“To kill a Crowned one across ranks...”

Hearing Mom’s explanation, Muen’s heart jolted instinctively.

A Crowned one.

Ever since the Witch of Repentance began hunting him, those three words had weighed on him with crushing pressure. In some ways, they surpassed the oppression certain Evil Gods had once placed on him.

After all, Evil Gods could not descend in person. The power they projected into this world was restricted.

A Crowned one was different.

They truly existed in this world. They could stand before you face-to-face without limitation, and they were “transcendents” whose combat power vastly surpassed ordinary people.

The difference was like the difference in fear an ordinary person felt toward a dragon and a tiger.

A dragon was more terrifying, but it existed only in legend. Until one actually saw it, the fear it inspired remained only in imagination.

A tiger was different. Once you were already inside its territory, you were bound to become its prey, hunted down and devoured by it with brutal certainty.

And forget all that nonsense about what a sliding tackle could supposedly do. Once someone crossed that threshold, they had effectively stepped into an entirely new level. It was a tremendous sublimation far beyond every previous stage—a qualitative leap.

Anyone beneath that threshold, no matter how hard they struggled, could scarcely even glimpse the back of such a person.

Just as Muen had once exhausted everything he had, only to leave nothing more than a single wound on the Witch of Repentance.

That wound had looked impressive enough, but to a Crowned one’s life, its actual effect... was basically no effect at all. At most, it was a blow to pride.

Like being unexpectedly stung by an insect you had looked down on. Anyone would get angry.

“Can it really do it? If I use it, I’ll be able to kill a Crowned one?”

Muen gently lifted the golden dagger from the box with both hands. It felt cold to the touch, but it gave off nothing especially sharp or deadly. On the contrary, its exquisite engravings and flowing lines were so beautiful that even a true artist would have praised them.

The more carefully he examined it, the more it felt less like a weapon meant to bring death and slaughter, and more like a ritual implement used in sacrifice. Merely resting there, it seemed capable of lending several degrees more solemnity and sanctity to an entire ceremony.

“Please rest assured, my lord. This blade, Absolution, lives up to its name. It will absolutely achieve the effect you desire,” Mom said seriously.

“Absolution?”

“Yes. That is its name. With a fragment of the Holy Sword as its main material and the purest Holy Light personally bestowed by the Goddess as its secondary material, it was forged by the Judgment Archbishop herself. Its birth symbolizes judgment and heavenly punishment for sinners. After all, only by passing this trial can one truly wash away one’s sins... and so it is called Absolution.”

“It sounds impressive.”

“Of course.”

Mom said, “Only by using such an incomparably precious ‘base form’ were they able to obtain absolute lethality that ignores realms. Rumor says there are only three Absolutions in the entire Church. Only sinners of the very highest order are qualified to be ‘purified’ by one.”

“Sinners of the highest order... It seems this response carries even more weight than I expected.”

Muen drew in a breath. He did not linger on the thought for long. Instead, he suddenly tightened his grip around Absolution’s hilt, so cold it was almost piercing to the bone, and said gravely,

“I understand. Then please take my reply back for me. I will do everything in my power to accomplish the objective. I hope all of you will act according to the plan as well. Just as you said... we only have one chance. We absolutely cannot fail.”

“Understood!”

Mom placed one hand over the holy cross hanging at his chest, his expression solemn and reverent.

“Everything... for the Goddess!”

...

...

The luxurious private room became spacious and quiet again.

Muen lowered his head and silently studied Absolution in his hand, turning it over and over.

Its exquisite lines and chiseled patterns revolved through his fingers, gradually taking on more dimension, making its extraordinary artistry stand out all the more. And the deeper he sensed it, the more Muen understood that Absolution truly was exactly as Mom had described—a genuine killing weapon.

A terrifying power lay hidden within its cicada-thin blade, as though all it needed was the slightest spark to erupt in an instant and utterly crush everything before it.

“Using a fragment of the Holy Sword as a disposable item... as expected of the Church. What extravagance,” Muen murmured.

Clink...

Two snow-white blade tips poked out from his spatial magic device in apparent displeasure.

“All right, all right, I know. You two were forged from a complete Holy Sword base form, so fragments like this can’t compare. I’m not saying you’re inferior to it. And I wouldn’t want to turn you into one-use suicide trucks anyway.”

