Chapter 361: Chapter 361 – “…speak about her parents.”

The square trembled.

Not from magic.

Not from force.

But from people.

The crowd stirred like a restless sea, voices overlapping in uneven waves as Luca’s words sank in. Doubt crept into expressions that had once held certainty. Hands that had been clenched in righteous anger now hesitated. Eyes that once burned with judgment softened, flickered, questioned.

“…She saved them…” “So that’s why she lost her power…” “Is that really a crime…?” “She chose people over herself…” “Then why is she being executed…?”

The murmurs grew louder.

Unstable.

Uncontrollable.

A few stepped forward unconsciously. Others looked toward the platform with hesitation rather than reverence. Even among the clergy, subtle shifts occurred—fingers tightening around staffs, gazes lowering, lips pressed thin in unease.

The Saintess stood frozen, tears falling silently, chest trembling as she stared at Luca.

He had said it.

He had said everything.

And now—

The bishop’s face twisted.

The pleasant mask he had worn finally shattered.

Veins bulged at his temple. His jaw tightened so hard it looked as though it might crack. The smug confidence drained from his eyes, replaced by something sharp and furious.

“No…” he muttered.

Then louder—

“No!”

He stepped forward violently, robes snapping with the force of his movement.

“Enough of this nonsense!” he roared, voice amplified by divine enchantment. “You people are being misled!”

The crowd flinched.

The bishop’s gaze locked onto Luca, eyes burning with rage.

“She is not worthy of the title of Saintess!” he shouted. “No matter the reason, she abandoned her faith! She chose mortal attachments over divine will!”

Spittle flew from his lips as he pointed a trembling finger toward the Saintess.

“She chose an earthly life over the Goddess’s light!”

The murmurs wavered again.

Some frowned.

Some recoiled.

The bishop seized the opening.

“And don’t pretend this was some noble sacrifice!” he continued venomously. “We of the clergy know the truth.”

He turned sharply toward Luca.

“She did not act for all the students,” he sneered. “She acted for you.”

A hush fell.

Luca’s eyes narrowed.

“You,” the bishop continued, voice dripping with accusation, “are the reason she fell. You are the reason she broke her faith.”

He laughed—short, sharp, ugly.

“Tell me, boy. What is your relationship with her, hm?”

“Are you playing hero and maiden?”

“First she saves you, now you come to save her—how poetic.”

His laughter echoed hollowly.

“Is this some tragic romance you think the Goddess will bless?”

The crowd stirred uncomfortably.

The Saintess’s breath hitched sharply.

The bishop leaned forward, eyes gleaming with malice.

“And really,” he sneered, “what should we expect from an orphan?”

The word sliced through the square like a blade.

“She was born with nothing. Raised with nothing. And now she proves she was never worthy of the light she was given.”

The Saintess’s hands trembled violently.

Her lips parted—but no sound came.

The bishop smiled cruelly.

“An orphan will always be an orphan,” he said coldly. “No matter how high you lift them, they will always crawl back to—”

SHING.

The sound cut through the air like thunder.

A sharp line of light flashed past the bishop’s face.

His words died in his throat.

A thin lock of his hair drifted downward in slow motion, severed cleanly, fluttering to the marble floor at his feet.

The square froze.

The bishop stood rigid, eyes wide as he reached up and felt the empty space near his temple.

Cold.

Too close.

Dead silence swallowed the world.

Then—

A voice spoke.

Low.

Controlled.

So cold it made the air feel thin.

“Don’t you dare…”

The crowd turned.

Luca stood there, one saber lowered at his side, its edge humming faintly. His crimson eyes burned—not with rage, but with something far more dangerous.

Final.

“…speak about her parents.”

The wind howled.

The dust settled.

Fear gripped the heart of the Holy Kingdom.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Not a single breath moved.

The severed strand of hair lay on the marble between them, trembling faintly from the lingering vibration of the blade that had passed through it. Dust hung in the air, suspended like time itself had forgotten how to move.

No one spoke.

Or rather no one knew what to speak.

The crowd stood frozen—mouths open, eyes wide, hearts pounding so loudly some swore they could hear it. Mothers clutched their children closer. Knights tightened their grips on weapons without realizing it. Even the banners overhead stilled, as if the wind itself feared to intrude on whats to come.

The Saintess stared at Luca.

