Chapter 231: Threads of the Web

Under the influence of magic, earth and stone were swiftly separated from the collapsed ruins. They were gathered and reshaped into new forms.

The rebuilders took the shattered bricks and rubble—wreckage from the recent battle in the capital—and layered them into walls once again, stacking them along streets that were not yet open to public passage but had already been cleared via the joint efforts of knights and magicians.

Now that the war was over, soldiers stationed across the kingdom were finally returning home.

This influx meant that forces of extraordinary strength—the Nightblades, the city guard, the royal guards, or even noble retinues—were now abundant all throughout the capital.

Thanks to the help of those knights and magicians, reconstruction was happening at an incredible rate.

Earth magic made it effortless to clear debris, reassemble rubble into building materials, and handle large-scale transport.

As for the knights, even knights-in-training could help with the rebuilding process simply by relying on their physical prowess.

Of course, all this was surface-level. In a world where extraordinary strength was common, buildings weren’t considered precious for the most part. They were easy to destroy and easy to rebuild.

The true losses lay elsewhere: in the dead, and in the goods and materials destroyed along with the buildings—wares that had been stored in shops now reduced to ash.

Still, at least superficially, within three days of the God of Terror’s descent, the city had transformed from doom and gloom into a scene of renewed vitality—its wounded limbs knit back together, the pulse of a kingdom beating strong once more.

“Still no word from Captain Hugin or Mr. Wang Yu?”

A Nightblades patrol passed by a worksite where the rebuilders cleared rubble from the streets.

One of the Nightblades magicians, hovering in mid-air and sweeping debris aside with earth magic to create space for construction, called out to them and raised one of the first questions on their minds.

These ordinary Nightblades’ commanding officer, Hugin Smokes, had vanished after the divine descent of the God of Terror.

The Nightblades, city guard, and even royal guards had scoured the capital in search of him. But there didn’t seem to be any news at all.

In the end, they had been forced to a grim conclusion: the captain they respected and trusted had, for reasons unknown, perished in the chaos.

Similarly missing was Wang Yu, a member of the Nightblades’ special ops team. Like Hugin, he had disappeared without a trace at the conclusion of the crisis.

According to Miss Avia, a close friend of Wang Yu’s who had requested the organization’s help in searching for him, he had last been seen rising to the surface from the underground depths of the capital alongside the corpse of a god.

This meant that, unlike Hugin, the cause of Wang Yu’s disappearance was at least probable—most likely, he had been obliterated in the God of Terror’s final surge.

The search for both men continued, but hope was waning. They were hardly the only ones who had vanished, after all.

Many had gone missing: ordinary Nightblades and members of the city guard, the royal guards, and civilians alike. Most already knew the truth—these weren’t just disappearances, but deaths.

Wang Yu and Hugin were simply among the most well-known. Their rank had secured them more resources and attention, but compared to the many newly risen nobles who had perished during the divine descent, were they really all that unique?

Though their passing was mourned, the Nightblades were no strangers to death. The loss of a respected superior merited perhaps a few dozen seconds of silent prayer—and then they’d move on.

The fallen deserved remembrance, but the Nightblades fought for the living.

“The investigation teams have already cleared nearly all of the ruins that were within the range of the god’s descent, but…”

The patrol came to a halt. One of them responded, trailing off with a shake of the head. The silence said the rest.

“I understand. One more thing—you should know this: Sieg Wilsbach of the special ops team is expected to leave the capital within the week. After that, aside from Archbishop Fang, we’re likely to end up with a change in leadership.”

The magician hovering in the air nodded, then shared the news he had just received with the patrol.

“Sieg? That clerk who got along well with the captain? He’s leaving? Why?”

The patrol members were surprised. Sieg hadn’t stood out much in the Nightblades, but if memory served, he had been around even longer than Hugin himself.

“He said he had a falling out with someone from the royal family, that he could no longer stay in Aleisterre. He also warned us to be cautious of the royals.”

The magician recalled Sieg’s parting words.

“A falling out? With Sieg? I thought he was a mild-mannered scholar… What could they have done to drive him away?”

The members of the patrol frowned. If even someone as gentle as Sieg had been forced out, it meant something had gone seriously wrong.

“You know how the royals are. They aren’t exactly subtle against us. Sounds like someone finally went too far and pushed Sieg over the edge.”

The magician shrugged. His tone made it clear he had grown used to the royals’ petty tricks.

“He was right, though. We should stay on guard. We fight for the kingdom—but that doesn’t mean we’ll turn a blind eye to the royals when they cross the line.”

