SOTBW - 217

“I’m not afraid of dying.”  

“Admirable resolve. But I have no intention of killing you. Death means an end to suffering, doesn’t it? Somehow, that feels more like a reward than punishment, so…”  

Maximón slowly wiped the smirk off his face as he rested the dull practice sword on his shoulder. He had no plans to feign ignorance about Persio and the other knights conspiring to assassinate Najane. Persio, for his part, remained unfazed, having anticipated this situation.

However, Maximón’s use of a practice sword seemed to wound Persio’s pride, causing him to clench his teeth in frustration.  

“Did you mock them too before killing them?”  

“Them?”  

“Sir Armunzen!”  

Persio shouted, but Maximón merely shrugged.  

“Who knows? I didn’t kill him, so I wouldn’t know.”  

“How shameless. That someone like you is hailed as this country’s hero… As a fellow knight, I find it disgraceful and utterly repulsive.”  

Persio took a combat stance, grinding his teeth, but Maximón remained unfazed. Instead, he laughed leisurely, treating Persio like a child throwing a tantrum without understanding their limits.  

“My own repulsiveness? Trust me, no one knows it better than I do. It’s almost refreshing to hear you state the obvious. Keep talking. Who knows? On a whim, I might just take your head off in one swing.”  

Enraged by Maximón’s taunting, Persio screamed and lunged forward. His movements were sluggish. Maximón dodged the blade effortlessly and struck Persio hard in the gut with his fist. The force sent Persio flying backward, dropping his sword and collapsing to his knees. Maximón clicked his tongue in disappointment.  

“No grit. You should learn from my knights. Or is this really the extent of Colnux’s capabilities?”  

Spitting on the ground, Persio glared at Maximón with burning eyes. Summoning what strength he had left, he swung his sword at Maximón’s ankle.  

The sturdy sole of Maximón’s military boot crushed down on the blade. Persio’s eyes trembled in shock—he hadn’t even seen the movement. Gritting his teeth, Persio tried to pull the sword free, but it was pinned under Maximón’s boot as though trapped beneath a massive boulder. Letting out a frustrated cry, Persio abandoned the sword and threw a punch at Maximón instead.  

The sudden commotion drew the attention of the knights who had been sparring nearby. To anyone watching, Persio’s wild punches looked like those of a child throwing a tantrum after losing a match. The knights of the Colnux Order exchanged uneasy glances as they watched the scene unfold.  

Maximón casually dodged Persio’s slow, desperate punches, retreating step by step. The sheer futility of Persio’s attempt to kill Najane with such pitiful skill was almost laughable. After retreating for a while, Maximón tossed aside his practice sword and delivered a swift punch to Persio’s face. The sickening crunch of shattering cheekbones echoed through the air.  

Persio tumbled into the snow-covered ground, his vision flashing white as he gasped for breath. The realization that he could never win sent a chill down his spine.  

But Persio wasn’t ready to give up. Unafraid of death, he forced himself back to his feet. Maximón applauded him, impressed that Persio had risen despite clearly feeling fear. Retrieving his discarded practice sword, Maximón praised him.  

“Not bad. Nathan may have been quite the fool, but at least he had some stubborn subordinates.”  

As Maximón toyed with the dull practice sword, he looked less like a knight and more like a butcher preparing to slaughter an animal. From afar, Jacob, who had been observing the duel—or rather, the one-sided fight—intuitively sensed that Maximón had no intention of letting Persio leave unscathed.  

Ignoring the blood streaming from his nose, Persio picked up his real sword once again. Though his eyes burned with determination, to Maximón, it was nothing more than futile resistance.  

Maximón could have settled this elsewhere, away from prying eyes, but he deliberately chose to confront Persio in front of the Colnux knights. Those who shared Persio’s sentiments needed to witness this.  

Determined not to disgrace his former position as vice-captain of the Colnux Order, Persio aimed a decisive strike at Maximón. Just as the blade was about to graze Maximón’s neck, it was stopped dead by something. A sharp metallic clang rang out.  

Persio froze, staring at Maximón’s hand gripping the blade. Though he wore thick gloves, there was no way they could have stopped a speeding sword. Persio’s face turned icy cold. The glove that had caught the blade was cleanly sliced open, as if cut by scissors—but Maximón’s hand beneath it was completely unharmed.  

Persio’s face twisted in horror, like someone trapped in a nightmare, as he pushed harder against the blade. Maximón stood still, his expression unchanged. No matter how much pressure Persio applied, he couldn’t even scratch Maximón’s palm. Slowly, doubt began to creep into Persio’s eyes, as though he were staring at a monster.  

In that moment, Maximón snapped the sword in half. With deliberate precision, he drove the broken shard into Persio’s shoulder. The jagged edge tore through muscle, piercing the joint. Persio screamed and collapsed. Clutching the impaled spot, he looked up at Maximón with despair in his eyes.

Maximón was calm, his expression betraying no more concern than if he had squashed an insignificant insect. Bending one knee, Maximón locked eyes with Persio and tightened his grip on the shoulder where the blade was embedded. As he applied pressure, the shattered bone caused the wound to tear open further.

Unable to endure the pain, Persio collapsed unconscious. The once-pristine snowfield turned crimson with blood. Maximón gazed down at Persio, who now foamed at the mouth and convulsed, his expression utterly devoid of pity.

