The sacred light radiating from the holy sword-staff in Alan's hand grew brighter and brighter, shining with such intensity that it threatened to blind anyone who dared to look directly at it.
The gray-haired woman's expression shifted—urgency flickered in her eyes. She clenched her teeth and quickly shouted, "Stop!"
Alan narrowed his eyes and barked back, "Not until you promise not to kill me!"
"I promise."
Without hesitation, the woman lifted her hand, touching her shoulders and forehead in a practiced motion, and traced the sign of the cross across her chest.
In Kent Kingdom, this was no ordinary gesture—it was the highest form of oath and etiquette, a sacred rite that, if broken, would be met with divine punishment. Any who swore falsely would be cast straight into the fires of Hell by the will of God.
Only after seeing this did Alan finally withdraw the holy sword-staff, allowing its light to dissipate.
The tense, sword-drawn atmosphere evaporated in an instant.