The patrol member grew thoughtful. The magician’s words struck a chord.

“As long as you understand. Our new leader will likely to be the hero of the capital. With his identity, his strength, his achievements—well, it would only be natural.”

The magician gently steered the conversation back to the future of their order.

“Edward Wolyn? A duke’s son, a member of the special ops team, physical vessel of the God of Light, and the true savior of the capital… if anyone is fit to lead us, it’s him. I trust his strength—and his character.”

The patrol member nodded in agreement, offering Edward high praise.

“I won’t keep you from your patrol. Stay safe. And don’t give up on Hugin and Wang Yu. Who knows? Maybe the Goddess of Fortune will smile on us fools who don’t even worship her.”

With that, the magician turned back to his task. Earth moved at his command.

“Don’t worry—we won’t stop until we’ve checked every last corner. Who knows, maybe some bastard god of misfortune stuffed them in the most unlikely spot imaginable.”

“Mm… not bad at all.”

A rare, faint smile crossed the magician’s lips. He whispered to himself as he continued his work.

Meanwhile, in his room at the Ryder estate, Charles sat at his desk writing in a leather-bound notebook. Beside the notebook were several The Star tarot cards in a stack, some upright and some reversed.

“Archbishop Fang, while this is the most secure method of communication I can manage, my mana reserves and the quality of my handmade tarot aren’t enough to maintain this kind of communication with you.

“I know it’s a little reckless, but maybe you should try the Lady of the Night’s Prayer Network. Light above—surely the old man won’t mind.”

With his pen, Charles scrawled blasphemous, borderline heretical words against the God of Light into one of the notebook’s pages.

Then, he tore out the page and placed an upright The Star upon it. Magic pulsed; space warped. The page vanished.

He grew a shade paler. This method of absolute secrecy was draining him—his mana and void energy were running dry.

“I may not be a stodgy old archbishop, but even I’ve never tried something like this… you’re right. I should.”

The page returned ten seconds later, The Star now reversed and powerless. Neatly written across the sheet was Archbishop Fang’s reply.

“Charles, can you hear me?”

The priest’s voice echoed in his mind—so swiftly that even Charles, who had proposed the idea, jumped in surprise.

“I can hear you. Looks like the Prayer Network works for you too, Archbishop.”

“Yes, it certainly does. I was the one who approved this deity’s mission in Aleisterre, after all. Still, to avoid tensions with other faiths, I’ve never contacted her directly… but now, I can say with certainty that the Lady of the Night is the most generous and compassionate of all the gods I’ve encountered.”

Archbishop Fang’s voice rang clear, his warmth evident.

“Absolutely. The Lady of the Night and the God of Light are two of the best divine beings I’ve ever known. They’re equals in my heart…”

Charles was spouting sheer heresy, but his sentiments were sincere enough.

“Actually, I’ve been wondering… If the Lady of the Night is truly such a unique deity, then if she were to believe in the God of Light… would she then gain dominion over light?”

Archbishop Fang’s abrupt question startled even Charles, who had never exactly been reverent. He was daring to imagine the impossible—wouldn’t that get those two esteemed figures into a divine brawl?

“Well… let’s set that aside for now,” Charles said hastily, abruptly changing the topic. He cut to the real reason for their meeting. “You’ve been informed of Wang Yu’s situation, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Fang replied, calm and steady. “But given the unique nature of the Church of Light, it’s difficult for us to interfere directly in the internal affairs of a sovereign kingdom. To claim justice as our banner, then impose ourselves on another nation’s governance—history has shown such conduct to be utterly unacceptable.”

“In other words,” Charles asked, “the Church of Light can’t really do anything?”

He was somewhat disappointed, but not yet disheartened.

“There’s little we can do. That doesn’t mean we can do nothing,” Fang answered. “As I said, the God of Light is hardly dogmatic. While we cannot intervene overtly in the kingdom’s politics, more subtle influence remains possible. I will see to that personally.

“I’ve read through your plan—I don’t see any major issues. Your task is simply to carry it through. Once Wang Yu is rescued, any royal reprisals or force the crown might bring to bear… we, the Church of Light, will muster all the power we can to aid and protect you.

“After all, shielding the innocent and defending our friends is the way of justice.”

Fang laid out all he could do. By the end of his solemn promise, Charles felt invigorated, his body full of strength. With the might of the Nightblades joined by the Church of Light, they were a force no one could ignore.

“Understood!”

Deep underground, in the pitch-black environment of the dungeons, Wang Yu remained bound in chains, crucified against the cold stone wall. The silence was so complete that his labored breathing and the feeble thud of his faltering heart could clearly be heard.

