Chapter 108: The So-Called Innocence

This is truly incredible.

Having reaffirmed his goal once more, Amy Ulysses looked up, surveying the apocalyptic, desolate panorama before him: the once-resplendent Temple of Hephaestus was now nothing but a expanse of broken walls and shattered pillars. The scorched, withered earth was cracked and fissured, with scattered flickers of flame dancing in the breeze. The entire world seemed to have long since withered and died, leaving behind only an oppressive, suffocating silence.

Was he too late?

His dark pupils dimmed slightly, yet no trace of negative emotion surfaced within them. He simply raised his head, pursed his lips, and began to walk.

Forward.

There was no confusion in his gaze, no hesitation in his stride.

Sacrifice? Not at all.

It was simply because—there was no other choice.

He was the only one who had glimpsed that corner of the future, the only one who had discovered the crisis of the Spark in time. Including himself and those he held dear, the fate and future of all Hemtika rested upon his shoulders. Regardless of his own subjective desires, there was no room to retreat.

This is war.

Before this, the will of mortals and the fate of individuals were of no consequence.

Because, this body is one with Hemtika.

The steps of the Glorified were neither fast nor slow; steady as a traveler crossing mountains and rivers, resolute as a weary ascetic, he advanced through the collapsed temple toward the very center of that deathly void.

One minute, two minutes, or three?

The youth did not deliberately keep track of the passing time; he merely moved toward his predetermined target, step by step, until... he felt the pulse of the Spark once more. The blood of Order, inherited from the ancestors, began to surge, and a continuous flow of vitality began to rejuvenate his body. Even if it was but a drop in the ocean compared to his grievous injuries, it was enough to significantly mitigate the encroaching weakness.

But it was faint.

As faint as a candle on the verge of extinction.

A thick, dark haze lingered in his heart. Yet, upon sensing the change in the Spark, he did not quicken his pace; rather, he slowed even further, controlling his breathing, following the guidance of his blood and intuition with greater caution and secrecy as he approached the silent center of the temple.

The Spark was there.

But the enemies were there as well.

Two of them.

Unexpectedly, the dark wizard Alfred, whom he knew well, was not among them. One of the two was a young man exuding a gloomy aura, with long black hair and crimson pupils; the other was... a doll-like, exquisite... little girl?

Yes, that’s right, a little girl.

Amy confirmed this repeatedly. To be more precise, she was a small girl of seven or eight years old. Her long, ink-black hair cascaded down her back like the night, and her dark, obsidian pupils were filled with innocence. Her delicate features, paired with a gothic black dress, made her look like a fairy who had just stepped out of a fairytale forest, untouched by the ways of the world.

No, perhaps "demon" would be a more fitting description.

Rounding a dilapidated wall, the view opened up, and the youth couldn't help but change his assessment. Edgar Goldsworthy was currently being pinned to the ground by the girl. The High Priest of the Temple no longer possessed his usual grace and nobility; his gilded, golden hair was matted with dirt and strewn across the ground, his gentle, handsome face twisted in agony, and his broad, thick white priestly robes were soaked in crimson blood. His left chest had been pierced by the girl, who looked down upon him with a slender, porcelain-white hand that resembled a doll's. It no longer rose or fell.

Is he dead?

The thought crossed Amy’s mind subconsciously, only to be dismissed the next moment.

No, perhaps that wasn't the case. The light in his eyes had not yet faded.

He was still alive.

But even so, the young Glorified felt no joy.

The severity of the situation was clear at a glance. The youth silently observed the scene without moving a step. If it were possible, he would not begrudge a death or two, but the problem was... the situation had deteriorated to a point where simple death-premonition could not salvage it. Even if he died a hundred, two hundred times, it would be a futile sacrifice.

The disparity in strength was too vast.

So... what was he to do?

Rarely, the Glorified found himself unable to decide.

However, just as he hesitated, a change occurred. The little girl, perfect to the point of appearing inhuman, suddenly withdrew her hand from the chest of the High Priest of Hephaestus, clutching something crimson that still pulsed with life. The blood that splattered out was repelled by some mysterious force the moment it neared her; only a few stray droplets managed to escape, leaving faint stains on her pale cheeks.

