The tension in the air sharpened. A couple of students whispered nervously, wondering if Pete was about to start a battle in the middle of Brixton's streets. Some secretly admired his boldness, others thought he was reckless for daring to go against Ace in his own territory.
Just as Pete prepared to step forward, a soft but steady voice came from behind him.
"Pete."
Catherine's hand gently touched his shoulder. She walked past him with calm dignity, her eyes sweeping over the scene before settling on Pete's face.
"This is their territory," she said quietly but firmly. "No matter how unjust it looks to you, it won't end well if we interfere here. If you truly believe this is wrong, then let's back off for now. We can report everything to His Majesty later. The Emperor will punish him."
Her words, rational yet soft, cooled some of Pete's burning anger. His jaw tightened as he forced himself to lower his blade, though his hands still trembled with rage.
"You're right… we can't do anything reckless here. But I swear, I will personally tell His Majesty of Ace's cruelty and make sure this injustice is punished!"
His voice rang out like a declaration of justice, but the people in the wagons only lowered their gazes. The nuns and priests, their faith shattered, understood better than Pete did—words to the Emperor would change nothing. No power could move Thornevale once it had made its decision.
Their silence was heavier than their cries.
As Catherine finally managed to pull Pete from the square, the tense murmurs of the students slowly faded behind them.
Ace, however, remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the wagons where the exiled priests and nuns were being loaded like baggage. His expression was unreadable, cold and still, like the calm before a storm.
The sound of heavy boots echoed across the square as another group of guards approached. Between them was a man bound with rope, struggling against their grip. He was a fat, balding priest with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, his robes smeared with dirt from being dragged through the streets.
The moment he saw Ace standing there, he straightened despite the ropes cutting into his wrists. His voice cracked but rang out loud for everyone to hear.
"You dare lay hands on me?! I am the head priest of Brixton's holy branch! If you think this will end well, you are gravely mistaken!"
He thrashed in the guards' hold, spittle flying as his desperation mixed with arrogance. Then, turning his gaze to the gathering crowd, he shouted:
"People of Brixton! Do not let this happen! Do you not remember how I healed your children, how I fed the hungry, how I gave blessings upon your families? Will you stand there in silence while this tyrant's son casts me out? If you raise your voices together, Ace Thornevale won't dare harm me!"
His words rang through the square, sharp and desperate. The onlookers shifted uncomfortably. Some lowered their eyes, some clutched their children close, and others stepped back as though afraid even to be seen listening. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint creak of the wagon wheels.
Ace's eyes, pale as winter frost, never left the priest. He neither moved nor raised his voice—just watched. And that silent gaze alone made the crowd's hesitation harden into fear. None stepped forward. None answered the priest's plea.
One by one, the people turned away.
The priest's voice cracked in disbelief, his eyes darting desperately among the crowd that had once bowed to him.
"You… all of you… after everything I've done—!"
But no one came.
Ace lifted a single hand, and the guards froze mid-step. The square went still, the only sound the priest's ragged breathing.
The fat man puffed up his chest, seizing the chance. His voice shook with both fear and bravado.
"You fool! To lay hands on me is to insult the Goddess herself! Her wrath will fall upon this territory, and you will not escape it!"
Ace's pale eyes narrowed slightly. His tone was flat, almost bored.
"If you are truly so devout… if you have lived a righteous life under your Goddess's gaze… then why not call upon her now?"
He took a single step forward, his presence pressing like a weight on everyone's shoulders.
"Ask her to show me a sign. If she truly favors you, if she truly exists for you, then perhaps I'll let you go."
For the first time, the head priest faltered. His bluster wavered, replaced by a flicker of panic. He remembered—every extortion hidden behind a smile, every coin pocketed from the desperate, every sin committed under the name of holiness. His throat tightened, but cornered, he threw his head back and forced his voice to carry.
"O holy Goddess, bless your servant! Show these heretics your divine wrath! Give me a sign!"
The crowd held its breath.
And then—
A sudden flash of light streaked across the sky. Brilliant and brief.
The people gasped. Some dropped to their knees at once, clasping their hands in prayer. Murmurs of "a miracle" spread like wildfire. The head priest's lips curled into a manic grin. His laughter cracked in the air, triumphant and wild.
"Ha! Do you see?! She answers me! She stands with me! You dare defy—"
But Ace had not moved. His gaze turned, cold and sharp, toward the horizon where the light had come from. His eyes caught it—just for a heartbeat—the glint of a blade, Pete's holy sword, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
Ace's lips curved into the faintest scoff. His voice cut through the priest's mad laughter like a blade of ice.
"So that was your miracle?"
He leaned closer, his tone mocking yet steady.
"How fitting. Today, you truly will meet your Goddess. How holy."
