Deep within the Tower of Judgment, in the damp, cold Interrogation Chamber.
The air was thick with the stench of blood, rust, and the foul odor of soiled excrement.
The walls were adorned with a variety of gruesome instruments of torture, their cold surfaces gleaming under the dim light of magical torches.
In front of a man stripped of his shirt and bound to a cross-shaped rack stood Ingrid von Astrea, Captain of the Knights of the Goddess’ Crown.
The man was battered and bruised, long since unconscious, with only his chest rising and falling faintly.
Ingrid’s pale, delicate face was flushed unnaturally red, golden curls plastered to her temples with sweat.
She breathed heavily, her eyes—like the purest sapphire—burning with a twisted, almost manic excitement.
The spiked tip of the whip in her hand still dripped with a mixture of blood and sweat.
“Speak… tell me where the witch is hiding…”
Her voice trembled like a soft, panting gasp, as if she had just experienced an exquisite pleasure.
“I told you to speak, didn’t you hear me?”
She raised the whip again, its whistle cutting sharply through the air before lashing mercilessly against the man’s shredded back!
Smack!
The sound of flesh tearing echoed, but the man only twitched, unable even to moan.
Ingrid halted, the tide of excitement in her eyes receding like a retreating wave, replaced by an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness and irritation.
The whip slipped from her hand, clattering onto the cold, damp stone floor.
Not enough… still not enough.
The pitiful howls and surrender of such a worthless life brought only the fleeting numbness of cheap alcohol, soon replaced by a deeper void.
She looked at the nearly lifeless shell before her, yet uncontrollably, another face rose in her mind—a face that had humiliated her in Windmill Village, dripping with arrogance and blasphemy: Eileen Raven’s face!
What goddess’s will could possibly stand on ‘my’ side? It had to be a coincidence—a silhouette traced in the pouring rain, elegantly holding an umbrella…
Silver hair, purple eyes—within Ingrid’s twisted memories, those colors warped into something even more hateful.
That fearless, even pitying and mocking expression! And that damned brat, the one who had confessed to being a witch right before her!
All of it gnawed at her pride and her sick craving for control like worms in the bone, day and night.
“Eileen…” Ingrid murmured, extending a finger clad in a black leather glove to lightly brush the wounds on the man’s back, as if caressing a precious work of art, her eyes shining with an even more twisted light.
“Only you… only by seeing you cry, beg, and crawl like a dog before me… can I be satisfied… can I wash away the shame you brought me…”
Her breathing grew rapid again, a dizzy smile mixing desire and bitterness blooming on her face.
But then, reason doused her like a bucket of cold water.
Eileen was the daughter of a royal marquis! The daughter of Marquis Cecil, a powerful general.
Without irrefutable evidence enough to silence all whispers, even as Captain of the Knights of the Goddess’ Crown, Ingrid could not openly arrest a noble heiress of such status!
Not to mention Marquis Raven’s prestige in the kingdom’s army…
“…This hateful feeling.” Ingrid slammed her fist violently against the nearby rack of torture instruments, a deafening clang ringing out.
Her desire unfulfilled, her mood soured to the extreme, like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
At that moment, the heavy iron door was silently pushed open.
An elderly man clad in faded, old-fashioned Church Knight armor, slightly stooped but with eyes sharp as an eagle’s, stood in the doorway.
He was none other than Augusta Brunswick, Vice-Captain of the Knights of the Goddess’ Crown, respectfully called “Teacher” by the younger knights.
Augusta’s gaze swept over the dying prisoner on the rack, then rested on Ingrid’s blood- and sweat-stained, excited yet twisted face.
His weathered brows furrowed deeply, his lined face etched with disapproval and profound concern.
“Captain Ingrid.” Augusta’s voice was low and hoarse, bearing the calmness of one who had weathered many storms.
Ingrid immediately reined in her madness, swiftly replacing it with an almost flawless expression of respect tinged with just the right amount of weary fatigue.
She turned and gave a slight bow. “Uncle, what brings you here?”
She addressed Augusta as “Uncle” because he had been an old acquaintance of her late father.
Yet beneath this outward respect lay an indescribable disdain and annoyance.
An old relic clinging to his age and rigid thoughts! Ingrid sneered inwardly.
He used his seniority to constantly hinder her within the order!
The younger knights, though she was the captain, instinctively sought his approval first when issuing orders!
