A robed man emerged from the forest, dressed in pure white. Gold stitching lined the edges of the fine fabric, shiny buttons running down the center. Strangely, not a single speck of dirt clung to him.
"Oooh, look at you! Sharp little thing! Found me already~! But ah, dear… you should control that mana leaking out of you. Keep it under control, or you might get eaten~"
A slow grin crawled across their face.
Torn skin hung in strips, stitched together like someone was trying to remember what a person looked like—but got it all wrong. One eye bulged higher than the other. The mouth looked stolen, too wide, too red. Some parts of the face were pale, others black with rot.
I've never seen anything like it… his face—it's peeling off his skull like wet paper.
"For what purpose have you come to the Kingdom of Linden, priest of the Erintia Theocracy? State your purpose."
"My, my~ What could someone as important as the headmaster of Linden's Royal Academy be doing in a backwater place like this?"
"I'll ask only once more. or I'll personally deliver you to the god you and your theocracy revere."
Pure blue mana poured from her like a flood. A crushing pressure, multitudes stronger than the pull of gravity, pressed down on Azrael, forcing his knees to buckle under the weight.
The priest didn't react to the pressure at all.
"Ahaha~! Is that supposed to scare me? How precious! But let's not waste effort—I'm only here to collect what House Sonnenfall owes our beloved nation of Erintia. I have no business with you, woman."
My parents are in debt to this creeps country?
"What debt does House Sonnenfall owe to Erintia? Speak clearly. If you try riddles, I'll tear your tongue out myself."
She asked exactly what I was thinking. That bastard sure talks like a snake-oil salesman.
"Try your best at that, darling~"
His voice dripped poison, with a crooked grin. He lunged forward, something gleaming in his hand—catching the afternoon sun like it wanted to blind.
The hundred-meter gap vanished before Azrael could even blink. A gust of wind slammed into him, and he instinctively shielded his eyes before the dust could blind him.
Oh shit… I couldn't even see him move…
"Auntie?! Are you okay?!"
Azrael's voice broke through the air. Meanwhile, the air cleared fast of silt. The man stood before Persephone, hand on a blade that looked like it had already pierced her chest.
"I could've run you through just now, you know. But we wouldn't want a war breaking out over something so small, would we? So, be a dear and step aside!"
He pulled the blade back—only, it wasn't real. It bent slightly. Plastic? A trick knife? Azrael recognized it instantly as a cheap magic prop from his old world.
What…? This world has party tricks too?
No, never mind that. Why does a priest have it?
Is he supposed to be a clown?
"Nephew, Toma! Go hide somewhere, now! Don't come out until I've dealt with this."
That's true… I want to help. I really do. But against that monster, there's nothing I can do.
Even my aunt couldn't react in time. What chance do I have?
He ran with his tail between his legs, only glancing back once—just in time to see Toma, past Persephone, bolting in the opposite direction.
Azrael found his footing, the perfect spot to wait for things to blow over, a huge bush barely two hundred meters from where the two behemoths were standing.
Think, bastard, think… What should I do?
I can't just sit here like a helpless idiot. She could lose. Then we would be done for.
His chest tightened. He couldn't breathe. The frustration… the fear… it drowned everything else.
Something snapped. He threw himself forward, slamming his head against the nearest tree. The bark cracked. Blood trickled from just above his brow, slipping down past his eye.
Back in the clearing, the two of them stood meters apart, staring each other down like it was some kind of arena match.
Her foot pressed down into the dirt, posture steady and low, arms calm at her sides. Mana saturated the atmosphere around them.
The priest grinned, passing the fake knife from hand to hand like it was part of some twisted game. Then, he vanished. Or rather—he was moving so fast he might as well have.
Wind. A rush of fabric. A flicker of movement behind her.
Azrael's heart skipped a beat.
Too fast. A blur to the left—no, behind her now.
Persephone didn't flinch.
The priest's footsteps danced in circles, kicking up dirt with each pass. He wasn't attacking. Not yet.
Persephone turned.
Her hand swept through the air. Graceful. Careless. And the wind screamed.
A shockwave burst from her palm, an invisible ring that tore through the surroundings.
Holy shit. The amount of mana in her palm… it could've blown someone's head clean off.
Leaves scattered. Branches cracked. The priest broke through the gust, stumbling mid-step.
But he didn't fall. His face twisted, crushed into something barely human.
The creature's skull had caved in from the blast, jaw hanging loose, one eye slipping down his cheek.
He shoved it all back. Bone cracked. Skin stretched. Bit by bit, the pieces locked into place.
"Bravo! Absolutely brutal! Such raw power from our dazzling little magical girl~!"
He let out a shrill laugh. His shoulder cracked, then tore itself loose with a wet pop, bending backward until flesh split at the seam.
Tendons stretched, bone jutted out. Yet still, he clapped—the sound wet, meat slapping meat, like the applause of some unknown eldritch horror.
That's not how a body is supposed to move.
Something suddenly began to rise in Azrael's stomach. A sick feeling twisted through him. His face went pale, contorted. He gagged.
The priest's eyes lit up like a child given a new toy.
"Oh~? So cold! Not even a little 'thank you' for the applause? Tch, how rude of you! You should at least smile!"