"Goodbye."

Amy identified the word from the shape of her lips.

Almost at the same moment, the small, raised hand clenched tight, and then... the red fireworks bloomed as expected, only to be entirely repelled by the well-prepared girl, scattering the fresh blood across the ground.

This was a truly blood-drenched scene.

But what surprised the youth even more was Edgar Goldsworthy himself. He did not know what kind of ability the man possessed, but despite his heart being completely crushed and his face twisted in pain, he did not die. Instead, he was still able to show a bright, sunny smile, like that of a carefree child.

"Hmm," he said after a low, lingering pause, his tone gentle and magnanimous, "I am glad to see you again, Miss Pandora."

His speech was not fast; it could even be called slow. Even Amy Ulysses, who had never studied lip-reading, could discern the meaning through imitation and comparison.

"Not dead?" The little girl called Pandora did not exchange further pleasantries; she simply tilted her head in a confused, cute manner, her large, dark eyes filled with bewilderment and curiosity toward the unknown. After a while, she blinked. "Interesting."

Like a child who had finally received a long-awaited new toy, a smile of such otherworldly, innocent beauty bloomed on her face that it could leave anyone stunned. Yet, in the next moment, it vanished completely.

Along with that smile, the breathtaking flower of blood bloomed once more.

With a sound like tearing silk, the entire chest of the High Priest of Hephaestus was brutally pried open from the inside. His twelve ribs were snapped and folded at ninety-degree angles, standing straight and neat like trees lining a road. The muscles and organs inside his body were pulled outward, making him look like a Christmas gift hung on a tree, filled with a grotesque array of contents.

Not at all!

The youth felt mostly terror, a chilling dread.

The visual impact alone would hardly make someone as accustomed to life and death as Amy feel a chill. What truly moved him was the little girl, Pandora. When he heard the name "Pandora" from Edgar, he hadn't linked this girl, who looked more delicate and beautiful than a doll, to the dark lord Mia had mentioned—the one who had destroyed a city single-handedly.

But the moment her fangs were revealed, he realized the anomaly present within her.

That terrifying anomaly was called "innocence."

It was hard to imagine such a scene without witnessing it: a child who looked no more than a few years old, smiling while dissecting a human chest. It was not a smile of madness beyond her years, nor of bloodthirsty cruelty. If one had to describe it, it was a smile as clean as a blank sheet of paper, pure to the point of having no impurities, as if it were simply the embodiment of happiness or joy.

If one looked only at the smile, one might feel a sense of spiritual relief, as if healed.

But when the scene was not compartmentalized—when her atrocities were placed alongside her innocent, malice-free smile—it created only a deep sense of dissonance and an bone-chilling coldness.

The girl was not human.

She was some kind of heterogeneous entity, human-like but not human.

There was no shallow human morality within her; she held no malice or kindness toward anyone. Although she appeared in the form of a young human female, she seemed more like a monster forcing its actions into the permitted confines of a young girl. Even if one could not bring oneself to call her imitation clumsy, the moment one saw that smile, one would subconsciously feel a shuddering sense of wrongness.

However... she was not the only one who felt eerie.

The performance of the High Priest of Hephaestus was equally staggering. His chest had been ripped open while he was still alive; if it were anyone else, they would have died in agony long ago. But this man, who also bore the Goldsworthy name, merely let out a suppressed moan under the torture, then forced a smile onto his pale face—a smile that looked entirely unforced—and said, unhurriedly:

"I told you, you cannot kill me—not until the Spark is extinguished."

"Meaningless struggle." Like a child bored with her latest toy, the highest combat strength of the Chaos Cult muttered in a childish tone. There was no malice in her deep, dark pupils, nor any intent to threaten. "I am starting to get bored."

"Then let's stop playing," the young man with the gloomy aura, long black hair, and crimson pupils advised at the right moment. "Lady Pandora, do not forget the decree of the Demon Duke."

The Demon Duke—

This name seemed to possess magical power. It not only made the little girl pout in a childish display, but it also changed the expression of the usually magnanimous Edgar.

Because both she and he were well aware of the weight that name carried.

The enemy of Order, the founder of the Chaos Cult.

The leader of the Three Dukes, the Demon Duke.