A little earlier, before the Sin Archbishop of Pride, Samael Thorne, went to the cave to meet the Sin Archbishop of Sloth, Petelgeuse Romanée-Conti.
The place where Samael Thorne stood at this moment was Arlam Village—the place Subaru and others had once fought desperately to protect.
There were no traces of battle in the village. The houses were intact, but the air was now thick with a near-solidified fear.
In the square at the center of the village, which had once been used for festivals and calisthenics practice, all the villagers had been driven and gathered.
Men and women, young and old, huddled together, shivering. Surrounding them were dozens of lifelike wooden puppets. These puppets were motionless, their faces blurred yet possessing an eerie sense of uniformity, silently surrounding the square so tightly that not even water could pass through.
Everyone's eyes were focused in terror on the man standing on a slightly raised step at one side of the square.
Samael Thorne stood there, his black tailcoat spotless, the scar on his face particularly prominent under the dim sky. Just by standing there, the invisible aura he emitted was enough to make infants in swaddling clothes cry fitfully, make young men who gripped their farm tools wanting to resist feel their limbs turn cold and their fighting spirit vanish, and make women cover their mouths to suppress desperate sobs.
Low-voiced prayers, fearful sobs, and stifled gasps rose intermittently from the crowd.
The Sin Archbishop of the Witch Cult—this title itself was a synonym for bloodshed and madness across the entire continent, an existence enough to plunge any ordinary person into the deepest despair.
"Shh—"
A calm voice rang out in the ears of everyone in the square, easily drowning out all the noise.
"Please be quiet. Clamor is the greatest profanity against art."
All sounds in the square—crying, praying, even heavy breathing—stopped instantly. At this moment, only the slight wail of the wind passing through roofs and branches remained, along with the uncontrollable, faint chattering of teeth from the crowd due to extreme fear.
Having obtained this near-absolute silence, a satisfied, compassionate smile appeared on Samael Thorne's face.
"Let's play a game."
He spoke to the fear-filled crowd of villagers below, his voice sounding as if he were announcing a salon gathering.
His gaze swept over the pale-faced elderly, women, and children, as well as the few village guards who were still forcing themselves to glare at him despite their bodies' uncontrollable trembling.
"The content of the game is..."
He paused deliberately to ensure everyone heard clearly.
"Within today... no, starting from right now, run as fast as you can toward the outside of the forest, toward the Flugel Tree, or any other direction you deem safe. Run away as best as you can."
"No one will stop you."
His voice remained calm, but the next unfinished sentence was more chilling than any roar.
"But anyone who still appears within this place after today..."
The words stopped right there. He didn't finish, but the meaning was already more than clear.
The villagers were stunned, they didn't understand why this terrifying existence would do this.
Was it a new method of torture? Was it a cat-and-mouse game?
However, the instinct to survive instantly overwhelmed all doubts.
"I... I want to live!!!"
No one knew who shouted it hoarsely first. Immediately after, the desire to survive ignited like wildfire among the desperate crowd. They didn't have time to think or help each other, rushing madly toward the village entrance, toward the direction of the territory's border in their memory.
Falling, getting up, dragging family members, crying out as they ran forward.
They didn't know if escaping would truly mean living, but they were absolutely certain that staying here meant only one path: death.
Soon, led by several young men who still had their wits about them, the chaotic crowd of refugees barely formed a line, supporting the old and young, and rushed out of the village without looking back, disappearing onto the road leading out of the territory. No one dared to look back, and even fewer dared to stay.
Samael stood on the high platform expressionless from beginning to end, watching all this indifferently until the last person stumbled and disappeared at the end of his vision.
At that moment, a wooden puppet that had been standing silently beside him moved. This puppet was more exquisite than the others, its contours and demeanor closer to a real person, even possessing a cold sense of life.
It took a step forward, looking playfully at Samael beside it, and spoke in a slightly sluggish but clear voice, "If you do this, won't Sloth have an issue with it?"
It didn't finish, but the meaning was clear—Samael had let go of "prey" that originally belonged to Sloth's jurisdiction and that colleague known for madness would certainly not let the matter rest.
A clear and undisguised look of disgust appeared on Samael's face. "I loathe slaughter. I loathe meaningless war."
His voice was much colder than before. "Whether it's Sloth or the other Sin Archbishops, essentially, they are all like maggots wriggling on a rotting corpse, making me sick."
He looked toward the direction where the refugees had disappeared, his tone carrying a condescending critique. "Despite possessing supreme authority and power, they always seek fame by mistreating the weak and creating fear. This behavior is vulgar and, moreover, the greatest profanity against the power and aesthetics bestowed by the Lord."
He withdrew his gaze and turned to the person he called Nai, "Nai, regarding the path to the Sanctuary you are searching for... and has there been any progress on Roswaal's side?"
(End of Chapter)
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