“What’s going on? They still haven’t acted?”
In a dark corner, a newly appointed Blood Priest, “Sculptor,” watched the Continental Hotel through the pouring rain—the hotel that should long ago have fallen into chaos and slaughter.
The Capital’s Crimson Oath had long since splintered and existed in name only.
The former leader, “Plague Doctor,” had also disappeared, most likely dead at the hands of Livia von Stern.
Thus he, “Sculptor,” was entrusted with the crisis and urgently transferred from another region by the Cult’s higher-ups to try to revive the Capital branch.
As a result, only after arriving in the Capital did he discover that this place was a mess worse than he could have imagined.
He went to enormous effort, even transferring all his elite subordinates, just to barely get this Organization—nearly annihilated by the Judgement Court—running again.
But just at this critical moment, the Sword-Bearing Nobles’ mysterious agent, “Mr. Hat,” actually approached him personally to discuss a deal.
This nearly scared him to death. How had his whereabouts been discovered by Mr. Hat?
He racked his brain and thought until his head split, but he still could not understand.
Yet the terms the other side offered were truly impossible to refuse.
As long as this joint attack against the Mutual Aid Association succeeded, the Cult would not only gain vast resources and recover its strength in a short time, but also receive the Sword-Bearing Nobles’ protection.
In addition, Mr. Hat produced two things that made his blood run cold: one was the complete data on the Cult’s Bloodline Purification technology, and the other was a list of Cult informants developed among the Sword-Bearing Nobles.
These were core secrets known only to the former leader, “Plague Doctor.” How could they have ended up in Mr. Hat’s hands?
“You’ve just arrived in the Capital and happen to lack a merit to establish your authority.”
Mr. Hat’s Voice seemed to still echo in his ear with a cold touch.
“You can use this opportunity to purge the Capital’s old powers and let your people take their place.”
“Under our protection, the Inquisition will find it very difficult to trouble you again. We’ve shown enough sincerity. How you choose is up to you.”
Mr. Hat’s mystery and power made even him, a Heretic who had been through countless battles, feel fear.
He knew very well that he had no right to refuse.
In front of Mr. Hat, even though he was already a Blood Priest, he was still firmly suppressed by the other’s pressure originating from an ancient Bloodline, with no ability to resist.
As expected of Sword-Bearing Nobles with a thousand-year legacy—how many secrets and how much strength they hid was beyond any outsider’s imagination.
The Pseudo-Mark the Cult was so proud of was, in the end, merely a counterfeit that was like drinking poison to quench thirst.
Compared with these ancient families that truly wielded terrifying power, apart from the Star Listener—who had long since ascended into an indescribable being—the Cult truly had no decent trump card to play.
Sculptor was not stupid.
The Sword-Bearing Nobles could precisely find his location and produce the Cult’s core secrets.
The Signal was already clear—everything in the Capital was under their noses.
Because their interests aligned in dealing with the Church, they tacitly allowed the Cult to corrupt some minor Nobles.
After all, these abandoned pieces could be put to waste-use; letting them out to bite people gave them at least some value.
These fellows who considered themselves noble liked to play with conspiracies, not because they were not strong enough, but purely because they disliked dirtying their own hands.
Whether Guilds or the Cult, in their eyes they were merely tools for extending their will.
That lofty gaze, as if looking at trash, made Sculptor physically nauseous.
Thinking of this, Sculptor even felt a bit of admiration for Plague Doctor.
Although that guy ultimately lost completely, he had previously managed to carve out an independent path for himself in the lair of the Church, the Nobles, and royal authority—he was indeed a ruthless character.
Although Sculptor had just arrived, the intelligence he had gathered through the Newspaper had already made him fully aware of the situation in the Capital.
He knew of the earth-shaking Duel in the Arena between the Cult’s two great enemies, Allen de Laval and Livia von Stern.
He knew how the Cult’s comrades had been ambushed by the Judgement Court in the Arena and wiped out.
