Night slid down over Kuoh City, carrying a humid chill that clung to the walls of the old church at the foot of the hill. The building looked as if it had been abandoned long ago—its windows cracked, its support beams rotting, and the holy symbols that once shone now nothing more than fading dust. But that night, inside, the dim glow of candles cast slow-moving shadows… and no prayers were being offered there.
At the center of the altar, a blonde girl was hung on a rusted iron cross. Her breathing was ragged, yet her eyes still shone gently, as if she were still trying to understand why the world treated her this way. On her ring finger, a small ring glimmered—even though the light in the room was nearly dead.
Twilight Healing.
A high-level healing-type Sacred Gear; a holy anomaly granted only to a select few humans. A gift… or a curse, depending on who looked at it.
Raynare stood directly in front of the girl—a fallen angel with dark wings half-spread, her eyes filled with a mix of irritation and barely hidden sadistic pleasure. Her black dress swayed softly as she stepped forward, signaling that the ritual had reached a stage that could no longer be undone.
"A rare Sacred Gear in the hands of a fragile human like you…" she murmured, almost mocking.
Behind her, three other fallen angels kept watch—forming a semi-circle of confinement.
One of them was Dohnaseek, wearing a long black coat and a mask covering part of his face. His gaze was cold, but not as sharp as Raynare's; to him this was a task, not entertainment.
Sacred Gears—tools created by Bilbal and given to weak humans so they could survive supernatural threats—had hierarchies of power. At the peak stood the Longinus, thirteen tools recorded as the most dangerous and most sacred, capable of killing celestial beings.
Twilight Healing was not a Longinus.
But its class was high enough for Raynare and her group to dare crossing boundaries.
In that room, the air trembled lightly, as if aware of what was about to happen.
Extracting a Sacred Gear was not merely surgery… it was tearing holy power from a living body. A process that rarely succeeded without killing the host.
Raynare raised her hand, summoning black light that swirled gently around her fingers.
"Don't worry," she said, her tone light, almost soft—contrasting with her words.
"We only want what you don't deserve to have."
The holy ring on Asia's hand pulsed, as if afraid.
And the ritual began.
...
I arrived right in front of the church—an old building that should've been abandoned, yet tonight felt too alive, as if something was breathing behind its walls. The night wind carried the scent of metal and dry ash, a bad omen I could never mistake.
In the front yard, under the moonlight slashed by clouds, stood a dozen people in long white robes. From afar they might look like monks or a prayer group. But I knew better. Their unkempt hair, the wild expressions they tried to hide, and the faint blood stains on their sleeves… these were not holy men.
These were stray exorcists—renegades who had defected from the official church. A wild sect that believed holiness could be earned through slaughter. They used to be exorcists; now they were nothing more than deranged cultists with a sick obsession for violence.
I let out a slow breath. Really, Raynare brought way too much backup.
And among them… I saw him.
Freed Sellzen.
He stood slightly ahead of the others, as if impatient for something fun to happen. His wide grin reflected the dim light, an expression that never truly showed joy… only mental damage far beyond repair. His silver hair was messy, and those yellow eyes narrowed like a predator bored of waiting for its prey to scream.
If I remembered correctly, he was the only one in this group who survived until season three. Whether that was luck or curse, I wasn't sure. With his deranged temperament, maybe it was both.
Great… the more crowded it is, the harder it is for me to slip inside. But other options? None.
I sharpened my focus. Near the church door, three figures stood slightly apart from the stray exorcists—the neatly folded dark wings made them instantly stand out.
Raynare's three companions.
Kalawarner, with her confident steps and eyes that always looked like she was belittling everyone else. Mittelt, whose small body contrasted sharply with her cruelty when she played with victims. And Dohnaseek, the veteran fallen angel who carried himself like an executioner long numb to blood.
They didn't move much, but their auras were more suffocating than the entire white-robed cult combined. Even from this distance I felt it—a subtle pressure on my chest, like my instincts warning me that approaching was a stupid idea.