As if she were a mere figurehead! How could she not hate it? If not for her father’s memory and Augusta’s immense influence among the lower ranks, she would have long ago…
Augusta ignored Ingrid’s greeting, his gaze fixed on the prisoner as he spoke admonishingly:
“Captain, the teachings of the gods are to guide the lost lambs, not to indulge in excessive punishment. Dwelling in the shadows of the Interrogation Chamber will only soil your soul. The knight’s sword should strike true evil in the sunlight.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Ingrid lowered her eyes, concealing a fleeting sneer and impatience. Her voice was meek, like a lamb’s: “I only… worry about the witch’s whereabouts and am eager to ease the burden on the gods. My methods may have been… extreme. I will be more careful.”
The false promise was something she had long mastered.
Augusta gave her a long look, seemingly seeing through her pretense, but finally sighed without further comment.
He spoke in a low voice: “Lord Heinrich, the Chief Inquisitor, has summoned you. There is an important mission to be assigned. Please proceed to the office at the top of the tower immediately.”
Chief Inquisitor Heinrich!
The name struck through the darkness in Ingrid’s heart like lightning! Her eyes flared with an uncontrollable, almost fanatical reverence!
That man—the angel of judgment walking among mortals, wielding supreme authority to purify all defilement!
Before him, she was always the most devout of believers!
“Yes! I will go immediately!” Ingrid’s voice trembled with barely concealed excitement and anticipation.
She didn’t even bother to tidy herself, tossing the bloodied whip aside carelessly as she hurried out of the nauseating Interrogation Chamber.
*****
Atop the Tower of Judgment, the Chief Inquisitor’s office.
Outside the vast floor-to-ceiling window, the sunset bathed the sky in a magnificent yet mournful crimson.
The room was unlit by candles, most of the space submerged in shadow.
Heinrich Ishtal sat in his large, high-backed chair crafted from black ebony, his back to the door and facing the blood-red sunset.
Against the backlight, his gaunt figure stretched long, seeming to merge with the crimson sky beyond.
His all-black Inquisitor’s robe blended almost seamlessly with the shadows, save for the exquisite silver thorns and cross patterns at his collar and cuffs, reflecting the dim light with a cold gleam.
He exuded an indescribable, transcendent, cold, and sacred authority.
In Ingrid’s eyes, at this moment, Heinrich was like an angel seated upon the divine throne, ready to pronounce the final judgment!
Ah, Chief Inquisitor, your appearance today is as impeccable as ever!
“Chief Inquisitor!” Ingrid dropped to one knee, her posture reverent and voice filled with awe.
“Rise, Ingrid.” Heinrich’s voice rasped like sandpaper, calm and unruffled.
He slowly turned around, his face weathered like dried orange peel looking even more sinister in the shadows.
His murky gray eyes scanned Ingrid, causing her to unconsciously hold her breath.
Only then did Ingrid notice there was someone else in the office.
Standing in a shadowed corner was a tall, upright figure clad in a well-tailored, mithril-shining light knight armor.
At her waist hung an ancient-style longsword, its scabbard inscribed with intricate, sacred runes.
Her fiery orange-red hair glowed in harmony with the fading sunset light.
Her features were exquisitely sculpted, as if crafted by a divine artisan, yet those equally orange eyes held a piercing sharpness and… a barely perceptible pure hunger for battle.
She was Yanas, hailed as the Church’s once-in-a-millennium prodigy and Captain of the “Sword of the Goddess” Knights—well known within the Holy Capital and even sharing some common interests with Ingrid.
Yanas cast a brief glance at Ingrid, nodded slightly in acknowledgment, then redirected her gaze to Heinrich with a questioning look.
“Everyone is here,” Heinrich said, his gaunt fingers tapping lightly on the desk.
He picked up a parchment scroll, which appeared to bear a portrait.
Unrolling it, he pushed it across the desk closer to Ingrid and Yanas.
“A few days ago, we captured a key member of the ‘Shadow Sword Corps.’ After ‘necessary’ interrogation, he revealed this…” Heinrich’s voice carried a barely restrained excitement, “the true visage of the ‘Great Witch’ we have been pursuing—the one responsible for multiple catastrophic devastations, blasphemy against the gods, and inciting heresy!”
Ingrid and Yanas stepped forward simultaneously to look at the charcoal-sketch portrait on the parchment.
The drawing was simple yet vividly expressive. It depicted a girl who looked only thirteen or fourteen, with long pale golden hair, large doe-like eyes filled with fear, a face still carrying a hint of baby fat, shy and even pitiful.
But as Ingrid’s eyes took in the face clearly, her pupils suddenly constricted! Her heart felt as if gripped tightly by an invisible hand!
That face… that face she could never mistake!
Windmill Village! That damned brat!
The same one who had confessed to being a witch right before her, under Eileen’s “protection”!
What was her name again?
Right, Rita!
“It’s… her?!” Ingrid cried out, her voice distorted by shock and the wild joy that followed.
