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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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Priests weren’t generally considered powerful warriors.
Yes, they could enhance their bodies with holy power and heal wounds instantly, making them seem superhuman.
But that perception was mostly held by naive outsiders. Those who actually pursued the path of a priest quickly realized the limitations. Most either abandoned their faith or became paladins.
The reason for this perception was simple: their power wasn’t their own. It was borrowed from the divine.
And borrowed power, no matter how great the source, couldn’t truly compare to the strength honed through a lifetime of dedicated training.
Furthermore, divine power was meant for blessing, not destruction. Depending on the deity they worshipped, priests could heal wounds, enrich the land, create sanctuaries—a wide range of benevolent abilities.
But there were restrictions. Using divine power for unjust purposes resulted in divine backlash, permanently severing the connection. This was a universal constant.
Therefore, violence was generally forbidden for priests, contributing to the perception of their weakness in combat.
However, these limitations didn’t apply to someone like the Pope.
His holy power was vastly superior in quantity and quality compared to ordinary priests, and his skill in wielding it was unparalleled.
His unique trait also played a significant role.
The Saint Who Walks the Thorny Path.
It allowed him to convert his mana into holy power and manipulate both simultaneously, but doing so placed an immense strain on his body, the pain increasing with sustained use.
While it wasn’t ideal for prolonged battles, his vast mana reserves and high pain tolerance made it manageable, as long as he didn’t overexert himself.
But now?
He’d already expended a significant amount of holy power in his previous attack. He’d thought it was enough to finish them.
Yet, they remained unharmed.
And somehow, they’d stolen his holy power. Not only that, but they’d used faith – their faith – to replicate his techniques.
The situation was becoming increasingly disadvantageous.
He blocked another blow from the massive black arms, then retaliated, launching a golden hammer forged from holy power.
Hercal, the old man, stepped forward, his palm outstretched. The hammer stopped mid-air, inches from his wrinkled hand, as if hitting an invisible wall, then clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Meanwhile, the massive arms descended again, and Antonio, who’d been hiding behind the old man, darted forward.
“Regrettable, Pope.”
“Silence, apostate. I have nothing to say to you.”
Fists and swords clashed, a discordant symphony of holy power and dark energy. The black-robed man’s tainted blade met the Pope’s wrinkled fist, radiating a translucent golden light.
Antonio, once a promising candidate for bishop, now clashed with the Pope, the revered leader of the church.
Normally, the Pope would have easily overpowered him. But he was weakened, his holy power depleted, and he had to contend with two opponents simultaneously.
And watching it all, with detached amusement, was the third figure.
“Hmm… Aren’t you going to react? I thought you’d at least ask why I betrayed you…”
Greed, the man who’d introduced himself as such, sat leisurely on a conjured black throne, observing the battle with keen interest, occasionally deflecting the Pope’s third arm with casual flicks of his wrist.
“Antonio, how much longer…? Even I am finding it difficult to protect you…”
Hercal, unlike Greed, was struggling. He parried the Pope’s attacks, deflecting blows meant for Antonio, his scarred hands moving with surprising speed.
He was skilled, but the Pope was relentless, his attacks precise, calculated. He lured Antonio into traps, forcing Hercal to intervene constantly.
The old man was tiring. The Pope’s focus remained unwavering, his holy power seemingly regenerating his stamina. Hercal, however, had no such advantage. His concentration began to waver.
A blast of holy power slipped past his defenses, hurtling towards his face. He instinctively closed his eyes, bracing for the impact, but felt nothing.
“Hmm, I must admit, this power is tempting.”
“L-Lord Greed?”
“If we delay any longer, reinforcements might arrive. Allow me to handle this.”
“Y-You don’t have to! We can—”
Antonio, perhaps trying to prove his worth, started to protest, but Greed’s sharp gaze silenced him.
His eyes, like bottomless pits, seemed to pierce through Antonio’s soul, a silent threat that froze him in place.
