Faced with the annihilation of his followers, Karla didn't even consider stopping it.
To him, since the situation was beyond redemption, making the most of what remained was the best course of action.
After all, they couldn't be taken away now…
With a forceful grasp, Karla seized the souls of his fallen followers and those killed in their counterattack.
Though the number of souls wasn't particularly large, their quality was decent since their strength had been at least Knight-level. They would suffice for an emergency.
Without hesitation, he swallowed them whole.
Using the innate ability of a Demon, Karla converted them all into pure power to replenish the portion of his strength suppressed by the world's force.
With this new source of energy, his suppressed power recovered slightly.
After assessing the rabble surrounding him, Karla roughly gauged the situation.
His arm shot forward, effortlessly catching an arrow aimed at his head before driving it into a nearby soldier—his movements fluid, almost instinctive.
As a Demon who had lived for nearly a thousand years, Karla might not have much experience in other matters, but his combat expertise was unparalleled. His fighting skills had long transcended mortal limits, allowing him to react instantly to any attack within his capacity, as if it were second nature.
If not for the Sacred Power—akin to poison to him—coating their weapons, he could have fought his way out with only minor injuries, without needing to be as cautious as he was now.
But these humans were infuriatingly well-prepared. Every one of them carried sacred items bestowed by the church—either protective charms or weapons smeared with Holy Water Holy Medicine—making the situation unbearable for him.
Holy Water, meaningless to ordinary people, was like potent sulfuric acid to him, corroding the fur that served as his natural defense. The scriptures chanted by the priests grated on his ears, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.
"Insects that can be crushed underfoot, but whose sting can still bring pain if underestimated."
That was how Karla viewed the besiegers before him.
Though he scorned them, he had to remain vigilant.
After being doused with another half-bottle of Holy Water, the searing pain pushed him to his limit. His Demonic Power surged uncontrollably, coiling around his body.
His fur tightened against his skin, and an invisible armor of swirling air formed over his body, shielding him from further splashes of Holy Water.
Meanwhile, translucent blades of wind, over a meter long, extended from his fingertips, vastly increasing his reach.
With a single swipe, several armored soldiers were torn apart—their blood spraying wildly, their armor shattering like paper, their bodies cleaved into pieces as if struck by multiple executioner's blades. Their deaths were gruesome.
The sight instilled fear in the surrounding attackers, their faces paling with terror, prompting Karla to burst into laughter.
Saffi, who was in command, frowned as he watched the scene unfold.
The strength, agility, and constitution of both sides were not on the same level. If not for the relatively narrow environment of the basement, which left little room to evade and forced the enemy to endure many attacks, his group would have stood no chance against it!
Given the current situation, even if they could exhaust the enemy to death, the sacrifices required would be shockingly high.
The secret archives of the Church recorded it clearly: for Demons, while coating their weapons with Holy Water Holy Medicine could inflict continuous damage, the souls of the fallen sacrifices would also serve as nourishment under the Demon's power, continuously healing it.
'The more you kill, the stronger it becomes—what an evil race…'
After a moment's thought, he handed the emblem in his hand to the leader of the hymn-singing choir beside him, instructing them to chant hymns and continuously channel its power.
Then, with utmost solemnity, he retrieved from his chest a small bottle engraved with strange patterns.
His expression was even more reverent than when handling the sacred emblem.
[Saint's Ashes]
The remains of the most devout ascetics, processed through special rituals, cremated in holy grounds, and stored in the Church's headquarters. Only after decades of prayers and blessings from the faithful could such a small bottle be produced.
For evil creatures, it was the most venomous poison!
With a small knife, he cut a wound in his palm and let the blood flow into the bottle.
Saffi closed his eyes and began chanting a secret incantation known only to Bishops and the Pope.
A faint golden light spilled from the bottle's mouth, spreading across the ground and gradually expanding outward.
Karla, who was reveling in the slaughter, didn't notice this phenomenon, but the sixth sense honed through countless life-and-death crises kicked in, making him vaguely sense the threat. His gaze immediately locked onto the object in Saffi's hand.
Karla's eyes burned with killing intent. "You bastard!"
A translucent spherical orb formed instantly in his hand amid a fierce gust of wind, which he hurled at Saffi, who was chanting with his eyes closed.
Several priests, seeing this, lunged forward to shield Saffi from the attack!
But their sturdy bodies were like paper against this strike, unable to slow it even slightly. They were instantly pierced by the overwhelming force, spiraling blood blossoms unfurling midair.
"Boom!"
Karla's furious strike collided with a faint golden barrier just before hitting Saffi.
The accumulated violent currents erupted immediately, like an air-formed bomb!
As a translucent shockwave swept through, everything in its path—even soldiers clad in heavy armor—was flung away by the unstoppable force.
Bones, flesh—none of it mattered. Against this power that ignored conventional defenses, they were torn apart effortlessly. Blood seeped through the gaps in their armor and clothing, trickling out slowly…
When the dust settled, aside from Saffi himself, shielded by the golden light, and the hymn choir protected by the emblem, all the dozens of people who had been standing nearby were already dead on the spot.
Ignoring the blood slowly trickling from his ears, Saffi knelt solemnly on the ground, completing the final incantation with grave determination.
The small vial in his hand turned into golden dust at that very moment, slipping through his fingers like an ethereal illusion accompanied by faint, almost illusory whispers of prayer, automatically surging toward Karla.
Facing the golden dust, Karla's expression twisted with horror—he could smell death in the air.
Knowing full well that dodging was impossible and that taking the hit head-on would cost him at least half his life, he gritted his teeth and channeled all the Demonic Power within him into a spear wreathed in swirling wind, hurling it with all his might!
