In the instant he saw Durdafer, this word leapt into Horn’s mind.
Not understanding why this fat man’s actions occurred, but since he had seen his face, there was no need for him to stay alive.
The priest before him was in tattered clothes, likely not an important figure.
Horn’s hand moved to the half-sword at his waist.
At the same time, the word surged in Durdafer’s heart.
This longship was Jilo’s, and the steel sword on this young man’s back was also Jilo’s.
There was only one possibility, Jilo had been killed by this group of Secret Faction members.
Considering the uprising at the monastery, with attacks from both sides, the ship as bait, using Jilo’s ship to ambush--a comprehensive, meticulous plan...
Damn it, why isn’t someone part of our Church? Those bishops and cardinals are truly good-for-nothings!
Sighing in defeat, Durdafer said with a bitter smile, "Alright, I know, I admit it, I was unlucky to be caught by you, the witch you took..."
Before Durdafer could finish, he suddenly heard a shrill sound ripping through the air.
Sitting down heavily at the bow, Durdafer incredulously held the torn part of his clothes on his abdomen.
If the monk behind hadn’t tugged him to an extreme, and if not for the black bread stick in his arms blocking a bit, that sword just now would have killed him.
Goodness gracious, you’re really going for it, aren’t you?
The chill of the blade glimmered with silver in the lightning’s light, as Horn’s eyes reddened, panting heavily.
Seeing this scene, Durdafer suddenly understood, he took in a deep breath, "It’s the radical Secret Faction, believers retreat quickly!"
Yelling this, Durdafer turned to flee.
Horn wanted to chase, but upon taking a step, he suddenly felt dizzy and nearly lost his balance.
That half-second of error actually allowed Durdafer to make it ashore.
Horn originally hadn’t wanted Jeanne to use arc lightning divine arts so readily, but seeing that ragged fat priest not only had accomplices but was also escaping, there was no other choice.
Now amidst the thunderstorm, the hope was that Priest Durdafer hadn’t noticed them here.
Kill this one first, then intercept before Iron-tooth Monk meets the Priest, and eliminate all eyewitnesses, for victory.
This was almost an impossible task but no longer the same now.
In the darkness, a streak of lightning pierced the sky, accurately hitting the monk shielding Durdafer.
As smoke rose, the monk couldn’t even cry out, and collapsed peacefully with a smile on his face.
Amidst the screams, Jeanne leaped out of the small boat like a nimble leopard.
In her hand, the Holy Banner had transformed into the shape of a battle axe, crackling with electricity, creating black lightning patterns on the oak pole.
The Holy Banner Axe sliced through, cutting off half a Night Guard’s head, with white brains slipping down like tofu from the cut surface.
Dodging under the swinging hook spear of a Night Guard, Jeanne extended her hand, launching another lightning bolt, blasting a charred hole directly into a guard’s chest.
Standing up, lifting the Holy Banner pole, Jeanne assumed a true cross stance, forcefully thrusting the back end of the pole into the ambushing Night Guard’s groin.
As the guard clutched his groin and knelt, she performed a pole vault move upwards, descending from the sky, and stomped his neck, snapping it.
In five seconds, Jeanne effortlessly killed four armed men.
But even a Witch would need to catch her breath after using high-quality arc lightning divine arts and breathing methods continuously.
Having just finished casting the divine art, Jeanne mentally wavered a bit and didn’t even notice the two small balls rolling to her side.
After all, she wasn’t an old witch; her defense against holy relics still wasn’t as strong as those old beings.
An overwhelming mist of Holy Water enveloped Jeanne, while her entire body’s blood seemed frozen, and her throat and nasal passages felt as if they were scorched by fire.
"Cough, cough, cough—"
Jeanne clutched her mouth and nose, coughing violently. The electric serpents that had coiled around her body vanished completely, with only faint electric glows remaining in the black lightning patterns on the oak.
Sparks flew as Jeska sidestepped, cutting sideways, sliding along the Armored Soldier’s sword, and directly sliced off the soldier’s right wrist.
The soldier, fierce as expected, ignored the bloody hand still hanging from the sword hilt, and stabbed at Jeska’s calf with his left hand holding the sword.
Then, he was pierced through the throat by the Holy Banner Spear.
The Holy Water blocked Jeanne’s ability to release external arcs but couldn’t seal her contact discharge ability.
