* * *
Meanwhile, away from Mirthwater, at the border between Landmarrow and Aquilora, in the forest called the Niverlem Grove.
The air was cool and crisp, blanketing the canopy of towering trees that stretched high into the inky sky.
A crescent moon hung above, casting a silvery glow that filtered through the leaves, creating a dappled pattern on the forest floor. The rustling of the wind whispered hush among branches from the chaos unfolding below.
In the shadows, a man stumbled through the underbrush, his white shirt, grey jacket, and jeans soaked in blood, the crimson staining the fabric to create a contrast against the colors of black.
Deep slash marks marred his skin, each wound was an indication of the violence he had endured so far.
The most severe injury was a gaping puncture wound in his stomach, blood oozing from the depths of the injury, leaving a trail of red in his wake.
Behind him, many figures cloaked in black pursued, movements swift and silent like shadows.
These assassins were adorned in dark attire that blended seamlessly with the night.
Silver masks concealed their identities, intricate lines of gold weaving cryptic patterns that glinted beneath the moon's cold gaze.
Beneath the masks, eyes burned crimson—an eerie glow that radiated menace.
The man sprinted through the forest, leaping effortlessly over branches, weaving deftly between trees with an agility honed by time.
As the man ran, he leaped over branches and maneuvered deftly among the trees. His extraordinary instincts guided him as he twisted mid-air, dodging deadly projectiles that shrieked past him, their lethal precision failing to find their mark.
He vaulted onto a tree—but instead of landing as expected, his foot struck something unseen. A flicker of force sent his body veering sideways, abruptly altering his trajectory.
Then came the knives.
They sliced through the silence, their sleek forms tearing through the air. Each blade was thrown with unwavering accuracy, yet none met their target. Instead, they buried themselves into the earth and tree trunks with dull, heavy thuds.
But the moment was fleeting.
A shiver ran through the weapons.
Summoned by an invisible force, the knives trembled—then wrenched free from their resting places, streaking backward through the night. The assassins caught them effortlessly, their hands steady, their movements fluid. They wasted no time; already, they were preparing for their next throw.
The forest rang with the sound of steel slicing air—a deadly symphony that underscored the urgency of the hunt.
The man, breath ragged, suddenly stopped in his tracks. His instincts screamed before his mind fully registered it.
Someone stood before him.
A presence more dangerous than those who had chased him thus far.
Obscured by the shadows, stood a man clad in a striking white vestment, its fabric shimmering faintly under the moonlight.
A hood was draped over his head, obscuring his face in shadow, adding an air of mystery to his presence.
There was also a mystifying emerald gem resting right at the back of his hood. The vest featured a bold line of gold running vertically down the center, from the hem to the bottom, where the end of the vest seemed to float just above the ground, defying gravity.
Against the color of the gold pattern, a deep blue sky was depicted, adorned with seven radiant red jewels that glimmered like stars.
Thirteen intricate symbols completed the vest, marking him unmistakably as a Priest from the Church of Origin, a figure of both reverence and enigma.
"The end is nigh. Will you surrender obediently now, Sir Raynard?"
The priest's voice was soft and melodic, yet carried an unsettling depth—low enough to be soothing, but loud enough to echo across the clearing with undeniable authority.
The assassins quietly dropped to the ground. Like a cat, they landed soundlessly. Now standing by in reticence, they created a circle that surrounded the injured man, called Sir Raynard.
He was the mysterious man who had brought El to Mirthwater and left him there alone. Currently, his facial features were different from the ones he had shown to El. It was sharper and noticeably younger.
With a weary sigh, Raynald scoffed. Mockery in his tone.
"Oh, how honored I am. Hunted by the Praesguard, and now graced with a priest from the Church of Origin. Tell me—what terrible crime did I commit to deserve such grand treatment?
His body tightened, ready to dodge and retaliate at a moment's notice.
"You know well enough our purpose, don't you, sir? The priest's tone remained measured, unwavering. "Besides, you are a criminal who has betrayed the order. It would be wise to come with us willingly."
Sir Raynald smirked. "How old are you, kid? Not past thirty yet, I'll bet."
The priest remained silent.
"Why? No answer? How rude," Sir Raynald narrowed his eyes.