There was no sound, no impact. The moment the two forces collided, the power of the Saint's Ashes seeped into the spear forged from Karla's own Demonic Power, slicing through it like a hot knife through butter.
Though Karla's power was inherently far superior to the supernatural forces of this world, weakened as he was by multiple factors, he was inevitably at a disadvantage against a holy relic the Church had spent decades and immense resources to create.
Sacred and profane—two utterly opposing concepts.
They countered and canceled each other out. When one held the upper hand, it would inflict overwhelming damage upon the other.
Just as fire could be extinguished by water, it could also evaporate water entirely. Though opposing, neither held absolute dominance.
Realizing his power was inferior, Karla's face twisted in fury. He immediately tried to discard the spear in his hand—but it was already too late.
The power of the Saint's Ashes transmitted through the Demonic Power-forged spear and struck Karla directly.
In an instant, the arm that had first come into contact with the Saint's Ashes began to melt like a wax statue—skin and fur sloughing off, flesh dissolving into a bloody slurry that dripped to the ground, even the bones creaking under the strain like rusted machinery.
Seeing the corruption spreading, Karla didn't hesitate. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he used his other arm to carve out the infected limb along with the surrounding shoulder flesh.
To his relief, he had acted swiftly enough.
Before the severed arm even hit the ground, Karla watched as it dissolved into a bubbling pool of scorching, molten blood.
A mere whiff of the rising steam left him dizzy and disoriented.
He quickly sidestepped, putting distance between himself and the noxious fumes.
But the surrounding assailants weren't about to let him off so easily. They hurled Holy Water and alchemical concoctions directly at his wounds, clearly intent on beating a drowning dog—forcing him into desperate evasion, leaving him seething with humiliation...
Turning his head slightly, Jem Woz glanced at the goat-headed Demon, now utterly outmatched.
Holding his Knight's sword, he looked at the heavily wounded Richard Woz before him and shook his head lightly.
"Uncle," he said, voice calm, "I'll give you one last chance. Stop this futile struggle and surrender."
Truth be told, if not for Jem's explicit orders, Richard would have long since fallen to the soldiers' relentless assault—he wouldn't have lasted this long.
"Jem," Richard rasped, "as a father... I just want to save my daughter..."
Seeing the other's unyielding resolve, Jem sighed slightly, "It's hopeless. We all know that even if the Demon saves her, it will only be in a form none of us wish to see. It would bring Sena nothing but greater suffering, for Demons are inherently beings devoid of any goodwill toward humans."
With a bitter smile, the other still stubbornly replied, "Perhaps... but I still want to try."
Waving his hand to signal those nearby to step back, Jem took a step forward, assuming the stance unique to the royal family's secret swordsmanship. "For the safety of the kingdom, I cannot give you this chance. I'm sorry, Uncle. But at the very least, I will ensure you die by the hand of a fellow royal..."
"Then I leave it to you."
After a brief pause, Richard smiled as he always did and mirrored the same stance.
The same swordsmanship, nearly equal skill—yet Richard knew from the start he stood no chance of winning. His injuries simply wouldn't allow it.
Still, facing Jem in perfect condition, Richard found no fault in his actions. Instead, he was pleased by his approach—cautious, leaving no room for error.
He was a fitting candidate for kingship, far better than someone like himself, who often wavered indecisively.
After a dozen exchanges, as the blade pierced his body, Richard.Woz chuckled softly, speaking in a voice only Jem could hear: "Jem, you truly are exceptional. Regarding your father's death, your other uncles and I had our suspicions, but none of us blamed you. In fact, we believed you did the right thing. Arles' state of mind at the time was utterly irrational—he was no longer fit to be king. His continued rule would have plunged the kingdom into crisis, serving no purpose.
And don't worry about their opinions. Though they never voiced it, witnessing how you've reversed the duchy's decline through your actions, they are all satisfied with you. They believe you will be a great king!
As for your mother... you needn't fret over her either. No matter how much she resents you, she is still your mother. She may hate you for ten years, twenty years—but in the end, she will forgive you. So cast aside your burdens and move forward..."
"...Goodbye, Uncle."
Gently closing Richard.Woz's eyes, Jem.Woz couldn't quite define the emotions swirling within him. Perhaps it was heaviness, or something else entirely—but he certainly felt no joy...
Not far away, Karla's struggle was nearing its end as Richard.Woz's life faded.
Before long, as copious amounts of Holy Water seeped into her wounds, her body grew increasingly frail.
Finally, a blade pierced through her eye socket and into her brain.
——
While Saffi and the others were still celebrating loudly in the basement, in a dim alley not far from the Beast Fighting Arena, a small, scrawny beggar stirred from sleep.
Gazing in their direction, he spat contemptuously and muttered, "A bunch of damned lesser beings. You can't even destroy a soul—how dare you claim to have killed me?"
Even in the basement, Karla had sensed it—she was being watched by something else.
That untraceable gaze filled her with mortal dread.
And now, Saffi and the others had only added to her torment!
Thus, with no other choice, he could only put on an act, sacrificing most of his power to secretly escape.
After testing out this weak and frail body, he got up and headed toward the outskirts, intending to find a secluded place to recover his strength.
But before he could take more than a few steps, he froze.
He felt as though he had caught a familiar scent!
It wasn't from this body's sense of smell—it was his demonic soul that had detected it.
Following the direction of the scent, his gaze lifted to the sky above, where a figure leaned against the moon, reclining on the clouds, calmly watching him. There was no fear, no disgust, nor any joy in those eyes—only the cold indifference one might show toward an insect.
With his demonic vision, he saw through the other's laughably false human appearance, piercing the unveiled truth beneath. And in that moment, Karla understood who this person was, who had altered his Magic Circle, and one more thing.
That he was about to die...
Karla was absolutely certain of this.