Several days had passed. Mr. Mike’s interview subject—the former miner who had lost an arm and a leg in the explosion and collapse—still hadn’t left his little hovel. At least, that’s how it seemed to everyone else.

"Henry? Henry?" A woman’s hoarse shouts echoed from outside. Her precious son, Henry, had gone missing. Her neighbors from her hometown had helped the poor woman search the entire area, but he was nowhere to be found.

’So noisy. What’s the point of looking for that worthless brat...’ It wasn’t that people hadn’t searched the miner’s little hovel. Before he disappeared, Henry had been active in this area, even running errands to buy wine for him. But they had found nothing, and no one suspected the crippled former miner any longer.

’That piece of trash is just waiting to die.’ That’s what everyone thought. After a cursory search, they couldn’t wait to get out of the small hut, which reeked of filth and alcohol.

The man moved about inside the drafty, unlit hovel, stretching his numb limbs. Yes, a complete arm and leg! He was whole again. However, his newly grown limbs weren’t yet coordinated. If sunlight were to filter in and strike his skin, it would reveal a disgusting, pinkish color.

’It’s starting to hurt again... I’m still not used to it...’ In the darkness, the man fumbled for a small packet of powder and shook its contents into a wine bottle. There was only a swallow of wine left at the bottom. The cap was long gone. He pressed his thumb over the mouth of the bottle and shook it vigorously, making sure the powder clinging to the sides dissolved completely into the wine.

"Pfft—Hah!" A wave of relief washed over him. According to the mysterious person’s promise, he would get a new batch of powder tonight, so he had just consumed all of his remaining stock with the last of his wine.

A few days ago, a mysterious, faceless person had appeared, bringing pain-relieving powder, the miracle of a restored body, and a new name for the former miner: Salamanda, which meant salamander.

To grow his new limbs, he had needed living flesh. The man had exhausted himself with talk, finally convincing that greedy, stupid Henry that he still had money for wine. With the mysterious person’s help, he had completed the nauseating ritual.

It all happened when the adults were at work. That was the only quiet time in the East Suburb, and the best opportunity for them to make their move.

The smell of blood was masked by the vomit-inducing stench of excrement, alcohol, sweat, and everything else. Even if someone had noticed, he had a ready excuse: "Sir, I’ve got a sore that’s bleeding and oozing pus. You want to see?" Everyone would stop him before he could lift his ragged clothes and believe his story.

Everyone else was just waiting for him to die so they could clear out the hovel. Because of this, no one would bother the filthy, dying man during this time. On subsequent nights, the mysterious person would hide things in Salamanda’s "cave," and sometimes retrieve them.

Of course, the powder was something they always brought. They also brought wine and some food. "Just hold on for a few more days. Once your arm and leg are fully grown, I’ll take you away from here to enjoy the warm embrace of the Great Mother."

Salamanda scoffed. He calculated that as soon as he was fully recovered, he would crawl back to his hometown if he had to. To hell with Valuva and this Mother Earth!

But the powder really was good stuff. He tried to save some of it, but each time he couldn’t resist using it all to endure the agony of his regenerating limbs.

’What’s that noise?’ He lifted a piece of cardboard. The blinding light made him squint, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust before he could make out a troop of imposing Armored Warriors marching down the street. Behind the men on foot were tall horses, but Salamanda couldn’t see the full figures of the Knights.

The sound of hooves, the rhythmic tread of Heavy Armor, and an incomprehensible chant mingled together. The chanting, especially—coming from the Monks behind the horses’ rears—caused a sharp, intense pain to flare up in Salamanda’s arm and leg.

’Dammit! The powder! The powder!’ The pain and the chanting muddled his thoughts, leaving only regret—regret that he hadn’t saved even a little of the powder for a time like this.

Before he could even come to his senses, the procession had marched far into the distance.

...

Sacred Heart Cathedral, the closest Church to the East Suburb, possessed the largest Underground Tomb in Valuva. It held more than one Saint’s Coffin.

At this moment, the "Gray-robed Bishop" and the other leaders of this operation were gathered here, on the first level of the Underground Tomb. Several gray-robed figures surrounded Joseph.

