haze swirled from the black-clad man’s hand.

The difference from the previous dark energy was that it was coveting the divine power.

No, was it more accurate to say that it was devouring it?

The tendrils of that dark energy, like mouths, were devouring the surrounding divine power, and what it consumed vanished completely.

“Impressive indeed. To think, even with this, I needed Hercal’s aid.”

“What is that?”

“The grace bestowed upon us. Perhaps you’re interested?”

“Get lost.”

He was taken aback, of course, but paid it no mind.

If once wasn’t enough, he’d strike again and again.

Once more, a colossal arm sprouted from behind the Pope, reaching for them.

Though the control wasn’t as precise as before, it was still a force to be reckoned with, enough to weather the attack.

That thought vanished with the scene before him.

From behind the man in front, an arm identical to his own emerged, blocking the assault.

Gone was the radiant, holy color that filled one with reverence, replaced by a repugnant, black arm that sent shivers crawling across his skin.

The Pope’s mouth fell open on its own accord.

Seeing this, the dark-clad man chuckled, a sound of perverse satisfaction.

He wore an expression of such bliss, it was hard to believe he was responsible for so much carnage.

The Pope found it deeply unsettling.

“What’s so amusing…?”

“Heh heh… Ah, apologies. Did I offend you?”

“My mood is perpetually foul. Just answer the question.”

The Pope barely managed to keep the simmering rage from his face, continuing the conversation, prompting another laugh from the dark man.

The Pope’s expression soured further.

The dark man, seeing the Pope’s now unconcealable scowl, erupted into unrestrained laughter.

“Kee hee hee hee…”

“What… is so… laughable…?!”

“Ah, isn’t it funny? To witness the technique you believed only you could wield, replicated right before your eyes, leaving you utterly dumbfounded?”

It was, undeniably, a startling development.

He didn’t know the exact nature of that dark energy, but most of the Pope’s techniques relied on divine power and faith as their foundation.

Even if one somehow managed to acquire divine power, pilfering it like a thief, shaping and manipulating it should be impossible for anyone but a priest.

The handling of divine power was rooted in faith, after all.

Even if he possessed divine power, it shouldn’t respond without faith.

So, did he have faith?

No, that was equally impossible to believe.

Of course, countless gods graced the world, perhaps even some unknown to the Pontiff himself. But faith, at its core, was reverence for the divine.

Could a man who held such reverence desecrate a rival order in this way?

Judging by his actions, he shouldn’t possess any divine power at all.

So, how in God’s name did he wield techniques identical to his own?

“…You. State your name and the order to which you belong.”

“Hmm? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t feign ignorance. Never have I seen a follower like you within these walls.

You must be a priest of a god unlike any we know.”

He pressed on, for only that could explain the man’s ability to manipulate divine energy.

The man responded with a bright, disarming smile.

“Ah, it seems we’ve neglected to introduce ourselves. My apologies.”

As he spoke, a subtle breeze stirred around them.

In an instant, the old man called Herkal and Antonio flanked the man on either side.

The dark-haired man gave a small nod, and they bowed their heads slightly in turn, beginning their introductions.

“Antonio, of the Moon’s Order, belonging to the Silver Crescent.”

“Herkal, priest of the Moon’s Order, of the Half-Moon. Please, call me Herkal…”

“…What?”

The Pontiff’s shocked reaction was perfectly understandable.

As the Pontiff, he held in his memory the names and titles of most gods.

But in all his knowledge, no god of the moon existed.

He had assumed they were simply withholding information, and was about to resume the fight when the scene unfolding before him brought him to a halt.

The dark-haired man in the center stepped forward.

His confident stride brought a wry smile to the Pontiff’s lips.

“The Moon’s Order, a religion I’ve never heard of, and affiliations like Silver Crescent and Half-Moon that make no sense.

Are you going to tell me you’re one of the Seven Deadly Sins now?”

“Hmm? How did you know?”

“…?”

This was not the response he expected.

The Pontiff’s brow furrowed deeper at the man’s affirmative reaction.

Unfazed by the Pontiff’s increasingly contorted expression,

the man maintained his faint smile and continued his introduction.

“Greed, of the Moon’s Order, belonging to the Full Moon, and “Apostle” of the Seven Deadly Sins.

My name is Grid, Your Holiness.”

*

“Saintess, bandages and medicine over here, please!”

“Saintess, me… too… augh…!”

“Yes! I’m coming!”

A living hell.

Truly, that single phrase embodied the scene with dreadful accuracy.

Amidst the chaos, a saint moved with surprising agility, tending to the wounded.

For reasons unknown, the number of black-clad figures dwindled,

and the tide of battle abruptly favored the Order,

granting them precious moments to safely administer aid.

Still, the injured were too many to count,

and screams echoed from every direction.

Those with the luxury of time focused on healing,

the saint among them.

Her bracelet, for some reason, prevented her divine power from flowing,

and inexplicably, it wouldn’t come off, making direct blessings or treatments impossible.

Yet, she diligently took on menial tasks, like fetching water-soaked cloths,

continuing to aid the wounded in her own way.

And there was more.

Her small frame flitting about, her earnest efforts to assist,

inspired respect in the priests and paladins, boosting their morale.

“Saintess… even without her divine power, she toils so tirelessly…”

“The Saintess exerts herself so! Can we afford to stand idly by?!”

“Nay, we cannot!”

The will of the knights guarding the perimeter and the priests administering aid surged instinctively;

it was nothing short of a broad-area restorative.

That brief moment of camaraderie was shattered by an explosion in the distance.

From the direction of the Cathedral, a sound they knew all too well.

“Ghkk, are they defiling even this sacred place?!”

“Have they no fear of the divine, these wretches?!”

As many priests and paladins seethed with rage at their unconscionable actions,

the sound of bandages and medicine falling reached their ears.

“Your Holiness…?”

His eyes darted around, full of purpose.