Chapter 140: Aftermath
Iron Fortress Territory.
Today, the gargantuan oak doors of the Evernight Cathedral never remained shut for more than a minute. The sanctuary was no longer the quiet retreat that Anchi and Cecilia could maintain with a few hours of light labor.
Now, the hall was a sea of humanity and grief.
The survivors of the Penance Legion had returned. The pews had been shoved aside, clearing vast stretches of the cold stone floor to accommodate rows upon rows of corpses. Each was draped in a shroud of coarse, unbleached hemp.
Families who had heard the news moved like ghosts between the rows, lifting one cloth after another. When a match was made, a jagged, broken wail—strained to the point of a sickening dissonance—would tear through the air. For those who found nothing, there was a momentary, shuddering gasp of relief. But before that breath could even leave their lungs, they would begin the frantic, heart-pounding walk to the next row.
Father Anchi moved through the gaps in the crowd like a man possessed, his voice reduced to a raspy croak from hours of shouting directives.
"Separate the wounded from the dead! Keep the threshold clear!"
"Danica! We need another crate of [Emerald's Respite]! Move!"
"Water! Does anyone have clean water?!"
Sister Cecilia was on her knees beside a young soldier, her scissors shearing through the blood-slicked leather of his greaves. The man's leg had been split open by a greataxe, exposing the white of the bone. He was shivering violently, teeth gritting against the pain, sweat matting his hair.
Cecilia's voice was a soft, steady hum, but her hands were like iron—not a single tremor as she worked. "Endure it," she whispered.
Vials of the emerald potion were being drained one by one, their soft green radiance flickering in the dark corners of the cathedral like dying fireflies.
The succubi, who had been unceremoniously dumped here by Scarlett, had become the most unexpected fixture of the sanctuary. They had shed their provocative, brightly colored silks for the plainest grey cotton dresses, tying their long, vibrant hair into simple knots behind their heads.
Kula—the girl who would usually wrestle Cecilia into the dirt for a scrap of meat—was currently clutching a massive basket of bread. She didn't speak; she simply pressed loaves into the hands of those swaying from exhaustion and gave their shoulders a firm, grounding pat.
Mona, who could usually fall asleep standing up, was unnervingly alert. She and several others acted as guides for the grieving, using their naturally soothing, melodic voices to give directions and prevent the mounting panic from boiling over into a riot.
They looked like a flock of fairies who had accidentally stumbled into divinity. In their own clumsy, sincere way, they were performing duties that should never have been theirs to carry.
Throughout the hall, the sounds of wailing, groaning, and whispered prayers merged into a single, overwhelming ocean of sorrow. In the midst of this cacophony, a shrill, childish cry pierced through every other sound, cutting straight to the marrow.
"PAPA!!"
The sheer, raw despair in that voice forced a momentary, ringing silence across the cathedral. Every head turned in unison toward a corner of the hall.
There, a little girl in a faded grey dress named Mia was kneeling beside a body. It was a man of large stature, but a jagged, cavernous hole had been torn through his chest—a wound that left no room for hope.
Mia's tiny hands clutched the man's cold, heavy fingers, trying with a frantic, heartbreaking intensity to find a spark of the warmth she knew.
"Papa... wake up... please wake up..." she sobbed. "You promised... you said you'd come back for sure..."
"You're a liar... a big, mean liar..."
Her voice shifted from accusation into a series of incoherent, broken pleas. Her small frame shook with the violence of her sobbing. A passing soldier recognized the man and let out a heavy, weary sigh. He stepped forward, reaching out to pull the girl away.
"Child, don't. Your father... he died a hero."
"I don't want a hero!" Mia shrieked, whipping her head up to shove the soldier's hand away. "I just want my Papa!"
The onlookers looked away, their own eyes welling with moisture. They had seen too much death, too much ruin. But the sound of a child breaking over her father's corpse was a blade that could still cut through their armor.
Anchi spotted the commotion and frowned, preparing to intervene. But a shadow was faster than the priest.
A succubus in a plain grey dress walked slowly toward Mia. She had long, violet hair—she was the one known for being the loudest and most prone to lewd jests among the sisters. Cecilia saw her and narrowed her eyes, her mouth opening to bark a reprimand.
The succubus paused, glancing back at Cecilia. In that single look, there was none of her usual provocation or flightiness. There was only a silent, desperate plea.
Cecilia's reprimand died in her throat.
The succubus knelt in the dirt behind Mia, extending her thin arms. Gently—with a tenderness that felt like a prayer—she pulled Mia's trembling body into an embrace. She rested her chin atop the girl's head, her voice a ghost of a whisper.
"Mia..."
Mia's sobbing hitched. She could feel it—the embrace was warm. It possessed a weight and a presence that felt like an anchor in a storm.
