Elijah, now cast down from his place as Saint, stood atop the central spire of the fortress with a grave expression. The enemy's response had been far too swift. According to the scouts' reports, the empire's forces were already positioned along the southern kingdom's border. Those pathetic southern kingdoms had surrendered their frontlines far too easily. Never in his wildest dreams had Elijah imagined the empire would mobilize at such speed. "...Wretched vermin," Elijah muttered. He wondered where it had all gone wrong. The empire should have remained mired in chaos for a while longer. The demon's dominion over the Imperial Palace should have split the nation in two and thrown it into civil war. In that time, the Holy Kingdom would have conquered the southern realms and eventually devoured the weakened empire as well. But everything had crumbled. And at the heart of every failed plan stood that accursed Caron Leston. I should have killed him back then, Elijah thought, clenching his fists as he recalled their first encounter in the Southern Great Forest. Even if it meant war with the elves, he should have eliminated that revolting man. Then perhaps everything could have unfolded as it was meant to. But instead, Caron Leston had shattered the glorious vision of the Holy Kingdom's future. He had rescued the Saintess who should have died in the Pajar Sultanate and returned her alive. He had been officially anointed the Warrior. Even Uriel—whom they had seduced with forbidden demonic arts—had inexplicably defected to Caron's side. Uriel was supposed to accelerate our plans by years, Elijah thought bitterly. He cursed the name of Caron Leston to the void several times. A voice broke through his storm of thoughts. A man, a nameless, incompetent commander, had climbed the spire in haste. "What is it?" Elijah asked coldly. "There is unrest among the troops! Warrior Caron Leston—no, that cursed demon—has been relentlessly preaching at our gates for days. His words are crushing the soldiers' morale!" the man shouted. "...Hah," Elijah sighed. Even this was an insult. Ragheim Fortress had been stocked with ample provisions in preparation for a prolonged crusade. The outer walls, blessed and reinforced with holy power, were nearly unbreakable. Elijah and the clergy of the Order of Truth had planned a slow, grinding war of attrition. It would have worn down morale, divided the populace, and eventually created the perfect opening. But once again, that expectation had failed miserably. "Caron Leston, Caron Leston, Caron Leston!" Elijah hissed, pounding his fist on the desk. The rare display of fury from the Saint made the commander freeze in place. "Must our glorious mission to drape this continent in divine light be halted by a madman like him?!" Elijah shouted. Bloodshot eyes burning with rage, he clenched his fists more tightly. He had to turn the tide. Ragheim was a fortress of iron, built to withstand the flames of a crusade. If they could hold out, another solution could present itself. Fortunately, the Order of Truth had many loyal believers under its wing—among them were a number of inquisitors skilled in subterfuge and covert operations. At last, Elijah came to a decision. He declared, "I authorize Operation Ragnarok." Ragnarok was an operation to unleash the relics secretly developed by the Order of Truth. The scholars of the Order of Truth had modeled artificial lifeforms after demons, in order to fight demonic monsters with demonic monsters. Some clergy had named these abominations "relics." Letting them loose would drown the Holy Kingdom in screams and terror. Even the Pope, who had amassed a great force, would be forced to withdraw troops just to protect the homeland. But there would be a cost. "...Saint Elijah," the commander said hesitantly. "The Holy Kingdom will suffer. We still cannot properly control the relics. Innocent believers will..." The blood of their own people would stain the land. The relics, saturated with Perverse Mana, could tear apart even paladins. If those monsters were unleashed, the casualties would be immense. But Elijah's eyes held no hesitation. He said, "If their sacrifice can shield the Holy Kingdom from the hands of demons, then I shall accept it." He thought the Light would surely understand. To remake a nation, sacrifice was inevitable. If he could rebuild the Holy Kingdom with the blood of its faithful, he was willing to walk that path. Perhaps it was the resolve in Elijah's voice, or simply fear, but the commander offered no further protest. He replied, "...Understood." He, too, knew what awaited if Elijah failed. Elijah and his family would be burned at the stake. This wasn't a war they could afford to lose. Survival depended on victory. That thought clouded the commander's vision. Chapters first released on novel_fіre.net "Commander," Elijah ordered, "Execute a portion of the troops who have been swayed by that demon's silver tongue." It was a brutal