Chapter 384: Chapter 384 – The Final Justice!

The square seemed to grow heavier with every passing second.

The afternoon sun still hung high above the towering cathedral spires, yet its warmth no longer touched the crowd gathered below. A strange chill had settled over the plaza, creeping silently through the ranks of citizens, clergy, knights, and scholars alike as they all waited for the old healer’s answer.

Thousands of eyes remained fixed on the frail woman standing at the center of the execution platform.

The Pope’s final question still lingered in the air.

For what reason were you captured?

The old healer opened her mouth slightly.

But no words came.

Her gaze shifted uncertainly, her wrinkled fingers tightening around the Saintess’ sleeve as if searching for something—perhaps courage, perhaps permission.

For a brief moment, she looked overwhelmed by the weight of the truth she carried.

Then her eyes lifted.

And met the Saintess’.

The young woman’s golden aura had softened, but the quiet authority within her presence remained undeniable.

The healer hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Then the Saintess gently stepped forward.

“If you allow me,” she said calmly.

Her voice was clear, yet soft enough that the crowd instinctively quieted to hear every word.

“I would like to answer that question myself.”

The Pope’s gaze shifted to her immediately.

So did everyone else’s.

The murmuring crowd fell silent once again as the Saintess continued, her posture straight, her expression composed though her eyes carried a storm of memories that had only recently been revealed to her.

“As the Saintess of the Holy Kingdom,” she began slowly, her voice steady but filled with a depth that made the air itself feel heavier, “I was raised surrounded by faith, devotion, and reverence.”

She paused briefly.

“And yet…”

Her gaze lowered slightly.

“I grew up without the love of a parent.”

A ripple of quiet emotion passed through the crowd.

The Saintess lifted her head again.

“And because of that,” she continued softly, “there was always a part of me that longed to know who they were.”

Her golden eyes swept across the square before settling once again on Bishop Truce.

“So for many years… I searched.”

The silence in the plaza deepened.

“And only recently,” she said, “did I finally uncover the circumstances of my birth.”

Her voice hardened slightly.

“My mother… was a captive of Bishop Truce.”

Gasps erupted throughout the crowd.

The Saintess’ gaze did not waver as she stared directly at the man standing across the platform.

The hatred in her eyes burned like quiet fire.

“He forced her to—”

Her voice faltered.

Just for a moment.

The words were heavy.

Too heavy.

She closed her eyes briefly and drew in a steady breath before continuing.

“He forced her to bear a child.”

The crowd stirred uneasily.

“And in order to achieve that,” she went on, her voice colder now, “he used any means necessary.”

Her words fell into the square like stones.

“My mother was tortured… abused… and imprisoned within the underground chamber beneath his mansion until she finally became pregnant with me.”

The Saintess lifted a hand slowly and gestured toward the old healer beside her.

“This woman,” she said softly, “was the one who helped my mother escape that night.”

The old healer lowered her head quietly as the Saintess continued.

“She risked her life to guide my mother away from the guards who served under Bishop Truce.”

Her voice trembled faintly.

“She stood between them and the soldiers… giving my mother enough time to flee.”

The Saintess swallowed slowly.

“My mother…”

Her gaze softened briefly as the memory of that moonlit night returned to her mind.

“…sacrificed herself so that I could survive.”

Her golden eyes shifted across the platform.

They settled gently on Professor Aldric.

“And she left me at the gates of Barden’s Orphanage.”

Aldric’s shoulders trembled.

The Saintess’ voice grew quieter.

“And that is how I came to be raised under Father Aldric’s care.”

She then turned her gaze back toward Bishop Truce.

The warmth vanished instantly.

Her eyes hardened.

“And the reason Bishop Truce committed such atrocities…”

Her voice carried clearly across the silent square.

“…was because he was following orders.”

The words struck like thunder.

“Orders given to him by a high-ranking member of the cultists.”

A wave of shock rippled through the entire plaza.

Thousands of people turned their eyes toward the bishop.

Bishop Truce’s body trembled uncontrollably now.

Sweat dripped from his temple.

His breathing had grown uneven.

Even the Pope’s fingers tightened around the armrest of his throne as he listened.

But before the silence could grow any heavier—

The bishop suddenly burst into laughter.

A harsh, desperate sound.

“Hahaha!”

His voice rang loudly across the square as he straightened his back slightly, forcing a mocking grin onto his pale face.

“What a story!” he scoffed.

His eyes gleamed wildly.

“Truly magnificent!”

He spread his hands dramatically as if applauding the Saintess’ tale.

“And tell me…”

His voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Why exactly would a cultist want a child?”

His grin widened.

“And why would I, a bishop of the Holy Kingdom, go through such trouble for something so ridiculous?”

His laughter echoed once more.

“Hahaha…!”

Laughter still echoed across the execution platform.

Bishop Truce’s mocking voice carried through the square as he spread his arms in exaggerated disbelief, as though the entire accusation were nothing more than a poorly crafted story meant to tarnish his reputation.

“What a magnificent tale,” he repeated with a sneer, the sarcasm thick in every syllable. “But tell me—why would any cultist want a child? Why would I, a bishop of the Holy Kingdom, commit such absurd acts for something so meaningless?”

Some of the clergy shifted uncomfortably, uncertain how to react.

The crowd murmured again, confusion and disbelief spreading through the thousands gathered in the plaza.

And then—

A single voice cut through the noise.

“Hmph.”

Luca stepped forward.

He did not rush.

He did not shout.

But the quiet certainty in his tone carried further than any scream.

“Why would cultists want a child?” he said slowly, his crimson eyes fixed on Bishop Truce with quiet contempt. “Or more specifically… a certain child.”