Her tears had stopped.

Not because the pain had gone—but because something else had taken its place.

Shock.

Awe.

And something dangerously close to hope.

The Divine Guards didn’t move.

They hesitated.

Their gazes flicked between the bishop and the young man standing before them, black armor faintly humming with restrained power. No one had ever drawn a weapon on holy ground before.

No one had ever dared. And that too directly attacking the bishop in front of all or clergy.

The bishop’s face twitched.

Once.

Then again.

The color drained from his face, replaced by a deep, ugly red. His lips trembled—not with fear, but rage so intense it warped his features.

“…You,” he whispered.

Then he screamed.

“You DARE strike at me?!” his voice cracked, echoing across the plaza with divine amplification. “In front of the Goddess! In front of the Holy Kingdom!”

His hands shook as he raised them, veins bulging along his forearms.

“Have you lost your mind?!” he roared. “Do you know what you’ve done?! It seems all this fame has gotten to your head.”

His gaze swept across the stunned crowd.

“Divine Guards!” he bellowed. “Stop standing there like statues! Arrest him—no, seize him! Tear him down!”

The hesitation shattered.

Steel rang as spears were raised.

Boots thundered against stone.

The first line of Divine Guards surged forward.

Luca exhaled slowly.

The world narrowed.

He shifted his stance, twin sabers sliding into position with a soft, deadly hum. His shoulders loosened, muscles coiling like drawn wire.

So this is how it’s going to be.

The first guard lunged.

Luca stepped forward—not back.

His blade flashed.

The guard’s spear struck his armor with a deafening clang—only to rebound harmlessly, the impact sending a ripple of force through the man’s arms. Before he could recover, Luca’s second blade swept low, striking the haft cleanly in half.

The guard stumbled back, stunned.

Another rushed in from the side.

Luca pivoted, using the momentum to drive his elbow into the man’s chest. The armor absorbed the blow—but the force sent him skidding across the platform.

A third attacked from behind.

Luca ducked.

The spear passed inches over his head as he twisted, bringing the flat of his blade down hard against the guard’s shoulder. The man crumpled, gasping, armor ringing loudly against stone.

No blood.

No killing.

Only precision.

Only control.

The crowd erupted in gasps.

“He’s fighting them…” “They’re elite guards—how—” “He’s not even killing them…”

But they kept coming.

Three more. Then four.

Their formations were tight. Disciplined. They moved as one—trained to overwhelm with numbers, angles, and relentless pressure.

Luca blocked one strike, deflected another, but the third clipped his side. The impact rang through his armor, forcing him back a step.

Damn it…

He planted his foot, sabers flashing in a blur as he forced them back—but more were already closing in.

They were too many.

Too coordinated.

Where is professor Aldric…?what is he waiting for?

Do I have to use Moonslayer now…?

His jaw clenched.

The bishop laughed.

“Yes! That’s it!” he snarled. “Crush him! Show him what defying the Holy Kingdom means!”

The guards closed in from all sides.

Spears leveled.

A cage of steel.

Then—

A shrill cry split the heavens.

High.

Piercing.

Unmistakable.

The air froze.

Literally.

A wave of icy pressure swept across the square, frosting stone and armor in an instant. Guards staggered as the temperature plummeted, breath turning to mist.

Luca’s head snapped upward.

Above the cathedral—

A massive shape circled.

Wings of glacial blue unfurled against the sky, scattering shards of ice-light as it moved. Feathers shimmered like frozen starlight, and cold mist trailed behind it like a storm given form.

An Ice Phoenix.

Its cry echoed again, shaking the clouds themselves.

The crowd screamed.

Some fell to their knees.

Others stared in stunned disbelief.

And then—

Laughter.

Loud. Boisterous. Unapologetic.

“Hahahahaha!”

A figure stood atop the phoenix’s back, hair whipping wildly in the freezing wind.

“Luca, you bastard!” the voice rang out, full of wild amusement. “Did you really think you’d steal all the spotlight again?!”

The phoenix beat its wings once, descending in a spiral of frost and wind.

The figure leaned forward, grinning.

“Honestly… you start a holy war without even inviting me?”

The laughter rang across the square as the beast descended.

And the battlefield froze—caught between awe, fear, and the realization that this was no longer an execution.

This was a war about to begin.

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