The Holy Banner Spear in her hand still emitted a faint glow.
Without Jeanne’s thunderous illumination, darkness completely enveloped the surroundings.
Torches, once lit, would be doused by the rain in less than three seconds, becoming targets for all.
In the darkness, even the sound of the storm seemed muted, and once barely audible breaths were now magnified several times over.
No one could discern their direction, daring only to step slowly, the previously chaotic battlefield suddenly fell silent.
Until a flash of lightning cut through the clouds, illuminating every pale face.
The young soldiers of the Child Soldiers, the village youths, and the Night Guards all let out wild screams.
With that brief flash, each rushed toward the nearest enemy.
The Guards retreat, only to be hanged by the High Castle Archbishop.
The villagers retreat, only to be clubbed to death by the Holy Grandson, their families exiled.
The pawn that crossed the river could not turn back.
They all knew this was a life-or-death struggle.
Curses, clashes, roars, the sound of clothes being torn, barking dogs...
Countless sounds harmonized into a symphony amidst the storm.
Striding quickly through the cold rain, Horn’s body felt like a blazing furnace, his throat itching, strength waning, his face and arms flushed unnaturally.
Perhaps it was a cold and fever, but at this moment, he could not worry about such things.
Despite bouts of dizziness, Horn did not lose his rationality, his focus locked on one target, the fat Priest.
Only he had seen Horn’s face up close—it couldn’t be left like that!
He could hear the heavy, labored breathing of the fat Priest, hear his increasingly laborious footsteps, hear the rustling of his robes as he pushed through the underbrush.
The sound of a heavy object cutting through the air came, and Horn hastily raised his sword to block, nearly having it knocked away.
In a flash of lightning, Horn saw the scene clearly—a ragged, rotund Priest glaring at him, wielding a massive black loaf.
"You damned radical!"
"The damned one is you!"
In the mud and underbrush, Durdafer with the black loaf and Horn with the half-sword collided fiercely.
Horn lacked strength, Durdafer was pampered, and both were novices in swordsmanship.
In their charge, both mistakenly lunged in the wrong direction.
A half-meter apart, one to the left, one to the right, both slashing and stabbing the air with their flanks exposed to the enemy.
Until another flash of lightning lit up the sky, allowing them to finally turn to face each other properly, swords in hand, jabbing at each other from half a meter apart.
"Afraid to tell you, I was the runner-up in the 12-year-old group of the Rose Garden Monks’ Swordsmanship Competition!"
"Come on, you think I’m impressed by that?"
With determination, he closed his eyes, let out a battle cry, stepping forward, Durdafer swung the black loaf with one hand, flailing violently, initially hitting only air.
Yet the darkness was so profound, Horn could not see, and upon hearing Durdafer’s stepping sound, he assumed the fat Priest was charging and rushed ahead, getting struck right on the shoulder.
Before Durdafer could celebrate, he saw the shadow he’d struck not slowing at all, madly boar-brushing forward.
The frantic Priest attempted to skip away nimbly, only for his foot to slip, sending him sprawling onto his back.
As for Horn, unable to stop his momentum, he crashed onto Durdafer’s soft belly.
Both of their weapons flung away who knows where in the tumble.
With their weapons lost, they began grappling and tearing at each other barehanded on the ground, scattering equipment all around—chopsticks, finery, bone flutes, daggers...
Their weight difference was too great, and within a few rounds, Durdafer found his opportunity, flipping Horn over, pinning him as if a mountain, straddling his waist solidly.
Horn struggled desperately, but to no avail.
Durdafer’s chubby fingers squeezed Horn’s throat tightly, his face twisted, eyes red with rage.
"Unclean one! You filthy creature! Die, just die!"
His mouth twitched, drooling, Durdafer who presented as kindly to the believers appeared terrifying as a demon from the Fires of Hell.
Horn bashed at Durdafer’s face with all his might, trying to pry the fingers off but unable to muster strength from the wrong position.
Now, he couldn’t tell if the dizziness was due to suffocation or illness, only that he was pounding Durdafer’s head with weakening fists.
Was this really the end?
The rustling leaves, the rain, distant battle sounds, everything was fading away.
The lightning in the clouds flickered, and Horn’s vision blurred even further: Durdafer’s flushed face, distant flickers of firelight, swaying branches in the wind...