Each breath felt harder than the last. Wang Yu could feel his body wasting away—and at the root of it all was the cruel spike impaled in his abdomen.

The strange, cursed spike ceaselessly drew out the fighting spirit within his body and vented it into the air, leaving him in a perpetual state of internal emptiness—a vacuum of power.

Even at the best of times, Wang Yu generated fighting spirit more slowly than the average knight. But now, with the spike forcibly draining away whatever he produced, he could no longer sustain even the most basic knight’s techniques.

When he had first learned Blood Tempest, he had fused its peculiar flow of energy into his very bloodstream.

Since then, it hadn’t merely been his heart that kept his blood in motion—his fighting spirit had become a vital driving force as well.

Now, as that energy drained away, his body once again relied solely on the pounding of his heart. It wasn’t fatal—not yet—but the weakness it brought was overwhelming and unmistakable.

He had long since run out of sustenance. His body, already depleted from sustaining his Cursed Fire, was now stretched thin.

The effort of resisting truth serum and the slow healing of his grotesquely injured right eye had consumed what little strength he had left.

And now, his once-formidable body was beginning to crumble.

“My fat’s all gone. Half a day—that’s the most I’ve got left. If I want to last longer… I’ll have to cannibalize myself. Start with the less vital parts. Break down the muscles. Convert them to energy. That should buy me time—to study this spike…”

His eyes cracked open as he looked down at the spike embedded in his belly, out of which blood continued to seep.

This spike was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. It didn’t just absorb fighting spirit—it even corrupted the surrounding flesh. Even his body’s natural healing was suppressed.

Even after three full days, the wound still bled. Slowly, steadily, his life was draining away. And soon, unless he harmed himself, he would have no usable energy left.

At that point, there would be only one option left: autophagy—to let the semi-living blood in his veins devour his own flesh, to keep his body functioning by breaking itself down.

It was simultaneously suicide and the only way left for him to survive.

“The intestines, maybe… I’m not digesting food anyway. I guess they’re expendable…”

Wang Yu silently calculated which parts of his body could be sacrificed first. He prepared to command his failing body to obey his will.

Tap.

A finger touched the spike in his gut, then pressed it. Twice. Pain shot through him, but Wang Yu ignored it.

“Mmm… Splendid,” came a voice laced with glee. “The spike’s doing its work perfectly. I can’t sense even a whisper of your fighting spirit.

“How does it feel? That source of power crushed, your knightly gifts erased? How does it feel to be nothing again?”

Rudolf’s cruel words came hissing into Wang Yu’s ear. His mocking malice was meant to break Wang Yu’s mind.

The chains rattled violently. Wang Yu was thrashing, enraged by Rudolf’s voice, ready to kill the man with his bare hands.

But it was meaningless. He no longer had the strength to break his bonds. His struggles were pitiful, laughable.

“Your will isn’t as indomitable as you thought,” Rudolf sneered. “Where’s that cool head of yours now? This is only the beginning. Still won’t talk? Then I suppose you’ll know what it feels like to wither bit by bit, your strength completely drained.”

He dragged a sharp nail across Wang Yu’s cheek, tearing a bloody line on his face. Then he turned and walked away, leaving behind only the echoes of rattling chains and hoarse growls.

He was quite pleased. It was always easiest to break an extraordinary man when he watched his own power erode before his eyes.

The sound of struggle faded. Wang Yu lowered his head, seemingly exhausted, utterly drained.

But within his mind, thoughts stirred. His earlier performance had been just a ruse to buy more time. And one of Rudolf’s comments had jogged something in his memory.

“Have I been walking the wrong path all along?” he wondered. “I’ve always tried to fit into this world’s mold of what a knight should be. That’s why I tried to create a vortex of fighting spirit in my abdomen, but that never worked out. I didn’t even start with any fighting spirit at first…

“It only came when I used the void to teach my body what it was. And every step since—with my techniques, my fighting spirit, my potential—I’ve been following the path this world has laid out.

“I’ve been following what other people in this world do, but I’m ultimately different from them. My body—my essence—is different. The things I’ve learned aren’t worthless, but… what about forging my own path?”

As the last of his borrowed power drained away, Wang Yu began to resemble the trainee knight he had once been—without fighting spirit, without strength. And yet, it was precisely in that lack that he uncovered something else.

Not fighting spirit…

Not part of this world’s prescribed path…

But his ripples…

…and this body, his body—perhaps that was the true key.

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