As he soothed them, Muen continued familiarizing himself with Absolution.

He did not know whether a single dagger would truly be enough to wash away that fake archbishop’s sins.

But he did know one thing...

“No matter whether this succeeds or fails, it’ll all be over very soon...”

Unlike the silence inside the room, the clamor outside on the street had not diminished in the least. Even though the welcoming procession had long since passed, the devout believers still waited there in fervent anticipation.

Muen watched them and listened carefully to their prayers.

“Goddess, Saintess, please bless my husband and let him come back safely from the battlefield.”

“Goddess, Saintess, please send down a miracle. My son has been sick for three months now...”

“Goddess, Saintess, please punish those greedy officials. Prices in the city have already doubled twice over. If this keeps up, I won’t even be able to afford black bread...”

“Goddess, Saintess...”

The prayers repeated over and over, mixed into the surrounding noise. Other than Muen, who was deliberately listening for them, no one seemed to care.

And yet that was precisely why they felt so... real.

“Lord Bruce.”

The door suddenly opened again, and Tyron cautiously poked his head inside.

“All finished with your business?”

“Business? What business could I possibly have had? I was just chatting with a distant relative who happened to arrive unexpectedly. Don’t overthink it.”

“I see. Then I’ll come in.”

Tyron entered the room and plopped himself down across from Muen with easy familiarity.

“You look in a good mood.”

Muen nudged up the brim of his hat and gave Tyron, who looked flushed with success and springtime confidence, a measured look.

“I heard you launched a surprise attack on the neighboring Toros gang last night. Judging by the look of you, it went well?”

“Heh. I just happened to chop Tobur’s boss to death by accident. Nothing much, really.”

“Then before long, even the southern district will be gradually swallowed up by you.”

Muen smiled.

“Congratulations. You’ll soon achieve your goal and become the biggest boss in the royal capital’s underworld.”

“Oh, not at all, not at all. I’m just making a little noise under the protection of Lord Bruce’s prestige.” Tyron scratched his head and smiled “shyly.” “You should’ve seen the look on that old bastard Tobur’s face before he died, trying to guess who was backing me. I’ve never felt so satisfied in my life. All of it is because of you, Lord Bruce...”

“All right. I’ve told you before—cut down on the flattery.”

Muen put away Absolution and tapped his fingers against the table.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“It’s nothing, really nothing!”

Tyron’s grin immediately turned broad and hearty as he raised what he was holding.

“I just wanted to have a drink with you, Lord Bruce.”

“A drink?”

“After I killed that old bastard, I never expected to find truly top-shelf wine in his cellar. And I figured that with wine this good, of course I ought to present it to Lord Bruce, right?”

Tyron pulled out two wine glasses from who knew where. He uncorked the bottle and poured with practiced ease, every movement as full as ever of diligence and good sense.

“It does look like good wine.”

In the crystal glasses, the liquid was clear and vivid.

Like blood.

With Muen’s experience, one glance was enough to tell him this really was wine of a kind even great nobles rarely had a chance to drink. The fact that it had ended up in the hands of a gang boss was almost absurd.

Then again, considering how rotten the Kingdom was, it was not all that strange.

In some black markets, one could probably even buy the king’s used underwear.

“Heh, I knew you’d definitely like this kind of high-end stuff.”

After pouring, Tyron even swirled the wine several times in an exaggerated fashion. He had heard somewhere that doing so improved the flavor. Only then did he present the glass to Muen with both hands.

“Please.”

“Thank you.”

Muen did not bother with ceremony. He simply drained it in one swallow.

Unexpectedly, though, the wine did not carry the mellow body and lingering sweetness he had anticipated. Instead...

It was sour and harsh.

“Damn it!”

Tyron cursed after taking a sip himself.

“This wine... it’s gone bad! How long did that old bastard keep it hidden?”

“Wine going bad has nothing to do with being stored too long.”

Muen picked up the bottle and examined it.

“This bottle was opened a long time ago. But only a very small amount was drunk before it was sealed again and stored away.”

“Huh?”

Tyron was stunned.

“I know it’s good wine, but not to that extent... What, had that old bastard gone hundreds of years without a decent drink? He ran a gang that big and still acted like this? Embarrassing.”

“Who knows? Maybe he really couldn’t bear to part with such a good bottle.”

Muen smiled faintly.