A map was spread out before him—a layout of the East Suburb, marked with numerous red symbols. The vast suburban area was divided into many sectors. As the Holy Knights moved in, the Church’s emblems were planted on the map one by one.

"Priest Joseph, the first group of Holy Knights has taken up position at the Mangge Relief Institute. There are sixteen of them in total, along with three chanting Monks. The second and third groups are ready." A gray-robed Monk reported the intelligence to Joseph.

Joseph was both Dipresy’s "Shadow Bishop" and the leader of Valuva’s "Gray Robe Knights." He was personally directing this operation to exterminate the remnants of the Cult Group.

During the day, under the guise of a pilgrimage, the Holy Knights openly moved through the Royal Capital’s East Suburb. All the while, their sense for evil was constantly searching for and locking onto targets. But they did not strike immediately. Instead, they moved in batches to take up positions in the East Suburb’s relief institutes and chapels.

According to the plan, the Holy Knights’ pilgrimage was the overt part of the operation, designed to draw the full attention of the Cultists. The remaining Paladins would then seal off the entire East Suburb. At night, the Gray Robe Knights would begin their move, eliminating the strongholds already identified by intelligence. If the targets had relocated, the Knights would coordinate with the stationed Paladins to sweep through the area, sector by sector.

The suburb was too large and its population too diverse. The Church’s personnel would stand out too much, making it impossible to position everyone for a single, decisive strike. That was why they had resorted to this suboptimal plan: a coordinated, overt-and-covert operation to cleanse the entire den of filth.

Also, because the area was so large, they had to transfer in Paladins from other regions to establish the blockade. According to the agreement with His Majesty the King, the operation could only be conducted within the East Suburb.

To appease the residents, a huge amount of grain had been brought in. This was the result of Dipresy’s painstaking coordination with other dioceses.

"The Paladins moving in will certainly stir up these rats and make them scurry for escape routes. The Gray Robe Knights must eliminate all evil and let no blasphemy or filth escape." The daytime pilgrimage was a feint. The moment the targets panicked and revealed themselves, it would be the opportunity for the Gray Robe Knights, hidden in the shadows, to execute justice.

"Yes, My Lord!"

...

"Sir, if you don’t let us go to work, we’ll starve!" At the edge of the slums, an imposing, tall Samurai blocked everyone’s path. A filthy, emaciated hand reached out and touched his mirror-like armor, leaving a handprint.

This terrified the pleading woman, but the Holy Knight simply smiled gently. "Ma’am, we will be distributing grain porridge later. Please cooperate with this operation." As he spoke the last sentence, his gentle smile turned serious. "A very grave blasphemy has occurred here. For the sake of your salvation, I ask for your cooperation!"

Some of the laborers, emboldened by their numbers and sturdier physiques, puffed out their chests and tried to confront the Samurai. "Easy for you to say! Can you really feed everyone here? What if our bosses fire us for not showing up to work today?"

This sentiment was met with widespread agreement. One of the Knights responsible for the blockade dismounted. As he walked step by step toward the laborer, the man only then realized just how tall the newcomer was. The other Holy Knights made way for him, a clear sign that he was a Leader-like figure.

This Holy Knight removed his helmet, revealing a handsome face to all. His brilliant, piercing eyes alone were enough to quiet the crowd as they swept over them. A messenger of God! A resonant voice rang out:

"In the Lord’s name, I swear to you on behalf of the Holy Knights: not a single innocent person will suffer from cold or hunger because of today’s operation. We are here to wash away the sin and filth of this place!"

When the fourth group of Holy Knights entered, they escorted large carts that moved in slowly. They had deliberately left the cargo uncovered by burlap sacks, allowing all the residents to see the grain it carried.

The commotion died down. Everyone stared, transfixed, as the grain carts slowly passed by, the only sound being the faint, occasional gulp of saliva. Most of the people here didn’t eat if they didn’t work, and they were already famished. As soon as the Monks at the rear of the procession had moved on, the crowd swarmed forward, searching for any grain that had fallen to the ground.

Amidst the holy chanting, the people of the slums crawled on the ground, fumbling for every last grain, as if prostrating themselves in worship before the procession that represented Light and order.