The next heartbeat, a nearly imperceptible ripple of energy radiated from the succubus. There was no flash of light, no theatrical display of Mana. Her silhouette simply began to oscillate like a reflection in a disturbed pond.
Her frame elongated. Her shoulders broadened. Her long violet hair receded and shifted into a short, jagged black cut. Her simple cotton dress bled away, replaced by the dust-caked, blood-stained leather armor of the Penance Legion. Even her face, once a mask of alluring charm, underwent a quiet metamorphosis. The lines hardened; the skin turned rough and weathered; faint crow's feet appeared at the corners of the eyes.
The process took only seconds.
When the ripple settled, the entity kneeling behind Mia was no longer a demon. It was a tall, rugged man—an exact mirror of the corpse lying on the floor.
The man spoke, his voice raspy yet filled with the specific, soul-deep warmth Mia had known her entire life.
"Mia..."
Mia went rigid. Slowly—inch by agonizing inch—she turned her head.
When her eyes landed on the face behind her, her pupils dilated to their limit. She forgot how to breathe. She forgot how to cry. Her voice was a fractured, disbelieving whisper.
"P-Papa...?"
The man smiled, reaching out with a rough, calloused palm to wipe the salt from her cheeks. The warmth of his skin was a perfect match for her memory.
"Silky girl... why the tears?"
"PAPA!"
Mia lunged into the man's chest with enough force to knock the wind out of a living human. She clung to him with every ounce of her strength, terrified that if she loosened her grip for a second, the world would dissolve into smoke.
"Papa! You aren't dead! You're really here!" She buried her face in his armor, inhaling the familiar scent of iron and home, weeping with a new, frantic relief.
"Of course I'm here," the man whispered, his hand rhythmically patting her back, soothing the tremors in her spine. "But I have to go to a very distant place soon."
"No! I won't let you!" Mia looked up at him, her eyes drowning in tears. "Take me with you! Please!"
The man gave a slow shake of his head. He cupped her small face in his hands, staring directly into her eyes with a solemn intensity.
"Mia, listen to me. You are a Citizen of the Evernight Empire now. You have to be strong. You can't be a crybaby anymore."
"You are your father's pride."
"No matter where your path leads, no matter how steep the climb... remember this: Papa will always love you. My blessing is yours, forever."
As Mia listened to the voice, her wails subsided into quiet sniffs. She knew. She understood that these were the final words of a goodbye.
Driven by a sudden, desperate urge, she began to speak. She poured out every scrap of longing, every fear, and every small achievement she had hoarded during his absence. She told him how she waited at the gates from sunrise to sunset. She told him how she kept his room spotless and aired his blankets every week. She told him how she had learned to bake his favorite apple pie—how the first one was charcoal, but the second was perfect.
The man listened in a heavy, beautiful silence, nodding occasionally, his eyes never leaving her face for a single heartbeat.
Anchi stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the father woven from a succubus's magic. He looked up at the far end of the hall, at the gargantuan statue of the Sovereign resting his chin on his hand. He felt, then, that the new god's choice to bring these demons here was perhaps not a whim of cruelty, but a stroke of strange, dark mercy.
"Papa..." Mia's voice was thick and nasal. "I... I'll be a good girl. I'll do what you said."
She wiped her eyes, forcing a smile that was crooked and pained, yet radiant. "I'll live strong. I'll be happy! I promise!"
The man watched the resolve harden on his daughter's face and offered a smile of profound satisfaction. And then, his form began to turn translucent.
Mia felt the weight vanishing. Her smile shattered as she tried to clutch his armor again. "Don't go... Papa... just a little longer..."
"I love you, Mia."
The man pressed a final, tender kiss to her forehead. The next instant, his entire being shattered into millions of tiny violet sparks, dissipating into the rafters.
Mia's arms closed on empty air.
She stood frozen, staring at her own hands, before slowly lowering her gaze.
The violet-haired succubus was now slumped on her knees before her. She was gasping for breath, her forehead beaded with sweat, her entire body shivering with the aftershocks of the exertion. For a member of the secondary "Succubus Dreams" unit, a physical manifestation of this quality was her absolute limit.
The cathedral was silent. Every person present had been paralyzed by the spectacle.
Mia stared at the succubus for a long, long time.
Then, she reached out her small hand and gently, delicately, wiped the sweat from the demon's brow.
"...Thank you," the girl whispered.
Her voice was tiny, yet it carried to every ear in the sanctuary. The succubus didn't speak; she simply looked up and offered a weak, exhausted smile.
In the crowd, a woman who had just lost her husband could no longer hold back. She covered her mouth and let out a broken, soaring sob. Then a second person followed. Then a third.
The grief that had been suppressed by shock was finally ignited, transforming into a tidal wave of weeping that swept through the entire cathedral.
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