There is no plan that's truly safe, I thought while taking a long breath. Only choices that are slightly less deadly.
My hand reached for my weapon's grip—just reflex, just a reminder that I still had something to fight with. But deep down, I knew: it wouldn't be a weapon that saved me tonight. It would be courage, or madness… maybe both.
I lowered myself slightly, trying to steady a breathing rhythm that suddenly felt too loud in my own ears. The church loomed like the gaping mouth of a giant cave ready to swallow anything approaching. And inside… Asia. A girl with a gentle smile who didn't belong in a world full of thorns like this.
There was no time left to hesitate. Not tonight.
I moved forward, slowly at first—just a shadow sliding along the stone wall. Every step I crafted to vanish as soon as it touched the ground. Every motion I timed to drown within the night wind's breath.
Then, just as one stray exorcist turned his head, sensing something, I stopped hiding.
And appeared directly before them.
Silence.
One long second—long enough to see shock, widened eyes, and caught breaths from twelve white-robed men who just realized the shadow in front of them… wasn't a shadow.
"What—"
They didn't get to finish their sentence.
I vanished.
Shadow Step.
A technique I brought from the Murim world—meant only for facing human grandmasters—became a nightmare for these church defectors. The world fractured into shards of darkness. My movements no longer followed human form, more like a streak of black slashing through the air.
My hands moved on their own.
White cloth instantly bloomed red.
This wasn't the elegant martial art taught to students wanting to become heroes. This was the art of slaughter kept by forbidden sects. And I… a direct disciple of the Heavenly Demon Sect. A living weapon trained to dance among the dying gasps of enemies.
"A—AAHH—!"
The first scream broke, but didn't last long. Before the echo could even form, I was already behind him, driving my fingers into his spine until his body went rigid.
Freed Sellzen stepped back half a pace, his yellow pupils trembling between excitement and terror. Ironically—the psychopath looked most alive when standing at the edge of death.
"Oh? Ohhh?? This is fun! Hey! HEY! Who are you? Assassin? Ninja? Or—"
I ignored him. There were still many I needed to finish off.
Another body fell.
Within three seconds, half of them were already scattered across the ground. Within seven seconds, only two remained standing—barely, and trembling.
The combination of Shadow Step and Heavenly Demon Claw created an effect that was almost inhuman. My body moved faster than what ordinary eyes could track. Even the fallen angels were forced to change their expressions.
And then—
I stopped right in the middle of the pile of corpses.
The blood hit the ground first. Only then did their bodies follow.
Freed laughed loudly, almost hysterically.
"HAHAHA! Oh God, this is insane! It's like a slaughter festival! You're amazing! Come on! Fight me next!"
He raised his light sword with a theatrical flourish, like a child who just got handed a deadly toy. His eyes trembled—not from fear, but from the sick pleasure only understood by people whose nerves had snapped since birth.
I let out a slow breath.
Enough theatrics.
I placed my palm forward. One finger folded slightly. Dark energy flowed slowly from the center of my dantian, blending with the lethal technique taught directly by one of the cruelest elders in the Heavenly Demon Sect.
"Demon Palm."
The air fell silent instantly.
Not because of an explosive sound—this technique produced no sound at all.
Freed froze. His body halted like a puppet whose strings had been cut. His eyes widened, his mouth opened as if he wanted to laugh again… but the sound never came.
One second later—
Bwooosh.
Blood burst from the pores of his body. From his arms, from his neck, from his waist—even from under his fingernails. The light sword in his hand vanished as his body trembled violently.
"G-GH—h—hha—?"
A strangled sound.
Freed dropped to his knees, staring at me like a child who had just realized the world would never take his side.
Then his body collapsed without a sound.
Demon Palm… doesn't create wounds from the outside. It destroys the body from within. A demonic-level martial art… not meant for weak humans like him.
I exhaled briefly.
One problem solved.
Now—the three dark silhouettes standing at the church entrance became my main focus.