In an instant, the battlefield—poised just moments ago for a gruesome bloodbath—fell into a tense, breathless silence. Neither side was willing to lower their weapons, trapped by the terrifying uncertainty of whether the other would take advantage of the gesture.
If they lowered their arms only for the enemy to strike them down, it would be a pathetically bitter way to perish. Better to fight to the bitter end than die to a cowardly trick.
"What is this? Do you doubt my mediation, or do you simply refuse to lay down your arms?" The ancient Sarkaz fixes them with a heavy glare. "Though I have no desire to stain my hands today, I am more than capable of teaching a lesson to anyone attempting any clever tricks."
Under the piercing gaze of the ancient lord, both factions slowly, guardedly withdrew their weapons in near unison. Yet the icy suspicion in their eyes never wavered.
"So... that's it? They're really not going to fight?" Mostima watched the towering figure, a drop of cold sweat trickling down her neck. The sheer pressure emanating from this ancient Sarkaz was far more terrifying than any foe she had encountered over the years—a monster she knew she stood zero chance of defeating in a direct clash.
"I can't make heads or tails of it either, but it seems so," Jeanne replied, keeping her eyes on the gathering. The ancient figure clearly intended to put a complete stop to the skirmish, even if his underlying motives remained shrouded in mystery.
At that moment, Jeanne and Mostima watched in surprise as Logos turned and walked straight back toward their vehicle.
Meanwhile, the defeated Sarkaz soldiers reluctantly followed the Nachzehrer King away from the border. They were to be escorted back to the Royal Court in Kazdel to await Her Highness Theresa's judgment.
"It's settled," Logos remarked, looking slightly bewildered himself. "I never expected the old lord to be dispatched here by Her Highness Theresa under the pretense of capturing rebel deserters."
Evidently, the Nachzehrer King harbored no resentment toward the assignment; otherwise, he would never have shown his face at such a critical junction.
"Capturing rebel deserters? Well, they certainly fit the description," Jeanne noted, watching the crestfallen soldiers march off into the distance.
"And what about these things? Do we burn them?" Mostima asked, gesturing toward the grotesque, writhing masses scattered across the dirt nearby. Though immobilised, the misshapen constructs were still feebly twitching on the ground.
"There is no need to trouble yourselves," Logos replied, casting a brief glance at the feeble tendrils. "Their vital essence was already consumed by the Nachzehrer King's Arts. They will collapse back into pure blood any second now. Watch."
Right before their eyes, the misshapen abominations burst one after another, melting back into lifeless pools of crimson that flooded the scorched earth.
"Let us be on our way," Logos said, letting out a long, quiet breath.
The bloodbath he had braced for had been averted by an elder's sudden intervention. It was a comforting reminder that even now, he wasn't the only one striving for a path forward—others back in Kazdel were fighting just as hard for the same dream.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the ridge...
"What? Are you dissatisfied that I stepped in?" the Nachzehrer King asked, turning his ancient gaze toward the marching soldiers. The smoldering resentment within their hearts was far too raw to hide.
"We wouldn't dare," a commander muttered through gritted teeth. They held their tongues purely out of fear for his legendary status, though their resentment remained obvious to anyone with eyes.
"Heh... Tell me, if I hadn't intervened, how many of your men would have survived even if you somehow managed to take that young Banshee's head?"
The ancient lord showed no anger at their defiant tone, merely looking upon the younger generation with a raspy laugh. He understood all too well the naive recklessness driving their minds.
The soldiers remained silent, unable to offer a counterargument.
"Do not fall into the delusion that he was merely a lone target," the old lord continued, determined to hammer some sense into these disposable pawns. "He did not inherit the mantle of the Lord of the Passing Bell simply because his mother is the Great Banshee. His true strength may lag behind us ancient lords, but unleash his full power, and he has more than enough might to wipe your entire unit from the earth."
The soldiers offered no verbal reply, though one eventually grumbled, "Fine... Then tell us, my Lord, what do you intend to do with us?"
