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Chapter 686: The Legacy of Deities

The man who wore Ellington’s face let out a short, contemptuous laugh.

“Monsters? Isn’t this body your creation? You built these extraordinary warriors from witches’ blood and God’s Stones of Retaliation—but the process was flawed. You skipped critical steps. They came out without souls. You placed your hopes in these soulless half-finished things, expecting them to hold their own against demons on a battlefield. And now you see a genuine finished product, and you call it a monster?”

“A genuine… finished product?” Tayfun’s pulse beat fast and hard. This man knew things about the God’s Punishment Army’s creation that were the most closely guarded secrets the church possessed.

“All-out attack—protect His Eminence!” the Praetorian Guard ordered.

The ten God’s Punishment Warriors surged forward to shield the Archbishop, moving with the inhuman speed of their kind.

The invaders were the same kind—and stronger.

They were not more numerous, but they fought with a fluency that the church’s warriors could not match. The invaders drew them close and then fragmented them—whenever one of the church’s warriors engaged an opponent in front, another invader slipped behind him and struck. A God’s Punishment Warrior who could not receive updated instructions from his controller became nearly helpless in a shifting fight; the Praetorian Guard could not simultaneously direct ten warriors through a chaotic close-quarters battle. The church’s side had equal raw strength but moved like puppets with tangled strings; the invaders moved like individuals who had chosen to fight together.

The result was one-sided. The church’s warriors were disabled or destroyed without a single invader falling.

The one who looked like Ellington dispatched the Praetorian Guard himself, a single clean stroke at the end. Then he lifted his blade and rested it on the old Bishop’s shoulder.

Black-blue blood from the God’s Punishment Warriors and red blood from the Praetorian Guard mixed on the blade. It dripped into Tayfun’s collar.

“You can’t kill me,” Tayfun said. His voice shook but the words came out. “If I die, the Holy City loses its order. If the Holy City falls, who stops the demonic beasts? If they break through the Hermes defense line, all four kingdoms will collapse into—”

“Ruins?” The leader cut him off. “Save that story for ignorant believers. We know what demonic beasts are looking for. If you hadn’t brought it here, why would those simple-minded beasts swarm to this trap of ice and snow season after season, when magic power peaks at its highest?”

“I don’t… I don’t understand what you mean…”

The man who wore Ellington’s face shrugged. “You haven’t even seen the relic. What a pity.”

Tayfun drew breath to answer.

Then there was cold at his throat, and then there was nothing at all.


Elena kicked the old man’s severed head and watched it arc away. She lowered her sword as his body toppled slowly to the floor.

“Let’s go. We still have work to finish.”

A hand caught her from behind. “Wait—you’re wounded. Stop the bleeding first, or the body will start to slip.”

“Where?”

“Your waist. You’ll need to remove the armor.”

Elena swore. “This damned body. It can’t feel anything.” She stripped off the chest and back plate, revealing a powerfully built torso.

“Would you look at that,” someone said admiringly. “That body would have cost at least fifty gold royals back in Taquila. Be honest—have you ever looked in a mirror and…”

“Carol.” The witch treating Elena’s wound didn’t look up. “Stop. That kind of thinking is torture for us. I don’t even let myself remember the days in Taquila. Compared to that life, this existence feels like being sealed inside a cage of endless void.”

Someone else agreed immediately. “Carol is right. If someone could make me feel what it was like to sleep with a man again, I would give anything to marry him. No—I would treat him as my lord.”

“A man?” another voice said. “I would be satisfied with a fried steak in butter. Real butter.”

“I just want to feel sunlight on my face.”

“Damn it, who started this?”

“Miss Betty.”

“I only meant to make casual conversation. This was the kind of body I always wanted in the first place…”

“Enough.” Elena raised her voice. “Don’t forget why we came. The others are waiting for us at the top of the tower. Focus.

She led them into the concealed tunnel once Carol finished tying off the wound. They climbed up through the passage into the library, where another group of witches—also housed in God’s Punishment Warrior bodies—waited for them.

These were the remaining members of the Union.

Lady Natalya, Elena thought, looking at them all. Do you see? We won in the end.

“Have you found the relic?” she asked aloud.

Zoe, the other team’s leader, came forward. “The old place. Everything arranged identically to how it was in the Holy City of Taquila. By the way—why did it take you so long down there? You didn’t let anyone escape?”

Elena coughed twice. “Of course not. Everything went exactly as agreed—”

“So we touch the relic together.”

She nodded. “That’s it. Let’s begin.”

The relic—the deities’ legacy—was the origin of the Battle of Divine Will and the Union’s most closely held secret. None of them had known of its existence before the witches’ empire collapsed. Only when the survivors had gone underground, hidden and hunted, had the Three Chiefs finally revealed it to those who remained.

From that moment forward, all distinctions of rank had dissolved. They had become a group without hierarchy, equal in purpose, bound together by the single task of finding a way to defeat the demons. Every survivor was equally necessary. That was what the Three Chiefs had said.

Elena’s heart beat faster at the thought of touching something made by the deities themselves.

She knew it was an illusion. This body couldn’t feel anything real.

She followed Zoe through a trapdoor concealed behind a bookshelf and climbed up to the top of the library.

A narrow room waited there, windowless, lit only by a Magic Stone overhead casting dim blue light. Nothing inside but that glow and bare walls.

“Is this the Prayer Room Pasha described?”

“Yes.” Zoe lifted an iron hammer and struck the wall. A dull impact—only a small white mark. She moved and struck again. And again. On the third or fourth attempt, the wall opposite the entrance cracked.

“Here—help me.”

Elena drew her sword and came alongside. Together they struck at the cracked section until a gap opened, half the height of a person. They looked through it.

The wall’s thickness was nearly half an arm’s length. Both surfaces had been covered in heavy layers of mortar—the kind of construction that would yield nothing when you knocked on it and listened. This was not a passage to another level. It was a secret chamber.

Inside, Elena saw the deities’ legacy.

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