Angel

Scorched earth stretched for miles, shrouded in smoke.

Twisted metal and shattered bones mingled in the dark crimson soil, soaked in blood and scorched by raging flames, forming a hellish tableau.

The demon stronghold that once stood here was reduced to dust, leaving only a few charred, warped rib-like structures stubbornly persisting as blackened ruins.

The air reeked with an overwhelming, inseparable stench—acrid sulfur, greasy charred flesh, and a strange, hollow “purity” of overburned phosphor.

This bizarre blend of odors could churn the stomach of any green recruit, and even seasoned veterans struggled to endure the scene before them.

At the front line’s edge, human allied soldiers huddled in hastily dug shallow trenches, gasping for breath.

Their armor was battered, faces smeared with soot, eyes weaving together the relief of survival, fear of the unknown, and a near-blind fervor ignited by the sight.

Priests of the Rhine Holy Church moved among them, their low healing prayers intertwining with the groans of the wounded.

Suddenly—

Without warning, the sky—perpetually veiled in gray-red demonic haze—was violently torn asunder!

A pure, domineering, bone-chilling pillar of white light, like a spear of judgment, pierced heaven and earth, striking precisely at the battlefield’s scorched core!

Boom!

A deafening roar erupted!

The intense brilliance blinded all who witnessed it, yet the following shockwave was oddly “gentle,” stirring only the dust while eliciting agonized screams from every surviving demon unit. Their bodies, hidden in the smoke, ignited in blazing white flames, burning them to ash.

“Ah—!!!”

Then, a figure—charred black, shrieking in unimaginable pain and agony—burst from the light and fled.

That was the Ashen Demon Lord.

The Ashen Demon Lord had nearly been incinerated by holy light—how pathetic.

The pillar persisted for several breaths before slowly receding.

At its epicenter, a figure coalesced from endless particles of light, weaving and shaping into a radiant entity.

Her armor flowed with extraordinary sacred glow, the divine runes upon it identical to those recorded for the saintess.

The slender sword of light in her hand, its form and the ultimate anti-darkness power it exuded, was unmistakably the holy sword 【Star of Dawn】!

Her silver hair seemed woven from flowing liquid light, swaying without wind, scattering flecks of starlight. Her face was cold and emotionless yet flawless, like a marble statue carved by the greatest divine artisan, embodying every conception of “sanctity.”

An angel.

Just like an angel.

The humans witnessing this dropped their weapons, tears streaming, kneeling in prayer, lips trembling yet unable to form coherent words, pressing their foreheads deep into the blood-and-dust-mixed soil.

Yet, this overly perfect replication exuded a suffocating eeriness.

She showed no rise and fall of breath, no warmth of life. Even the vast holy light around her carried an emotionless chill.

Most unsettling were her eyes—those that should hold compassion, wisdom, resolve, and sun-like fighting spirit—now only a void of bottomless gray-white, unfocused, emotionless, like two devouring hollows reflecting no one’s image, only “targets” to be purified.

Many human soldiers knelt in prayer, but some battle-hardened veterans and officers who had crawled from mountains of corpses and seas of blood furrowed their brows tighter after the initial shock.

They instinctively gripped their weapons, bodies tensing slightly.

This “angel”… was too quiet, terrifyingly so.

Upon descending, she did not survey the battlefield or tend to the moaning wounded. She simply stood there, like a ultimate weapon freshly unpacked and awaiting activation.

“Excellent, excellent—truly perfect!”

A clear, cold voice rang out nearby, laced with admiration and even a hint of pathological obsession.

Its owner was a young man in simple yet dignified white robes, handsome as if stepped from a temple mural, his face bearing a gentle, spring-breeze smile.

A massive, thick tome seemingly condensed from pure light energy floated beside him—he strolled leisurely across the scorched earth as if admiring a meticulously crafted artwork.

Though smiling, the soldiers nearby felt a bone-deep chill upon seeing this seemingly high-status silver-haired man, sensing the primal danger of a top predator. They unconsciously shifted away, leaving a vacuum around him.

At that moment, a group hurried from the rear.

Leading them was the Rhine Holy Church’s overall commander for this campaign—Bishop Lester.

He wore a seemingly plain yet extravagantly luxurious pale gold robe. Upon seeing the figure in the light pillar, his face instantly displayed a perfectly measured mix of overwhelming excitement and pious awe.

He strode forward, even stumbling as if from excessive agitation, steadying only with a subordinate priest’s support.

“Praise the Lord! Grace boundless!”

His voice boomed with a trembling sob, instantly overpowering the battlefield’s clamor and drawing all eyes.

“It is Your guidance! Your blessing!”

He had the lost holy soul return and descend here, purging filth, bringing light and victory to us humble ones!

He raised his sacred staff high, erupting in soft yet firm light that echoed the “angel’s” cold, domineering glow, as if in ritual resonance.

The priests behind him chanted solemn, ancient hymns in unison, their holy melody temporarily dispelling the battlefield’s blood and fear.

Yet, none could glimpse beneath Bishop Lester’s lowered, fur-shaded eyelids the raging storm and cold wariness surging in his pupils.

Wrong! All wrong!

His mind screamed—he, a high-ranking bishop of the Rhine Holy Church, understood holy light’s essence far beyond ordinary men!

The core power emanating from this entity was not the “divine power” guided by prayer, filled with grace and mercy, but something closer to the source—cold as a stellar core, forcibly harnessed by absolute will: “pure energy”!

It lacked soul resonance, faith’s warmth, more like… a perfect copy stripped of its vital core… a blasphemous creation!

This was no miracle; it was a catastrophe cloaked in sanctity!

Blasphemy!

This was not divine bestowal!

But blasphemy!

Bishop Lester’s mind was crystal clear, yet he dared not show a hint of doubt.

Almost simultaneously as Bishop Lester performed his ecstasy and devotion, the 【Gilded Hero】 Anis gripped his sword tightly and approached swiftly from the other side.

His face showed fatigue, but his eyes remained sharp.

Gazing at the reborn 【angel】, he first froze in stunned joy at seeing Lucia again, but then a shrill alarm exploded within him.

That emotionless being was not 【Lucia】, but a cold, merciless cruel angel.

“Bishop, Hero.”

As Bishop Lester and Anis appeared on the field, the handsome silver-haired man turned, bowing humbly and politely in greeting.

“Holy Son!”

Bishop Lester responded with utmost humility.

“Your holy art, your grace—has it succeeded!?”

Bishop Lester exclaimed, adopting an utterly servile posture, as if this young man were a true divine son incarnate, and he, the bishop, a lowly servant.

“It is done—”

The man called 【Holy Son】 revealed a brilliant smile, growing ever brighter like the first melting sunlight in winter, yet utterly devoid of warmth.

“My holy art, the grace bestowed by the Lord! The duty the Lord granted me, the first proclamation of His supreme might! 【Divine Gift, Descent】 is complete!”