The square fell silent again.

Luca tilted his head slightly, his expression almost thoughtful.

“But what if that child,” he continued calmly, “possesses blood capable of lifting the seal on the Demon Emperor?”

The words landed like a thunderclap.

For several seconds—

No one spoke.

No one even breathed.

The silence was so complete that the fluttering of banners above the cathedral could be heard clearly across the plaza.

Then—

The murmurs returned.

But this time they were different.

Not confused whispers.

Fearful ones.

“Demon Emperor…?”

“What did he just say?”

“Blood capable of lifting a seal…?”

“Is that even possible?”

The clergy began speaking quietly among themselves, their earlier skepticism now replaced with visible unease.

Even some of the Divine Guards exchanged nervous glances.

Luca continued speaking as though the reaction around him did not exist.

“Wasn’t that exactly the reason why the cultists targeted her during the final examinations in the Hellsand Dungeon?”

His gaze shifted briefly toward the Saintess before returning to the bishop.

Several academy instructors stiffened at the mention of the incident.

The crowd murmured louder.

“That dungeon attack…?”

“Those cultists…?”

Luca folded his arms calmly.

“And before anyone asks how someone could know that a child would one day become the Saintess…”

His voice lowered slightly.

“…let me remind you of something.”

His crimson eyes swept across the crowd.

“Even among humans, there exist prophets who can glimpse fragments of the future.”

A pause.

“So who is to say that a high-ranking cultist could not possess the ability to foresee such things?”

The murmurs intensified.

People began looking toward the clergy again.

Toward Bishop Truce.

Toward the Saintess.

Fear had begun to creep into their whispers.

“Could it be true…?”

“If cultists knew beforehand…”

“Then the entire kingdom…”

Luca remained calm amidst the rising chaos.

But inside his mind—

A single thought surfaced.

And I know exactly who that prophet is.

His eyes darkened slightly.

The First Demon General.

For several long seconds after Luca’s words fell into the square, nothing moved.

The murmurs that had begun spreading through the crowd slowly faded again, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to weigh down every person standing beneath the cathedral spires. Thousands of eyes shifted between the Saintess, Luca, and the trembling figure of Bishop Truce.

The bishop’s breathing had grown uneven.

Sweat poured down his temples.

His lips trembled as he looked around the square, searching desperately for someone—anyone—who might deny what had just been said.

But there was no one.

The clergy avoided his gaze.

The Divine Guards no longer looked to him for orders.

Even the Pope remained silent.

That silence broke something inside him.

At first it was only a small laugh.

A weak one.

Then it grew.

“Hah…”

The bishop bent slightly at the waist, clutching his head as his shoulders began to shake.

“Haha…”

The laugh grew louder.

More frantic.

More broken.

Until finally—

“Hahahahahahaha!”

The manic laughter echoed wildly across the square.

His eyes had lost their composure completely now.

They were wide.

Unfocused.

Unhinged.

“Fine!” he suddenly shouted, his voice cracking with raw desperation as he straightened and glared at the crowd around him. “Yes! It’s true!”

Gasps rippled through the plaza.

“You want the truth?” he snarled, his face twisting into something ugly and bitter. “Then hear it!”

His finger stabbed through the air toward the Saintess.

“That woman—your precious mother—was nothing but a tool!”

The crowd recoiled at the venom in his voice.

“She was brought to me by the cultists themselves,” he continued, his laughter returning in sharp, jagged bursts. “A filthy prisoner with the perfect bloodline!”

His eyes burned with madness now.

“They told me what to do… how to break her… how to force her to carry the child they needed!”

His grin widened grotesquely.

“And I did it!”

The words struck the square like a hammer.

“I tortured her!”

“I starved her!”

“I made sure she would give birth to the vessel they desired!”

His voice grew louder with each confession, his sanity unraveling completely as the pressure of the moment crushed whatever restraint he once possessed.

“And when she escaped—”

His face twisted violently.

“—that damn old witch ruined everything!”

He pointed at the healer woman with shaking fury.

“All of it was supposed to end differently!”

But no one listened anymore.

The crowd stared at him in horror.

The clergy had turned pale.

Even the Pope’s expression had hardened into something cold and absolute.

And standing before him—

The Saintess did not move.

Her golden aura flickered quietly around her as she listened to every word.

Her face remained calm.

Too calm.

But within her eyes—

A storm raged.

When Bishop Truce finally fell silent, his breath ragged and uneven after his own furious confession, the Saintess stepped forward.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Her golden gaze locked onto him.

“For the crimes you have committed,” she said quietly, her voice carrying across the square with the weight of divine authority, “for the countless lives you have destroyed…”

Her eyes darkened.

“And for the final belief my mother carried until the moment of her death…”

She raised her hand.

The air around her immediately trembled.

Golden light gathered in her palm.

Not softly this time.

It roared.

Holy energy condensed rapidly into a massive crescent of divine power, the brilliance of it illuminating the entire execution platform as though a second sun had appeared above the crowd.

Bishop Truce’s eyes widened in sudden franticness.

“Hahahahahha! You can’t kill me…your faith won’t allow it.”

But the Saintess did not hesitate.

Her hand flicked forward.

The enormous blade of holy energy tore through the air like judgment itself.

In a single blinding flash—

It passed through Bishop Truce.

His body froze.

For one silent heartbeat.

Then—

His head separated cleanly from his shoulders.

The crowd gasped as the body collapsed heavily onto the stone platform.

Golden light slowly faded.

The Saintess lowered her hand.

Her voice finished the sentence with quiet finality.

“I, the Saintess of the Holy Kingdom…”

“…sentence you to death.”

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