“Chief Inquisitor! I recognize her! In Windmill Village! It’s her! That brat confessed to being a witch herself! Back then… back then Eileen Raven, daughter of Marquis Raven, was there. She… she sheltered the witch! And humiliated the knights carrying out their duty!”
Images of humiliation flashed repeatedly—the wounds from falling off her horse had healed, but Ingrid still felt a dull ache!
A surge of regret overwhelmed her—she had dismissed it all as childish nonsense and had even been intimidated by Eileen’s aura, never investigating further! She had missed such a great opportunity!
Heinrich’s murky gray eyes suddenly blazed with terrifying light.
“Oh? Windmill Village? Eileen Raven? Sheltering a witch?!”
He rose abruptly, his gaunt frame suddenly exuding formidable presence.
“Ingrid! Are you certain?!”
“Absolutely! Chief Inquisitor! I swear on my honor as a knight!” Ingrid’s excitement made her voice tremble.
An opportunity! A tremendous chance! Not only to capture the true witch and gain great merit but also to drag that damned Eileen Raven down with her! Two birds with one stone!
The joy surged instantly, quickening her breath.
Yanas, standing beside her, narrowed her eyes slightly and softly murmured “Eileen,” as if pondering something.
“Excellent!” Heinrich’s voice turned icy and filled with killing intent. “The witch has revealed herself, and those who shelter her share the same guilt! This is the grave sin of blasphemy! Ingrid! Yanas!”
“Here!” they answered in unison.
“I hereby order you! Immediately assemble the elite forces of both the ‘Goddess’ Crown’ and ‘Sword of the Goddess’ units! Yanas, you will lead the team with Ingrid assisting. Proceed to the Raven territory!” Heinrich’s gaunt finger pointed at the portrait.
“Capture the witch! And… anyone who dares shelter or obstruct the Church’s divine mandate! No matter who they are, regardless of their status or influence, they shall all be deemed heretics! Resisters… shall be slain without mercy! In the name of the gods, purify all defilement!”
“No hesitation, no doubt. We are the guardians on the land illuminated by the Goddess’ glory! All our actions are the will of the Goddess!”
“The voice of the Church is the voice of the gods!”
“As you command, Chief Inquisitor!”
Ingrid’s voice trembled slightly with excitement and the impending thrill of revenge.
A dangerous feeling! Just thinking about it stirred something deep within her.
Yanas’ eyes reflected the last rays of sunset as a cold smile curled at her lips:
“As the divine mandate commands.”
*****
Exiting the oppressive office, the cold corridor atop the tower helped cool Ingrid’s fevered mind a little.
She glanced at the silent Yanas beside her—the Church’s sword with unfathomable strength, who had slain countless heretics under her blade.
If there were a ranking of the strongest in the human world, Yanas would surely be among the candidates.
“Captain Yanas,” Ingrid’s face bloomed with a dangerously beautiful smile mixing bitterness and anticipation, like a blooming red spider lily, “this time, I will be relying heavily on you—”
Yanas turned her head, her orange-red hair shimmering softly in the dim light.
“All for the glory of the gods. Besides, I have some personal grievances with her too.”
Looking at Ingrid, Yanas’ lips curved slightly:
“Eileen Raven. The same woman who, in Windmill Village, ‘killed’ the Church-recognized ‘Hero’.”
“Ah, she even killed the Hero? Isn’t His Holiness the Pope angry?” Ingrid’s interest instantly spiked, like a raptor spotting the perfect prey.
“Why would he be angry? Resurrection magic is a divine art my sister wields as easily as breathing. She has long since become a god walking among mortals!”
Yanas showed an expression of reverence. No one in the world earned her respect except her half-sister, who was over twenty years her senior!
A goddess?
No, that was just a flattering title. Yanas cared little for such emptiness.
Moreover, she was among the few who knew the ‘truth.’ Hunting witches? It was the exact opposite!
Yanas lightly brushed her sword hilt at her waist, a cold, cruel smile crossing her face:
“Let the Hero die. She’s far too arrogant, daring to ignore even my sister’s words. Just a fraud who thinks she’s something special.”
Yanas and Ingrid exchanged a look and smiled in the dim corridors of the Tower of Judgment.
One smile was bitter and twisted, full of vengeful desire; the other was pure and dangerous, filled with anticipation for a formidable opponent.
Just then, clear footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
Yanas looked up, catching sight of a female knight in armor approaching at a measured pace.
Her deep blue hair swayed with each step, her delicate face marked by deep fatigue and melancholy.
It was none other than Regilif, the newly appointed Captain of the Holy Shield Knights.
A faintly malicious smile gradually appeared at the corners of her mouth.
Yes, if she remembered correctly, this woman had once been Eileen’s comrade.
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