command. "Those who are seduced by heresy have no place in the Holy Kingdom's future. Only those armed with unwavering faith and unshakable souls shall earn the right to paradise," Elijah continued. Executing a few as an example would quiet the unrest. The soldiers would be gripped by fear—but fear was preferable to collapse. Elijah turned once more to gaze down from the spire. He continued, "The Light never gives us trials beyond our strength. Through this ordeal, we shall draw closer to Him." A twisted smile crept across his lips as he imagined Caron watching from beyond the fortress walls. "You will gain nothing from us," Elijah said. But Elijah didn't yet understand. He didn't grasp how deeply Caron Leston had carved his image into the soldiers' hearts. Elijah didn't know how rumors of the undying Warrior—resurrected again and again—were shaking the fortress to its foundations. Unfortunately for Elijah, Caron was the kind of man who could slip through even the smallest crack—and once inside, he would never let go. At that moment, Elijah had no idea what madness Caron was preparing next. Meanwhile, Caron was speaking with Sir Zerath through the communication orb. "Sir Zerath, how are things going? Is the operation progressing well?" Caron asked. "We've secured more than half the designated zones," Zerath reported. "The Imperial Guards are highly motivated and performing well. Sir Lahart says it's a great chance to gain real combat experience. Their contribution is significant." "We'll have to make sure the Oceanwolf Knight Order keeps up as well," Caron said with a smile. "The Oceanwolf Knight Order will not be outdone by the Imperial Guards. I'll report as soon as the situation is fully under control," Zerath replied. "I'll be expecting it," Caron said. As the connection ended, Leo, who had been listening quietly, spoke with a lazy drawl. "I was tense at first, thinking we'd be up against crazed fanatics. But now that we've seen them? They're barely scarecrows." Caron chuckled lightly and said, "There's a saying for that. Frogs in a well. All that 'Saint this' and 'Saint that' made them believe they were something grand." Just as only someone who had eaten good bread knew how to enjoy it, war, too, favored the seasoned. Even Ragnarok, the last resort prepared by the Order of Truth, had already been exposed by Caron. It had taken considerable effort to uncover such an absurd plan. Most of the high-ranking members of the Order of Truth who had remained in the Vatican had their minds shattered by the Ring of Betrayal. "Seriously, they're revolting little fanatics," Caron muttered. Releasing monsters to throw the rear lines into chaos—well, from a tactical standpoint, it wasn't the worst move to buy time. But the price would be innocent civilians slaughtered in the name of strategy. If one were to go mad, they should at least do it beautifully—but Elijah had gone mad in the most repulsive way. Thanks to gathering information on Ragnarok in advance, Caron had already mobilized strike teams. The Oceanwolf Knight Order and the Imperial Guards had been dispatched to various regions of the Holy Kingdom. Sir Zerath and Sir Lahart themselves were leading operations. 8-Star knights weren't something the other side could contend with. Perhaps there were paladins close to that level, but not ones capable of stopping Sir Zerath or Sir Lahart. And now, even Beatrice had joined Caron's side. Caron poured himself a drink with a crooked smile before saying, "Victory doesn't always come from fighting. You know what the best outcome is, Leo?" "What is it?" Leo asked. "Winning without any losses," Caron answered. Every one of Elijah's plays had been read. His only remaining future was to be trapped in that iron fortress and meet his end. "This is why suckers who don't know the world are the easiest prey," Caron said with a smirk. Elijah was a perfect scarecrow. He had weight and he was loud, but he was predictable. All of this stemmed from one simple fact: He had no real battlefield experience. If he had been seasoned in war or rebellion, things could have spiraled out of Caron's control. But Elijah had grown complacent, believing the Holy Kingdom rested in the palm of his hand. That arrogance had led the noose to tighten around his neck. And once again, Caron had a feast laid before him. As Caron licked his lips in thought, Beatrice walked into the tent. "Caron," she said flatly. "There are reports of executions inside the fortress." It was exactly the news Caron had been waiting for. Executions meant fear. Fear meant unrest among the soldiers inside the fortress. Although he had expected it, the confirmation still left a bitter taste. "Not surprising, but unpleasant nonetheless," Caron murmured. Using fear to control one's own soldiers—nothing good ever came from that. His "Shock and Fear" strategy had succeeded, but it didn't feel like a true victory. Caron closed his eyes for a moment, silently offering a prayer