"I apologize…" the priest finally spoke, inclining his head ever so slightly. "But the Cardinal has expressly forbidden me from engaging in conversation with you. It is said that a Renegade's words carry the devil's deceit. So please, surrender now—or we will be forced to use extreme measures to bring you to the Pope."
In response, the Praesguard drew their knives, positioning them defensively in front of their bodies, ready to attack.
Raynald huffed, feigning amusement. "The Pope? Is that where this is headed? Don't tell me the Church and the Empire are playing nice now. Has the world changed so much while I wandered outside?"
Despite the casual tone, deep within his soul space, Rune Orbs quietly began to form.
"I'm sorry, but I don't plan to converse with a Renegade."
Without another word, the priest lifted his right hand.
The earth beneath them trembled.
Behind Sir Raynald, a colossal blue ethereal skeleton hand erupted from the ground, its fingers clawing forward in an attempt to seize him.
Sir Raynald turned and punched the skeleton hand, reinforcing his strike with Rune Magic: {Blast}.
*Bang!*
The skeleton hand shattered upon impact, fragments of ethereal energy dissipating into the air. Without hesitation, Sir Raynald invoked another Rune Magic—{Accelerate}.
His body blurred, moving at a ghostly speed that left an afterimage. He twisted mid-motion, narrowly evading another skeletal hand that erupted from beneath his feet.
The Praesguards subsequently proceed to charge, too.
Their movements were precise, synchronized—each strike calculated, each spell unleashed in coordination. They attacked in waves, alternating between blades and magic, seeking to overwhelm him.
Sir Raynald had already spent most of his Soul Essence—his reserves drained from a relentless week of pursuit and battle. His body bore the evidence of his exhaustion—fresh wounds accumulating, his situation growing more dire with every tick of the second.
Yet, he fought on.
Gritting his teeth, he deflected incoming knives with his bare hands, crushed skeletal hands with punches, and easily dispelled spells with sheer force.
He countered with brutal efficiency—hurling Praesguards over his shoulder, striking them in the face or gut—always careful not to kill them outright. Even weakened, his mastery over {Fortify} made him a force to be reckoned with.
After all, he was once a renowned Rune Master under the "Order of the Sacred Flame."
His name was "Raynald" of the "Amblecrown Noble Family"—once hailed as the "Fist of Justice."
What an irony.
Now, he was forced to strike down those who had once fought alongside him—using only his palms.
But even the strongest warrior could not stand against sheer numbers forever.
No matter how mighty an elephant was against a mouse, when numbers and strategy came into play, the unchallengeable beast became nothing more than a slightly larger animal. And Raynald refused to kill them—an act of restraint that only worsened his odds.
Besides, these were no ordinary mice either.
Especially the Priest from the "Church of Origin."
Even now, Sir Raynald could feel the sheer magnitude of the priest's Soul Essence—a force so vast and pure that it burned like a glaring sun, contained within a vessel not yet strong enough to unleash its full potential.
A new recruit, no doubt. Born blessed. Or perhaps cursed.
One or two strikes slipped past his defenses, bypassing the shield of solidified Soul Essence that enveloped his body. More wounds tore into his flesh.
Then came the curses.
Dark magic seeped into his veins, weakening him further.
Curse magic—one of the most difficult disciplines to learn and master, even harder to cleanse. Even for a Rune Master, purging it required immense effort—effort he could scarcely afford with his dwindling Soul Essence.
Then, the inevitable happened.
A skeletal hand finally struck true.
It slammed into him with crushing force, sending dirt and roots flying as he crashed into the ground.
The priest clenched his fist.
And the spectral hand tightened its grip.
Pinned beneath its crushing grasp, Raynald could only watch helplessly as he was dragged forward, blood streaming down his face, dripping from his chin.
"You satisfied now, kid?"
Sir Raynald spoke, secretly letting go of the notion to keep resisting.
For now.
Once he got the chance, he would flee anyway.
This was not the first time he had been caught by members of the Order of the Sacred Flame, nor was it his first encounter and fight with a Priest or Priestess of Origin.
And in his opinion, the one standing before him was amateurish and relatively weak compared to the true monsters he had faced in his past.
There was one Priestess he knew in particular, who was so powerful that he would rather flee at the mere mention of her name.
* * *