While Ghislain was busy meeting with nobles and handling various tasks, the Northern Army waited near the capital. The Fenris Cavalry had rejoined the main Northern Army, and it was during this time that the troops encountered Parniel for the first time. Everyone was overwhelmed by her towering physique and commanding aura. After staring at her blankly for a while, Alfoy finally spoke up. “Is this... the Saintess? Not some kind of giant?” It was an incredibly rude comment, but no one seemed particularly shocked. Alfoy had always been a tactless fool. Parniel, unfazed, merely gave Alfoy a disinterested glance. She was used to such reactions. Claude, who had at least a shred of tact, jabbed Alfoy in the side. “Hey, why’re you poking me? It’s true! How could a Saintess look like that?” Apparently, the Saintess in Alfoy’s mind was someone much more delicate. Grabbing Piote by the wrist, Alfoy dragged him forward. “What are you doing? Let me go!” Despite Piote’s protests, Alfoy forcefully placed him next to Parniel. “Hmm...” Everyone crossed their arms and silently observed the two. Piote, blushing furiously in embarrassment, stood in stark contrast to the indifferent Parniel. Admittedly, Piote did look more feminine. “Pfft! Hahaha!” “Bwahaha!” Alfoy burst into laughter, clutching his stomach, and Claude soon joined him, unable to hold back. The two, who loved teasing Piote, found this situation absolutely irresistible. After laughing to his heart’s content, Alfoy suddenly pointed at Piote and declared, “He’s the Saintess!” “...” A heavy silence descended. Claude quickly wiped the grin off his face, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Alfoy was clearly crossing the line. Undeterred, Alfoy continued to mock. “Just look at him! Piote is prettier, more delicate, and definitely more Saintess-like. From now on, Piote is the Saintess!” It was true, in terms of appearance alone, Piote looked more the part. With his petite frame and flushed face, he seemed every bit the embodiment of innocence. But to say something like that in front of the real Saintess... The others stayed silent, unwilling to be dragged into Alfoy’s antics. “Why isn’t anyone saying anything? You know I’m right!” Parniel, however, remained calm, ignoring Alfoy’s provocations. Her patience was not so easily tested. If anything, she found his antics amusing. It had been a while since someone had acted so foolishly in front of her. Instead, her attention shifted to Piote, sensing a strong divine aura emanating from him. “I am Parniel, servant of Moriana. I sense great holy power within you.” “I—I am Piote, servant of Juana. It’s an honor to meet you, Saintess.” The two exchanged awkward pleasantries while Alfoy continued his antics. “From today, Piote is also a Saintess! And I, the man who defeated a god, declare it so!” Parniel, who had been ignoring everything until now, suddenly turned her head. Alfoy’s last statement couldn’t be overlooked. Thud. As she stepped forward, a suffocating pressure filled the air, forcing everyone to retreat. “What did you just say?” Alfoy flinched but refused to back down. “I said he’s a Saintess!” “Not that.” “T-the part about defeating a god?” “Blasphemous fool.” Boom! Parniel raised her fist and advanced. While she didn’t intend to harm him seriously, it looked like a deathblow to onlookers. The massive fist descended from above, and Alfoy instinctively screamed, “Shield!” Alfoy, a 5th-Circle mage with top-tier mana control, quickly conjured five overlapping shields. But his opponent was no ordinary person. Crack! Crack! Crack! The shields shattered like glass as Parniel’s fist struck Alfoy square on the crown of his head. Thud! “Gah!” With a heavy sound, Alfoy’s face contorted grotesquely, and a stream of blood erupted from his nose. He collapsed, unconscious. “Whoa...” The spectators couldn’t help but marvel. Despite his irritating personality, Alfoy was a skilled 5th-Circle mage, comparable to elders of mage towers. His knowledge of magic was vast, and his combat experience was second to none. Yet, Parniel had knocked him out with a single, playful strike. She truly was something else—a Saintess of extraordinary strength. Shaking her head, Belinda grabbed Alfoy by the collar and dragged him away. “When will he ever grow up?” It was a sentiment she often had about Alfoy. Since Ghislain’s childhood, no one had been as troublesome—except perhaps Claude and Kaor. Watching the scene, Ereneth let out a faint chuckle, surprising even herself. ‘Did I just laugh?’ She was shocked. To think she, who prided herself on her composure, had laughed at such idiocy! Quickly regaining her expression, Ereneth felt a twinge of humiliation. How could she have laughed at that fool? But Claude, ever observant, didn’t let it go. “Ah! The High Chief laughed!” “I did not.” “You totally did! I saw it! Was it really that funny? Maybe living in the forest all the time made you laugh at anything. Your sense of humor is amazing! Hahaha!” The atmosphere grew tense. Wendy immediately covered Claude’s mouth. “...” Ereneth’s icy glare silenced Claude, who quickly lowered his head. “Maybe I was mistaken,” he muttered, backing down. He had no intention of ending up like Alfoy. At least Claude had the sense to know when to quit. The Northern Army spent the next few days near the capital, awaiting further orders. Ghislain had been busy reorganizing the Kingdom’s and Allied Forces. Despite significant losses, they had captured nearly 50,000 prisoners of war during the recent battles. These prisoners were gradually incorporated into the existing forces, leading to lengthy discussions about restructuring the army. After days of deliberation, the meeting finally concluded. “Thank you for your patience. Now, it’s time for us to move,” Ghislain announced. Claude stepped forward. “What are your plans, my lord?” “We’ll pressure the southern region with the Kingdom and Allied Forces. It’ll take some time, but we’ll do it thoroughly.” The reorganization of troops and supply lines would take time, but it was necessary for a decisive campaign. The Northern Army set up camp at key crossroads, resting and resupplying in preparation for the coming push. With a confident grin, Ghislain added, “Once everything is in place, we’ll march south in unison. Inform the Western Forces to be ready as well. Until then, let’s rest and prepare.” The Northern Army, having borne the brunt of the war, desperately needed this reprieve. ‘We’re almost there.’ Unlike in his previous life, Ghislain was no longer fighting alone. He had a vast army and capable allies by his side. Of course, defeating the Ducal Faction wouldn’t be the end. The Salvation Order and the dimensional rifts still needed to be eradicated. But Ghislain was confident. ‘It will end soon.’ Once the southern forces were surrounded by his reorganized army, the Duke would have no escape. ‘This time...’ Ghislain’s eyes burned with determination. In his past life, he had failed. Too many unforeseen variables had hindered him. But not this time. This time, he was the variable. Every piece had been meticulously set in place. This time, victory would be his. *** A dark and silent chamber, illuminated only by a few flickering candles. The room was vast and luxurious, but the darkness veiled its grandeur. At its center, on a massive bed, lay a frail and emaciated old man. “Fenris... Count Fenris...” The old man’s feeble voice rasped, barely audible. Beside him stood a middle-aged man, who bowed his head slightly and replied. “Yes, Your Majesty. He has successfully held back the entire army of Duke Delphine.” The old man was none other than Berhem Radran II, King of the Ruthania Kingdom. The man attending him was Viscount Domont, the royal chamberlain and the king’s most trusted confidant. For years, Viscount Domont had served Berhem as his chamberlain, the one person who stayed by the king’s side through thick and thin. He was also the king’s sole conversational partner. Berhem, too weak to move about, relied on Domont for news from the outside world. “Someone always emerges to protect the throne in its hour of need... just like her long ago...” “Your Majesty...” The king’s eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, filled with a mad intensity. “What use is Count Fenris... if he’s just another of Marquis Branford’s pawns? A noble who doesn’t pledge loyalty to me is worthless...” “Your Majesty, they all serve Your Majesty with unwavering loyalty.” “Don’t be ridiculous... Branford wields power without regard for me... How can he be a loyal subject? He’s just the heir chosen by that woman...” Berhem muttered incoherently, cursing under his breath, his words veering into the incomprehensible. Domont said nothing. He understood the king’s bitterness all too well. From a young age, Berhem had been frail, incapable