for the executed soldiers, then tapped the table with his fingers. He instructed, "Starting from today, let's move on to the next phase." The decoy propaganda using his clones had worked better than he expected. Now it was time to take a step forward. Beatrice, aware of what that step entailed, frowned and asked, "Is it really necessary to take such a risk?" "I've spent an entire week playing with clones. At this point, even if I show up myself, they'll assume I'm a fake. Besides, at this distance, I can escape any situation," Caron answered. He pointed to a symbol etched on the tent wall—a black wolf-shaped sigil that looked as though it had been painted in ink. It was the mark of Pluto. Now that Pluto's powers had grown, Caron could teleport from far greater distances, though he was still limited to one mark at a time. Beatrice let out a small sigh as she looked at him, muttering under her breath, "Still the same..." "No need to worry about me—" Caron began, but was cut off. "Oh, shut up. You just want to hog all the fun again. Gobbling up all the juicy parts like always," Beatrice interrupted. She was right on the mark. Caron shrugged playfully, then said, "This is all just my heartfelt way of minimizing casualties. Don't slander my noble intentions, Dame Beatrice." He finished the bottle and stood, casually grabbing his gear—including his trusted Guillotine. "Time to head out," Caron said. Now came the climax of this whole performance. Caron dispelled the alcohol from his body with a flick of magic and stretched, refreshed. He said, "I'll open the gates myself. Dame Beatrice, prepare to charge." He'd never planned to stop at mere propaganda. His goal was to win this war effortlessly. With that grin that only he could pull off, Caron stepped out of the tent and into the night. The low-ranking soldier, Lugal, trembled as he watched the horrifying scene unfold before his eyes. "This is the fate of those who have fallen to the demons!" someone shouted. "Aaaaaagh!" came the scream of one of the condemned. The execution was taking place atop pyres. Crimson flames devoured the bodies of the accused, their screams piercing the air in every direction. It was a brutally gruesome sight. Those burning soldiers had, until just yesterday, been comrades—men who had shared meals and laughter. Damn those bastards, Lugal thought, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his flesh. But even that pain was nothing compared to the fury boiling inside him. He wasn't a fool. Anyone with eyes could see what this meant. The higher-ups were trying to control the troops through sheer terror. The atmosphere within the fortress had grown uneasy, and now, as a show of force, a few soldiers had been selected and burned alive—examples made to instill fear in the rest. How can those who claim to follow the Light commit something so monstrous? Lugal thought bitterly. He couldn't stop the image that flashed before his eyes. The warrior he had seen standing beneath the fortress wall. The one who had ceaselessly appeared, preaching the will of the Light. He wondered if that man would have chosen to do this. ...No way, Lugal thought. That Warrior—he hadn't killed a single soldier. He had simply returned, over and over, extending conversation, showing patience. And through that persistence, many of the soldiers had grown to admire him, captivated by the sincerity in his words and demeanor. Rumor had it that he was so powerful, he had even defeated Dame Uriel. If he had chosen to strike with his sword, the casualties would have been immense. Lugal bit his lip hard as he stared at his comrades burning alive. He wished for the Warrior to take this place. He wished the Warrior would conquer it and deliver the soldiers from the cruelty of the heretics who ruled it now. "O Light..." Lugal whispered with a sigh. And he wasn't alone. Other soldiers nearby were muttering the same quiet prayers. "Follow the Light! Do not be deceived by the tongue of the demon masquerading as the Warrior!" a fanatic shouted. Fear had indeed crept into the soldiers' hearts. But along with that fear came anger. More and more, they longed for salvation. They prayed desperately—for someone to overturn this living hell, for someone to lead them out of it. O Light, have mercy upon us, Lugal thought. And at that moment... "Brother," a quiet voice called to him. Lugal slowly turned his head toward the speaker. His jaw went slack and he murmured, "...Huh?" Standing next to him was someone who shouldn't have been there. "Brother, I've come to help you," the man said softly. "...Y-You... W-Warrior...?" Lugal stuttered. "Now is the time to bring down these devilish tyrants. Will you lend me your strength?" the man asked. The Warrior chosen by the Light extended his hand to Lugal. "Take my hand, brother," Caron said. "I will free you from this hell." Caron Leston, the youngest son of the house of rebellion, had returned once more—to start a new uprising.