Chapter 143

Killing and Weakness

Anthony’s heels scraped scorch marks across the carpet as he stumbled backward, knocking over a gilded candlestick.

Scalding wax splattered onto his bishop’s robe, burning honeycomb-shaped holes through the fabric, yet he remained completely unaware—his eyes were locked onto the radiant figure before him, shrouded in golden light.

"You’ve hidden your divine power for all these years?!" His voice twisted with horror.

He had thought that after ascending to the bishop’s seat, dealing with someone like Morris—a mere priest—would be effortless. He never imagined that the other man’s understanding of the Holy Tome of Thorn had long since surpassed his own.

Morris’s entire body radiated golden light. His red-and-gray priest’s robe billowed high, and the weighty Holy Tome in his hand rustled fiercely in the wind, as if a holy son had descended.

"Mo… Morris, this situation was never meant to spiral this far!"

Anthony was pinned to the ground by an invisible force, curled up like a lame wild dog. "Marlena was toying with your feelings. She’s slept with at least hundreds of men!"

"As for the bishop’s seat… I’m willing to give it up voluntarily, and recommend you to succeed me!"

Those words froze Morris in the midst of his rage. His eyes, veiled in gold, suddenly cleared.

But that brief hesitation was all it took.

Anthony’s scepter flew from his hand.

He frantically drew sacred gestures, and a golden apple-shaped radiance—mark of the Lord of Desires—appeared on his brow.

Morris awoke from his daze and tried to stop him, but it was already too late.

In the moment the divine light flickered, Anthony’s appearance aged rapidly. His hair grayed at the temples before the transformation stopped.

"You are indeed stronger than I expected but as a priest, you’ll never wield true miracles!"

"To commune directly with the Lord… that is what truly defines a bishop… Eh?!"

Anthony’s words caught in his throat, his triumphant smile frozen on his face.

He was horrified to realize that his connection to the ‘Lord’ had been severed—completely, irreparably.

In the shadows, Fenrir retracted his claw, his canine face curling in humanlike distaste.

"The stench of the Nightmare World… blech!"

…

Morris seized the fleeting moment. The Holy Tome came crashing down on Anthony’s skull.

When the gilded cover embedded itself into his cranium, the sharp metal edge of the spine pierced directly into the flickering Golden Apple Radiance.

"This is for Marlena."

"This is for the bishop’s seat."

"This is for fifteen years and four months—"

With every word, he struck once.

On the seventh strike, a sharp crack sounded from the point of impact.

The thousands of pages of the Holy Tome of Thorn burst apart, scattering through the air like petals.

Morris stopped his assault and collapsed onto the floor.

Stripped of divine protection, Anthony’s entire head had caved in under the heavy tome, weighing more than ten catties. Brain matter and blood splattered across the room.

When the final page of the tome drifted to the ground, Morris knelt amid the pool of blood, his fingertips sticky with brain matter. Anthony’s twisted face was pressed deep into the carpet fibers.

"I killed him…"

Morris began to tremble violently, as if an invisible hand had clenched his stomach.

Though it was not the first time he had killed, never before had it been with such blood-soaked brutality.

He staggered toward the fallen gilded candlestick and vomited, bile mingling with vomit as it doused the wavering flame.

The mingled stench of blood and acid spread through the room, stinging his eyes with tears.

He could not understand why the situation had spiraled into this.

After all, in the years since Anthony had taken the bishop’s seat, this was far from the first time he had suffered such humiliation. Yet this time, the insult had cut into his very bones.

But the sight before him dragged him sharply back to reality.

He must not be discovered!

If anyone learned he had slain the bishop, death was inevitable!

"Lord Fenrir!"

He clutched at the tea table overturned in the struggle. "Where are you? Save me!"

The shadows in the corner suddenly writhed and twisted. Fenrir’s voice once again echoed by Morris’s ear:

"Now you know fear? Where was that vicious strength when you were smashing in his skull?"

"Please, save me! They’ll find out for sure!" Morris knelt on the ground. "The bishop must report to the archbishop every week—at the latest, in six days—"

"Silence!" Fenrir’s roar made the crystal chandelier ring and clatter. "That’s six days from now. If you don’t clean up this mess quickly, the servants will find him by morning…"

Under Fenrir’s scolding, Morris snapped out of his panic.

He forced back the acid rising in his throat and began to clean up Bishop Anthony’s corpse along with every trace of their struggle.

Just as he was about to find a place to hide the bishop’s body, Fenrir’s voice sounded again.

"Leave the body to me. I’ll take care of it—no one will ever find him."

As the corpse slowly vanished before his very eyes, Morris felt a vague unease.

But the terror of killing and the taut strain on his nerves left him too drained to think.

By the time dawn’s first light crept in, Morris had finally scrubbed away the last traces of blood and returned the displaced items to their places.

He fled back to his own quarters.

After a sleepless night of toil, Morris leaned trembling against the tightly shut door, his face deathly pale.

He pulled out a fresh copy of the Holy Tome of Thorn, seeking comfort in its words.

But before he could open the pages, Fenrir’s voice came again.

"Heh… Right now, even a beggar in the street could see you’ve killed a man."

Morris instinctively glanced at the mirror across the room.

Only then did he notice that his priest’s robe was soaked in blood.

He hurriedly stripped it off and shoved it deep into the back of the wardrobe.

"Lord Fenrir, what should I do now?!"

To Morris, Fenrir had become his only support.

"Must I teach you even this?"

Fenrir’s tone brimmed with weariness, like a teacher scolding a useless student who couldn’t even grasp the basics. "Steady your breathing. Live on as you always have—cowardly."

"But… if someone asks me where Anthony has gone?"

"And what has that to do with you?" Fenrir laughed. "You are nothing but a greedy, cowardly priest who’s been oppressed for over a decade. Until they find the body, no one will suspect you."

Morris’s chest tightened.

He wanted to argue, but realized Fenrir’s words were not wrong.

The weakness he had shown for half his life—the part of himself he despised most—had now become his greatest shield.

No one would suspect the worm who had lost his flock yet never dared to raise his voice.

Knowing he would likely not be the first target of suspicion should have brought him relief. Yet Morris found himself unable to feel any joy.

He crawled into bed and pulled the covers over himself, replaying in his mind again and again the act of killing Anthony.

But he never noticed one thing—why, despite the two of them so brazenly unleashing "miracles," had none of the knights stationed outside the cathedral sensed anything amiss within?