“Persio. If you had targeted me from the beginning, none of this would have happened. But you dared to lay a hand on Najane—on my woman. You must know how despicable your actions are. You lack the courage to confront Archbishop Noctis, High Priest Spello, or even me, so you turned your hatred toward her. To you, she seemed like the easiest target.”

The other knights of the Colnux Order rushed over upon seeing Persio fall. Pretending to help him up, Maximón leaned in close and whispered coldly:

“Remember my words. If you forget today’s warning and dare to threaten Najane again, I will throw every person dear to you into the jaws of the Seriths. If you don’t want to watch your loved ones being devoured alive, spend the rest of your life cowering in some dark corner.”

Killing Persio would have been easy, but Maximón didn’t want rumors of murder reaching Najane’s ears and troubling her further. That was the only reason he spared Persio—nothing more.

“Don’t forget that it is only because of my generosity that you’re still breathing.”

Maximón tossed the glove with its severed palm section onto Persio’s body and walked back toward the platform as though nothing had happened. His nonchalance made the Romsoa knights quickly resume their sparring without comment.

He observed the pale-faced Colnux knights dueling against the Romsoa knights before glancing briefly at where Persio had fallen. Noticing a few Colnux knights supporting Persio, Maximón quietly smirked.

They stared at him with eyes filled with fear and revulsion, as though he were some monstrous creature. Maximón felt a sense of satisfaction at their gaze—it was exactly what he wanted. Let them see him as a terrifying monster; that suited his purpose perfectly.

---

Gwyneth slumped on the steps leading to the cathedral, scratching his head furiously. He had been tirelessly searching for spells compatible with Venus’ fourth-form ritual, but so far, he hadn’t found a single one. Though he hadn’t expected quick results, repeated failures were taking their toll, leaving him increasingly fatigued.

Sleeping haphazardly in Venus’ office, endlessly combining ancient languages to craft new incantations… Thinking of Venus, Gwyneth covered his face and exhaled deeply.

The sigil etched into his wrist for testing purposes weighed heavily on his conscience. While Venus seemed unfazed, Gwyneth couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him.

On top of that, he’d been so busy lately that he hadn’t seen Boris or kept up with what was happening in Romsoa. He briefly considered asking Belshua for help, but the problem was that the dragon knew next to nothing about sigils.

What good was being a dragon? What did it matter if he’d lived for tens of thousands of years?

Gwyneth kneaded his stiff shoulders and sighed deeply, as though trying to collapse the earth beneath him. Just then, someone gently began massaging his shoulder. Startled, Gwyneth turned around to find Amelia sitting beside him, offering an awkward smile.

“How have you been?”

Seeing Amelia’s affectionate smile, Gwyneth sensed something significant. Glancing briefly at the cathedral behind her, he smiled meaningfully.

“Were you waiting for me inside?”

“I heard you’ve been staying in the cathedral lately… I thought if I waited here, I’d eventually see you.”

Amelia didn’t mention how long she had waited inside.

In truth, while waiting for Gwyneth, she had worried whether she might hesitate about becoming a priest. But strangely, the moment she arrived at the cathedral, all her anxieties vanished as if by magic. Only then did Amelia realize she truly didn’t regret this decision.

There was no reason to hesitate anymore. She would become a healing priest and protect everyone fighting on the field, just like Najane.

Gwyneth noticed the certainty shining in Amelia’s eyes—a look only someone who has made a life-changing decision could possess.

Though he already guessed why Amelia had come, Gwyneth feigned ignorance to hear her firm resolve.

“There are many stories I can share with a wandering lamb, but I cannot make decisions for you.”

“I know that,” Amelia replied with a bright smile.

Her refreshing grin was so invigorating that Gwyneth completely forgot what had been weighing on his mind moments ago. It was the kind of smile that cleared not just her own doubts but also those of anyone watching.

“Did you come seeking advice that might help you decide, or have you already made up your mind? Hmm… The last time we spoke, I remember you insisting on continuing to fight with your sword…”

“I want to become a fighting priest.”  

Amelia clasped her hands together as if in prayer, her voice filled with unwavering certainty.  

“I want to be a healer who wields a sword on the battlefield.”  

There was no hesitation, no fear in Amelia’s demeanor. Gwyneth erupted into laughter, as if he had been waiting for this exact answer.  

“The idea of a fighting priest is both admirable and utterly absurd when you think about it. Come to think of it, I believe we’ve had a similar conversation before. I probably told you then that you could become such a person.”  

Gwyneth firmly grasped Amelia’s small hands in his own. To receive ordination from the Holy Church, one typically needed to enroll in a seven-year seminary and undergo numerous processes. However, a bishop with divine abilities had the authority to take ordinary citizens as disciples and appoint them as priests directly.  

In other words, if Gwyneth were to send a letter to the Vatican declaring Amelia Royan as his disciple, she would officially become a priest starting that very day.  

“Amelia, I cannot say for certain whether you will succeed as a fighting priest. But even Aron Noctis healed people while battling the Seriths, so do not doubt yourself. Keep striving, and you will break through even the sturdiest walls with your bare hands. At the very least, that is what I believe.”  

At that moment, the clear sound of bells rang out from the cathedral’s spire, echoing across the grounds. Amelia listened to the reverberating chimes before turning her gaze back to Gwyneth.  

Gwyneth spread his arms wide in a gesture of welcome.  

“May endless trials and tribulations accompany your life, along with the courage to overcome them all. As your mentor, I will always stand by your side through every test you face.”