They were private troops under the exiled Regent Theresis—a dangerous, highly sensitive identity in Theresa's Kazdel. Every man among them had braced for brutal interrogation and execution.
"What will I do with you?" the Nachzehrer King replied plainly. "I will verify your backgrounds and assign you proper labor. Even if you no longer wish to swing a blade as soldiers, there are plenty of tasks awaiting you. Modern Kazdel suffers from a severe labor shortage; strong, capable men like you are needed everywhere."
His words sounded almost as if he intended to ship them off to hard labor camps, yet not a single warrior dared raise a hand in protest. They knew resistance against the Nachzehrer King was entirely futile.
Dutifully, the disarmed troops followed the ancient lord into the distance, denied even the chance to contact their chain of command. To their superiors back home, they were as good as dead.
Meanwhile, atop a distant watchtower along the Laterano border...
"Status update: The hostile forces have withdrawn under the direction of the Nachzehrer King! The clash has been halted; our intervention is no longer required."
A team of Sankta sharpshooters holding heavy anti-materiel rifles reported into their communications network. Their directive had been clear: intervene at all costs to ensure the three travelers—including the Sarkaz guest—reached the Holy City unscathed.
"Wait, so we don't get to shoot at all? What a waste of time!" a young Apostolic Knight grumbled over the radio channel, idly twirling his heavy revolver. He had spent hours anticipating a chance to show off his marksmanship.
"Count your blessings that a firefight was avoided!" the communications operator snapped, raising his voice. "When did you become such a trigger-happy hothead? Did joining the Apostolic Knights completely fill your skull with revolver cylinders?"
The operator couldn't help but sigh. Ever since his old friend joined the ranks of the Apostolic Knights, he seemed to solve every problem with explosive force—a common trait among the knights, often dubbed 'Apostolic Muscle-Brain.' The longer they served, the more they seemed itching to blow something sky-high.
"Still... it feels strange, doesn't it?" another voice chimed in over the radio. "An elite squad deployed specifically to safeguard a Sarkaz Lord from being cut down by his own kin... it's quite an unprecedented experience."
With the crisis averted, the sharpshooters began exchanging their thoughts. Most of them harbored deep confusion regarding the mission's underlying logic.
Only recently, they had been engaged in bitter, bloody struggles against the Sarkaz. Now, a high-ranking Sarkaz Lord was being welcomed straight through the gates of their Holy City. It defied everything they had been raised to believe.
"They say this was directly decreed by His Holiness the Pope, and Her Highness the Saintess gave her personal blessing," one of the sharpshooters chimed in. "Is it really so strange that ordinary soldiers like us can't grasp their grand vision? They must have their reasons. Speaking of the Saintess, I managed to snag that limited-edition scale model of her! The one forged from solid D23 alloy! At least this one won't break if I accidentally drop it..."
"It wouldn't break in the first place if you stopped bringing a statue of the Saintess to the live-fire shooting range!" another sniper barked back. "If we didn't know you were just expressing your devotion in your own bizarre way, we would have beaten you black and blue long ago!"
Just like that, the radio chatter smoothly drifted from the geopolitical shock of a Sarkaz entering Laterano to proper maintenance techniques for Saintess figurines. Jeanne would have felt thoroughly exasperated had she overheard them—even she didn't pamper her own likeness to such a ridiculous degree.
Yet beneath the lighthearted banter lay an unquestioning foundation of faith. Though the Sankta could not fathom why their sworn enemies were being permitted entry into their sacred capital, their devotion remained absolute. They trusted their Pope, they trusted their Saintess, and they trusted the path laid before them.
Under that universal trust, the vehicle carrying Jeanne's party smoothly crossed the border, coming to a halt before the legendary Holy City.
The young Banshee Lord leaned against the window, staring silently at the pristine, alabaster metropolis towering before him.
"Greetings, Laterano," Logos murmured softly, gazing at the magnificent mobile city stretching across the horizon.
A low, resonant rumble echoed from the moving city—a roaring greeting returned to the distant visitor. A thousand years after the primordial schism, two divided kin prepared to face one another once more.