He knew even more that the Star Listener’s “pet”—the Madwhisper Beast—had actually been driven away by those two working together.
This intelligence made him feel tremendous pressure, but between the lines it also revealed the fierce conflict between the Kingdom’s Reformist Faction and Conservative Faction, almost out in the open.
This was originally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; he could fish in troubled waters by exploiting the conflict and stir the Capital into even greater chaos.
Unfortunately, he had just arrived and was forced into the Kingdom’s political conspiracy, becoming someone else’s chess piece.
The Sword-Bearing Nobles wanted to drive a tiger to devour a wolf—did they not know that tigers also eat people?
Sculptor sneered inwardly. To dare order them, believers who served a great being—one day, he would make those foolish Nobles pay for their arrogance.
At this moment, Sculptor paced back and forth in the rain, growing more and more anxious.
According to the Plan, the “Evil One” squad ambushed at the Continental Hotel should have already coordinated from within and turned that magnificent building into a mill of flesh and blood.
But until now, that hotel remained brightly lit, like an indestructible fortress in the dim rainy day, quiet enough to make one’s hair stand on end.
The messengers sent to make contact had also vanished like water droplets falling into a desert, with no news at all.
An ominous premonition soaked through his marrow like cold rainwater.
Something’s wrong!
Just then, the Sword-Bearing Nobles’ private soldiers arrived.
They were silent like a group of statues, silver armor glimmering faintly in the rain.
“What happened?”
He frowned and asked the Knight at their head.
“The Guilds’ people were all wiped out. The Mutual Aid Association was prepared long ago.” The Knight’s voice had not a ripple of emotion.
“Then what about your Crestbearers?”
The Knight was silent for a moment, and the gaze under the helmet seemed to pierce the curtain of rain. “No news at all.”
“Tch.” Sculptor clicked his tongue and suppressed his anger. “So, after failing this badly, you still want to continue the attack?”
The Knight’s answer was simple and pure. “We are soldiers meant to die. We can only report back with Death.”
“Hmph, you do have some backbone.”
The resolve and fearlessness of these death soldiers also made Sculptor firm his determination.
The gods were watching them. They had no more patience to witness the Cult’s repeated failures.
He had to prove that the Cult still had the courage to sacrifice everything for the gods.
“Burn the Old World to Build the New!”
Sculptor uttered the Cult’s core slogan in a twisted, inhuman ancient language.
The sound did not travel through the air, but rang directly in the minds of all Pseudo-Mark Knights under his command.
This was the Signal for the general assault.
In the gloomy world, countless black shadows poured out from the darkness, converging into a black torrent enough to drown everything, and rushed toward that single patch of light.
However, at the meeting point of light and darkness, a figure blocked their way.
It was a person wrapped in a cloak, standing alone in the curtain of rain, at the edge of the Continental Hotel’s warm lights.
Starlight outlined her silhouette, making her clearly visible in the darkness.
She stood there quietly, like an invisible wall, completely separating the peace behind her from the chaos before her.
The surging black torrent actually paused for a moment.
Sculptor narrowed his eyes, and his battle-hardened instincts frantically sounded alarms in his mind.
The rain seemed to deliberately avoid her, forming an invisible dry area around her.
She slowly raised her head, and the hood slipped off, revealing a face so exquisite it did not seem mortal.
Her brilliant platinum-blonde long hair flowed with a faint light in the gloom.
Livia von Stern!?
Sculptor’s pupils suddenly contracted.
Although he had just come to the Capital, the legendary Knight Princess—her unique beauty and strength—had long since spread to every Heretic’s ears.
“One person?”
The Knight at their head could hardly believe his eyes, and the soldiers behind him let out a low stir.
Livia’s clear blue eyes swept over the dense black army before her, her gaze calm, as if she were looking at a group of prisoners already sentenced to death.
Facing those countless gazes mixed with Greed, hostility, and shock, she finally spoke.
Her cold, clear voice pierced through the splashing rain and reached every person’s ears clearly.
“This Path Is Blocked.”