Greed’s lips curled into a predatory smile, then smoothed into an expression of feigned innocence.
“It’s alright. Just watch. That’s the best way you can help me.”
“Y-Yes, my Lord…”
“Who said you could?”
The Pope lunged towards the incapacitated Antonio, his fist aimed for a killing blow.
Greed appeared instantly between them, blocking the attack. The Pope recoiled, wary of this unknown opponent, unsure of his abilities.
But the opportunity to eliminate one of them was too tempting to pass up. He struck again, his fist powerful enough to crush a man’s skull.
“Carelessness is forbidden, Antonio.”
“Th-Thank you.”
But the blow was blocked again, intercepted by a swirling vortex of black energy, the same energy Greed had used to create his throne.
The two energies clashed, repelling each other, the Pope’s holy power slowly dissipating, neutralized by the darkness.
His empowered fist returned to normal, and the black vortex faded.
“Now, Pope, shall we take a breather—”
“Hmph!”
“Ugh…!”
“…”
Greed had suggested a pause, but the Pope had seized the opportunity, striking Antonio, who crumpled to the ground, clutching his broken nose.
The Pope brushed the blood from his fist and re-infused his body with holy power.
“Don’t be absurd. I have no intention of talking.”
“…Seems so.”
“And I have no intention of letting you leave alive…!”
“Your determination… it’s quite intriguing.”
The moment the words left his mouth, black and gold clashed again. Lines of dark and light energy crisscrossed the air, exploding on impact.
The Pope unleashed torrents of holy power, while Greed danced through the attacks, weaving tendrils of darkness.
Two titans clashed, their power shaking the cathedral.
Hercal and Antonio watched, unable to intervene. This battle was beyond their capabilities. The sheer force of their attacks sent debris flying, obliterating anything caught in the crossfire.
But the battle wasn’t one-sided. The Pope was exhausted, his body battered, while Greed seemed to be tiring of the Pope’s relentless assault.
Blood splattered, groans escaped their lips, but their wounds vanished instantly. The Pope healed himself with holy power, while Greed used the black energy to mend his injuries.
The battle devolved into a war of attrition. And in such a fight, the outcome was inevitable.
“Huff… huff…”
“…Haha, finally out of strength, are we?”
“Don’t… be… absurd… cough…!”
“Honestly, if this had gone on any longer, I might have lost. I admit, Pope, you are formidable.”
“…”
“Which is why I have to kill you now. You’re too much of a threat.”
The Pope wanted to resist, but he couldn’t even lift a finger. His nerves screamed in agony, as if being seared by a hot iron. Blood flowed freely from his nose, his muscles screamed in protest, his bones felt like they would shatter at any moment.
But he wouldn’t run. He’d lived his life with integrity, and he wouldn’t abandon his principles now, especially not against the enemies of his church.
He faced his death with stoic resolve, a serene smile gracing his lips, like a martyr accepting his fate.
He looked beautiful, ethereal, a true saint in his final moments.
The sight filled Hercal and Antonio with awe, and Greed… with desire.
Greed.
His defining characteristic, his primal instinct. It surged within him as he looked at the Pope.
‘…Truly fascinating. To face death with such tranquility…!’
He wanted him. He wanted to preserve him, just like this. If he couldn’t keep the whole body, he’d take the head, a treasured trophy.
A black spear materialized and shot towards the Pope, aimed just below his throat.
The tip of the spear neared its target.
‘…May Your final blessing and mercy be upon those who remain…’
The Pope thought, his eyes open, unwavering. Greed’s smile widened.
Then, the spear veered off course.
Deflected.
Effortlessly.
As if guided by an unseen current.
Like moonlight flowing on water.
Moonlight Nine Swords, Fourth Form: Flowing Moon River.
The spear flew past the Pope and embedded itself in the wall.
And standing before him, where the spear should have struck, was a figure cloaked in black, his black hair framing his black eyes.
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