“People are complicated creatures. Some sit in high places and still pinch pennies over everything. Others own nothing at all and spend with open hands.”

“Tch. The kind of person I despise most is exactly that sort.”

Tyron pounded the table and spat in disgust.

“If a man’s alive, he ought to enjoy whatever day he can. What’s the point in torturing yourself like that? I, the Beast of Posies, despise petty small-fisted people more than anyone! They’re a disgrace to the underworld... Though this bottle still looks useful. Later I can fill it with some cheap red wine and swindle a few fat pig nobles. Maybe some idiot will fall for it. Heh.”

“...”

Watching the mighty Beast of Posies pour out the spoiled wine with a leering look, then tuck the empty bottle into his chest like a treasured possession, Muen found himself speechless.

Wasn’t he the one who had just said he despised people like that most?

“But... never mind.”

Muen smiled, set down the glass, and turned to look out once more over the great city in the rainy mist.

“Tyron.”

“Y-yeah... I’m here.”

“What do you think of this city?”

“What do you mean, what do I think?”

“The feeling it gives you. Do you like it, or do you hate it?” Muen asked.

“Huh?”

Tyron looked completely baffled, not understanding why the Dark Emperor had suddenly asked such an unexpectedly literary question.

Wasn’t this making things difficult for him? The Beast of Posies had always disdained solving with culture any problem he could solve with force...

Especially since his cultural level barely extended to sounding out his own name. He was the sort who could swallow a bellyful of ink and still have no idea what it tasted like.

“I wouldn’t say I like it, and I wouldn’t say I hate it either.” ...Since the question came from the man backing him, Tyron felt that as an enterprising man, he still had to give some kind of answer.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“I grew up in this city. My mother was a whore. My father... who the hell knows who my father was? At her busiest, my mother took seven or eight customers a night. Trying to figure out which of them was my father would’ve been harder than picking a pile of pig shit out from a heap of cow dung.”

“...”

Muen looked at Tyron deeply.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing I’m embarrassed to talk about.” Tyron shrugged indifferently. “In the darkest parts of this city, there are plenty of people like me. We got bullied, humiliated, went hungry every day, had nothing warm to wear. Some nights, I’d be outside listening to my mother get roughed up by those brutal customers, and I’d think, maybe the world ought to just end right there. But sadly, the world doesn’t end just because some poor kid curses it.”

“Back then, I truly hated this city. I thought it was the source of all my suffering. I cursed it every day. I cursed everything here. But later, I learned how to make myself stronger. I learned to use my fists and my teeth against bullying and humiliation. I learned how to kick in the crotches of the men who hurt my mother. And I started to feel... that this place wasn’t entirely bad.”

“Look. I got my own territory. I got hordes of followers. I beat every bastard who looked down on me into the dirt. I can even sit in a private room in a high-end restaurant like this—one worth its weight in gold—and drink top-shelf wine I never would’ve dared dream of before.”

“All of that also came from this place. So...”

Tyron gazed at the city with complete focus and answered in a voice gentler than Muen had ever heard from him.

“If I had to compare it to something, then this place is a bottle of ultimate garbage rotgut—sour, harsh, and awful to drink. Everyone who’s tasted it can’t help cursing it with the filthiest words they know.

But no matter how viciously we curse it, no matter how ugly the words... in our eyes, it still hasn’t gone completely bad.”

“...”

Threads of rain drifted in through the great window and landed on the brim of Muen’s hat.

The uproar on the street rose another level, because word had come from up ahead that the Saintess had successfully entered the °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° city and would soon proceed along this road in procession, bestowing the Goddess’s grace on the crowds as she went.

Muen knew that grace was only a broad sweep of low-density Holy Light. It could cure minor ailments, make people feel warm, and even allow the most devout believers to hear the Goddess’s voice to some degree.

But it could not uproot a stubborn illness.

“That’s a good metaphor.”

Good enough... to make a man almost unwilling to shatter the real falsehood before him.

“Drink your best wine tonight. Then have a good dream.”

Muen patted Tyron on the shoulder and prepared to leave the room.

“You’re going...” Tyron asked in surprise.

“To do something.”

“Do you want my help?”

“No.”

Muen glanced back and shook his head with a smile.

“What comes next is something only I, the Dark Emperor who hates ‘darkness’ most of all, can do—and must do.”