Chapter 114

“I brought the guy as you ordered. Should I leave him here?”

Damien tossed Paul, who he was carrying like a sack, in front of Freide. Paul rolled on the ground, groaning in pain from his broken limbs.

“Good job, Damien. You’re better than me.”

Damien shook his head lightly.

“Not at all. This guy was just slow. And weak. By the way, you said you had something to interrogate him about, right? Should we start now?”

Freide turned her head toward the chapel. About five minutes had passed since the two had rushed in, so news must have spread by now. There wasn’t much time left.

“Yeah, we should. Hey, you. Paul, was it?”

“Ugh… It hurts…!”

Freide grabbed Paul by the scalp and slammed his head into what was left of Jack, then lifted it again. Paul’s face was drenched in Jack’s blood.

“See your friend? If you don’t want to end up like this, answer properly. Got it?”

“J-Jack…?! Aaahhh!!”

Only then did Paul realize what the meaty chunk was and screamed, fainting. Freide, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant smell, slammed his head again. Splattered blood soaked her gloves.

“Got it? Answer me!”

“Y-Yes, ugh…!”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Freide smiled coldly.

—

The interrogation didn’t take long.

“Good work, Paul.”

Freide kicked Paul’s head. He rolled limply on the ground.

Thanks to his cooperative attitude, they had heard everything worth hearing. There were twenty-nine men and twenty women left in the chapel.

Eight captured travelers and twelve women born here. Yes, women born here. These scum were even using their own bloodline.

The basement was said to consist of three rooms: the education room, the breeding pen, and the playroom. Just the names made their purposes disgustingly clear.

Freide spat roughly and slit Paul’s throat with a saw. A reward for his cooperation.

Paul, with his throat torn out, clutched his gushing neck and twitched on the ground.

“What do we do now?”

“Twenty-nine… The two who went ahead will probably panic about the magician or whatever and come running out.”

Freide pointed to the chapel’s main door.

“You block the door first. Make sure it doesn’t open with just one or two people’s strength. Then, when enough enemies gather, open the door and charge straight in. I’ll flank them from the side.”

Freide’s plan was simple yet reasonable. Damien could easily understand her intent.

If both of them charged head-on, the enemies would naturally flee back to the basement. But if Damien took the front and Freide attacked from the side and rear?

They probably wouldn’t find it easy to retreat to the basement.

“Make the first attack as shocking as possible. After that, if possible, aim to cripple their legs rather than kill them.”

“Legs? Not that hard, but why?”

“If they die, they go quiet. Make them scream. Let them drown in fear and chaos. Plus, give the victims a chance for revenge.”

Damien nodded in understanding.

The sound of busy footsteps grew closer. Voices filled with confusion echoed outside the chapel.

Damien and Freide exchanged glances, drew their weapons, and charged.

—

Through the side window, Freide peeked inside.

The dim chapel. Spiderwebs hung here and there on the walls. A small podium stood on the low stage, and the long benches lining the floor were so dusty they looked gray. Beyond the stage, a passage leading to the back room gaped wide.

‘The basement must be over there.’

A faint crimson light flickered, as if candles were lit inside.

Black shadows moved busily beyond the light on the walls. The enemies.

One by one, men began to pour out. Men armed with spears, swords, and pitchforks. Most were trembling with fear and tension.

Some, oddly enough, had proper weapons and armor, likely looted from adventurers. Not that it mattered if they lacked the skill to use them, but it was probably some kind of show-off thing.

Freide waited patiently. Until more than twenty gathered.

The men at the front, spotting the burning village, screamed in shock. Understandable, as the flames had now engulfed the entire village.

Freide sighed inwardly.

‘Even seeing it again, they really went all out… Did they not think about the aftermath?’

Sure, setting fires would make it easier to hunt them down. But what about the cleanup later?

The flames could easily spread from the village to the fields. And even if they didn’t, where would they put the rescued women after burning down the village? In this chapel, which was like hell to them?

‘Sigh… They probably didn’t think that far.’