of ruling the kingdom effectively. As time passed, his inadequacies deepened, twisting his personality into a bitter shadow of what it could have been. The consolidation of power by Marquis Branford only exacerbated the king’s frustration. But what could be done? The kingdom couldn’t be entrusted to a king who lay bedridden, awaiting death. After a while, Berhem grabbed Domont’s hand and whispered, “You and the captain of the Royal Knights are the only ones I trust... No one else. Only you are true loyalists...” With only two people remaining by his side, such sentiments were natural. Domont looked at Berhem with a gaze tinged with pity. Born a king, Berhem had never wielded true power. His frailty had robbed him of the ability to achieve anything meaningful. With a vacant stare, Berhem continued his soliloquy. “Royalists... Ducal faction... Aren’t they all just power-hungry fools fighting among themselves, leaving me out of it? Who are they even fighting for...?” His trembling hand reached for a necklace around his neck. It was a simple, unadorned piece, bearing a small crystal. In no way befitting a king, yet Berhem handled it with great care, as if it were his most cherished possession. “This kingdom... The Duke of Delphine, who helped build it... I know what they desire...” Domont remained silent, listening. He had heard these words countless times. He probably knew more royal secrets than anyone else, having listened to the king’s musings daily. Berhem’s conversations with him were the only solace in the king’s life. Staring at the ceiling, Berhem spoke to himself. “Too much time has passed... The stories passed down through the royal family and the ducal house... Most of them have been forgotten. Even the promise between the two houses... Lost to time...” Berhem’s ramblings were incoherent, his words often unintelligible. Domont never interrupted or sought clarification. After all, the king was half-mad. What had initially been a torment—listening to these daily rants—had become routine for Domont. But today, something unusual emerged from Berhem’s lips. “The Salvation Order... is that what they’re called? Those allied with the Ducal faction...” “Yes, Your Majesty.” “They say they can recover from dismemberment... or grievous wounds...” “Yes, such is their power. They are extraordinarily difficult to kill.” “And yet... they’ve been declared heretics...” “Yes, by the Four Great Churches and Marquis Branford...” “Those fools... How dare they act without my sanction...” Berhem trembled violently. Domont quickly grabbed his hand. “Your Majesty, please calm yourself. You can change anything you wish with but a word.” Of course, this wasn’t true. In the feudal system of the Ruthania Kingdom, even a king’s authority had limits. With the Four Great Churches involved, there was no way to reverse such a declaration based solely on the king’s decree. But Domont lied to soothe Berhem’s troubled mind. After a moment of trembling, Berhem whispered, “I envy the priests of the Salvation Order... They say they cannot die unless beheaded... To possess such power...” “Your Majesty...” To a man perpetually on the brink of death, the Salvation Order’s abilities were indeed enviable. For Berhem, it mattered little that they were deemed heretics. What did such labels mean to someone who could die any day? Berhem fell silent, lost in thought. After a while, he gripped Domont’s hand tightly and spoke with resolve. “I have a request... Will you grant it?” “A request, Your Majesty? It is my duty to fulfill your commands.” “Promise me... Swear that you will do it...” “With my life, I shall see it done.” Berhem’s eyes glowed with an incomprehensible yearning as he spoke his plea. “Bring me... a priest of the Salvation Order... Someone who wields that power... I want it for myself...” Domont’s face hardened. The king’s request was exceedingly dangerous. Simply bringing a priest of the Salvation Order was a near-impossible task. Even if Domont succeeded, Marquis Branford would never allow the king to meet such a person. If discovered, Domont would surely be executed. And yet, a faint glimmer of hope remained. There was one person who might be persuaded. As a loyal servant, Domont desperately wished to fulfill the king’s request. For the sake of a man who had lived a life of sorrow. “I shall see it done, no matter the cost.” Domont rose, his eyes filled with steely determination.