The priest's laughter faltered, confusion flashing across his face. The crowd, though still trembling in prayer, could not see the truth—only Ace and the high-ranked warriors at his side knew the source of the "divine sign."
The guards tightened their grip, awaiting Ace's signal.
Ace tilted his head, amused, watching the priest's laughter collapse into trembling confusion. His pale eyes glinted with something darker, sharper. Then he spoke, his tone smooth but carrying like thunder over the square.
"You're right. I, too, heard the Goddess's voice just now."
The priest froze, his mouth opening but no sound leaving. Ace's grin widened, cold and cruel.
"She said… that this fat of yours, the layers of flesh you carry, is nothing but the sins of the people you have devoured in her name. And she wants it removed before her devout servant comes to her."
A murmur rippled through the onlookers. The guards stepped forward, steel flashing as they drew their swords in unison, pointing them at the priest's round belly. The man's face drained of color, and with a strangled sob he dropped to his knees, his voice breaking into desperate pleas.
"Y-you dare! I am her priest! You will be cursed! Do not touch me!"
His threats sounded hollow against his trembling.
Ace suddenly threw his head back and laughed. Loud, unrestrained, almost manic. The kind of laughter that made even hardened warriors shift uneasily.
Lucy, standing near him, stared wide-eyed—she had never seen him like this before, not even close.
At last, Ace lowered his gaze again, a grin still carved into his face.
"You amuse me, priest. I was ready to execute you where you stand… but since you've made me laugh like this, I'll grant you a mercy."
The priest's eyes flickered with hope, but Ace's next words crushed it.
"From here to the edge of Thornevale territory, you will run. You will be tied to the wagons like the animal you are, and if you stop—"
He glanced at the guards, and one cracked a whip with a sharp snap. The sound alone made the priest flinch violently.
"—you will be whipped until you remember how to move. When you leave my territory, you will be ready to meet your Goddess… without the fat."
The priest's lips trembled, his eyes filling with pleading desperation. But no mercy came. The guards moved without hesitation, binding him tightly with rope and fastening him to the rear of a wagon. One guard unfurled the whip fully, letting it drag across the stones with a hiss that made the onlookers shiver.
Some people in the crowd, emboldened by the earlier "sign of light," stepped forward to protest. But before they could speak, the guards beat them back harshly, sending them reeling into the dust with bruises blossoming on their faces. Fear silenced the rest.
The wagons creaked into motion, wheels grinding against the stone road. The nuns, priests, and exiled civilians sat inside, silent and pale. Behind, the fat priest stumbled as the ropes yanked him forward, his pleas drowned out by the snap of the whip and the thunder of hooves.
And Ace watched it all with a smile, his laughter still echoing faintly in Lucy's ears.
Pete and Catherine were wandering the streets with a handful of other students, their pace slow. Catherine seemed calm, her eyes sharp as she noted the discipline of the guards patrolling every corner, while Pete looked restless, as if the air itself chafed him.
Then they turned a corner—and froze.
Up ahead, the street was blocked by a procession of wagons. Guards marched on either side, armored and unyielding.
Inside the wagons, nuns, priests, and workers of the Holy Church sat in chains, their white robes stained with dust.
At the very rear, tied by thick rope, the head priest stumbled along the cobblestones, a whip snapping across his back whenever he faltered.
His cries of pain carried down the street, drawing wide-eyed silence from the watching crowd.
Pete's face flushed red, his fury igniting in an instant.
"This—this is outrageous!"
His hand shot to the hilt of his holy sword, his white knuckles trembling as his eyes burned at the sight of the priest's humiliation.
But before he could draw, Catherine stepped smoothly in front of him, her expression unreadable, her voice low but sharp as steel.
"Don't."
Pete growled, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
"You expect me to just stand here? He's being treated worse than a criminal!"
Catherine's gaze didn't waver, her tone calm but firm.
"This is their land, Pete. Not yours, not even mine. If you strike here, against their laws, you won't just be fighting guards—you'll be declaring war on Thornevale itself. Do you want to die in a gutter today and drag us all down with you?"
The holy sword vibrated faintly in Pete's grasp, as if urging him forward, but Catherine's steady eyes locked him in place.
He stood there for a long moment, trembling, then finally released the hilt, his hand falling limply to his side. His fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His teeth ground together, every muscle rigid with rage.
"I'll endure this for now…" he muttered bitterly, eyes locked on the priest's bloodied back. "But I swear, I'll bring word of this to the Emperor himself. I'll see Ace punished for this injustice."
The wagons rumbled past them, the priest stumbling, falling, then rising again beneath the cruel snap of the whip. The crowd kept its silence, eyes down, as if the very air commanded obedience. And in that silence, Pete's fury burned hotter—while Catherine, arms crossed, kept her expression smooth, hiding the calculation behind her eyes.