From what Freide had seen, Hashal wasn’t exactly dumb—in fact, she was more intelligent than expected—but there was something oddly airheaded about her, maybe due to a difference in perspective.

Freide turned her attention back to the chapel.

He turned his gaze.

Before he knew it, more than ten men were walking out in a line, like a swarm of ants whose nest had collapsed.

The man at the front grabbed the chapel door handle and pushed.

But the door didn’t budge an inch.

The man tilted his head, puzzled, and pushed again with all his might, but the chapel door just rattled as if blocked by something.

Panicked, the man shook the handle wildly.

It wasn’t bolted. The chapel door was designed to lock from the inside.

Then why?

The word “magic” flashed through his mind.

Earlier, the scouts they had sent out had come back in a panic, screaming about a magician appearing.

“Did a magician really show up?”

The man broke into a cold sweat and rammed the door with his shoulder.

Still, it didn’t move. It had to be some trick of the magician.

“What are you doing?! Open the door now!”

An old man, impatiently stomping his feet from behind, shouted.

“It won’t open! No matter how hard I push!”

At the man’s fearful voice, the old man, momentarily flustered, looked around at the young men nearby.

“Everyone, grab on! Open the door or break it down!”

About a dozen villagers all clung to the door at once.

Damien’s body, which had been blocking the door, began to shake slightly.

As time dragged on while they tried to open the door, the chapel was now filled with people.

Freide, confirming that no more people were coming out, steadied her breath and gestured to Damien.

Damien raised his greatsword behind his back.

Countless myths say that lightning is the heavens’ punishment for sinners.

Like a bolt of lightning, the greatsword swung down, splitting everything in front of it in half.

—

The men’s breaths stopped.

The black arc that smashed through the door swept past the people clinging to it.

Eight upper bodies spun through the air, leaving their lower halves behind.

With their arms spread and guts spilling out, they looked almost like a row of windmills.

Blood poured down like rain, soaking the floor.

The boy gripping the bloodied greatsword charged at them.

The two men at the front were cut down before they could even react, their legs severed as they tumbled to the ground.

“What, what the hell is this?!”

The panicked men raised their weapons.

Not out of courage, but out of fear-driven instinct.

No one had the guts to attack after seeing people being sliced apart right before their eyes.

Except for one.

“Move aside, you fools!”

“Ah…! Eric!”

A particularly large man stepped forward. He wielded a greatsword with a hint of black iron and wore steel armor.

It probably wasn’t his own gear, likely donated by some careless adventurer.

He seemed to be their leader, at least at the level of a squire.

Yes, just a squire.

Damien charged at the man called Eric without hesitation.

“You little brat!”

Eric swung his greatsword down.

A vertical slash, as rough as splitting firewood.

Damien stomped his left foot hard and swung his black iron greatsword diagonally.

There was no reason to dodge.

The clashing steel let out a scream-like roar.

Eric’s arm, unable to withstand the impact, was flung upward.

His halved greatsword soared into the air and embedded itself in the chapel ceiling.

“Ugh…!”

Eric groaned in panic.

The following black arc slammed into his torso.

– Crunch!

The steel armor crumpled and tore apart. The black iron greatsword, having crushed the armor, dug into Eric’s waist.

Eric, more than half his waist severed, convulsed as blood gushed from his side.

Damien kicked him and pulled out the greatsword. Eric’s body collapsed lifelessly.

“Guh…”

With a weak groan, Eric slumped over.

He died without even leaving a last word.

“E-Eric…!”

The pale-faced men stared in disbelief at the scene.

To them, Eric, the village leader who had seemed stronger than anyone, had lost his life so easily in just two attacks.

Only one word came to everyone’s mind.

Knight.

The Empire’s blade.

For centuries, they had studied nothing but how to kill, the enemies of evil.

“A knight! A real knight!!”

A few men, quickly regaining their senses, turned to flee to the basement.

It was the moment Freide had been waiting for.

– Crash!

Shattering the chapel window, Freide leapt in like a ghost.

Shards of glass pierced the men’s bodies.

They screamed.