The high-level mages in the Glory Fortress, though fewer than those in the Tooth Tower, were no less numerous than those anywhere else. Within a short time, several dozen had gathered at the edges of the square, surrounded by swordsmen protecting them. Thunderclap Bombs, Blazing Fireballs, Earthquake Spells, and other high-level magic bombs rained down from all directions.
No matter how strong the orcs were, their physical bodies were still just that—bodies—unable to withstand a direct hit from a Thunderclap Bombs or Blazing Fireball. Even the tough bodies and vitality of the wild bulls couldn't hold up against the blast of a Thunderclap Bomb. However, the orcs showed no hesitation. They didn't come here to simply fight; they were here to vent their maddened vengeance and beastly rage. They charged headlong, disregarding their lives, against the barrage of magic.
The Thunderclap Bombs and Blazing Fireballs explosions interwove into a scorching and destructive storm, sending out shockwaves and enormous sounds. Orc limbs and body parts flew through the air, but not a single orc showed fear. They all howled as they forced their way into the formation of swordsmen, creating a chaotic melee. Especially the half-orcs riding the wild bulls—except for the direct hits from high-level spells, even the elemental giants summoned by the mages couldn't stop them. Anything in their path, whether it be people or buildings, was obliterated in the rush.
After leaving behind a small pile of corpses, the orcs had scattered into the buildings and alleyways of the Glory Fortress from the square. In the vast Glory Fortress, there were tens of thousands of priests and swordsmen, while the orcs numbered only several thousands. However, relying on their bodies, which were far more agile and resilient than human swordsmen, along with their nearly frenzied fighting intent and rage, orcs were still not at a disadvantage despite their numerical inferiority. What had initially been a battle centered around the plaza had now spread throughout the entire Glory Fortress.
The whole Glory Fortress has been in utter chaos. Even though the holy rain of Universal Salvation continued to gently fall, it did little to stifle the screams of priests and swordsmen echoing from every corner. Against the orcs' massive weapons, even this supreme healing magic was of limited use. The orcs had no grand strategy or coordinated tactics—nearly all fought on pure instinct, driven by bloodlust and rage. Like primal beasts, they slaughtered anyone in their path without discrimination.
The Glory Fortress was now a scene of unchecked carnage, with orcs rampaging, slashing, and killing indiscriminately. Amidst the chaos, no one paid attention to a single figure slipping through the turmoil—no matter who they were or what they intended to do.
The once heavily guarded treasury of the Glory Fortress was now in complete chaos. This chamber, which housed the relics and treasures of past Popes, was usually protected not only by defensive magical formations but also by strict security. However, at this moment, several priests had rushed inside, attempting to seize some of the magical artifacts.
"What are you doing, my lords? These are the relics of the Popes!" the guarding swordsman stepped forward to stop them.
"Can't you hear what's happening outside?" one of the priests shouted.
From outside came the tremors of pounding hooves and the screams of swordsmen. Several minotaurs had already rampaged into the vicinity, one of them an elderly beast crashing through everything in its path. The swordsmen and priests were completely powerless against it, and with no high-ranking mages nearby, the only hope lay in the enchanted artifacts stored within the treasury.
In the face of the massive size and overwhelming strength of the minotaurs, ordinary people were utterly fragile. Even though the Universal Salvation could heal fatal injuries, swordsmen and priests usually didn't even have the chance to be wounded—they were either instantly crushed into unrecognizable shapes by a minotaur's charge or trampled into pieces under its hooves. There was no struggle, no suffering—just instant, clean death.
With a thunderous crash, one of the walls of the treasury suddenly shattered. A towering minotaur, nearly three meters tall, emerged from the debris. Its massive body was scarred with sword slashes and spear wounds, and several magical explosions had left burns across its hide. The half-orc beastmaster who had once ridden on its back was now slumped motionless, his ugly green head pierced through by a longsword. But at this point, the absence of a handler made little difference—the beast needed no further guidance.
The minotaur opened its mouth, releasing a thick cloud of corrosive fumes. Three swordsmen collapsed instantly, the acid burning through their flesh like molten steel. Though the Universal Salvation's divine energy immediately began to repair the damage, the residual acidic mist continued to eat away at their bodies, leading to an agonizing cycle of healing and decay. The two swordsmen writhed on the ground, shrieking in unbearable pain.
Without hesitation, the beast lowered its massive head and charged toward the remaining few people.
The priests scrambled to escape, stumbling over themselves in their haste. With a deafening crash, rubble exploded in all directions as several altars, along with the entire treasury's protective magic array, were utterly shattered. Most of these magic formations were designed for alarm and defensive purposes, but against the sheer brute force of the minotaur, they were rendered completely useless.
The beast turned and charged toward another direction, its massive bulk barreling straight toward two priests standing in front of an altar. In mere moments, they would be crushed along with everything behind them.
Suddenly, a blurred figure shot into the room with lightning speed. In the blink of an eye, he stood in front of the minotaur. Ht put a single hand and pressed it firmly against the creature's forehead. Instantly, the enormous beast collapsed like an emptied sack, its immense body crumpling to the ground.
"Bishop Inham!" The priests, having narrowly escaped death, gasped in both shock and relief.
"Truly, the Lord has guided you to us. Your timing is nothing short of miraculous!"
"Indeed, just in time—any later, and this would have been quite troublesome," the bishop replied, exhaling in mild relief. Stepping past the priests, he reached out to the altar and retrieved a broken staff.
"You… Why are you taking that? The situation outside is dire—you should head to the plaza to help, or else it'll be too late—"
"Ah, yes. I must hurry, or else it will be too late."
As Bishop Inham strode toward the exit, gripping the staff, a faint swish echoed through the air. The two priests who had spoken suddenly froze. An instant later, their heads detached from their bodies, flying cleanly into the air.
The others stood stunned, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Before they could react, Inham's hand traced a few swift, almost imperceptible motions in the air. Thin, nearly invisible black threads shot out from his fingertips, weaving through the room in a deadly dance. The remaining priests and knights, as if they were mere constructs of wood and string, instantly fell apart—limbs and torsos severed cleanly, blood spraying in every direction.
Without so much as a backward glance, Inham gripped the broken staff tightly and sped away.
Meanwhile, the Pope had been carried back to his chamber within the Glory Hall. The holy warriors stood guard outside, while only Bishop Adra remained at the Pope's bedside.
The Pope's breathing was faint and shallow. He looked frail and aged—far removed from the dignified, imposing figure he once was. After using the ring for the second time, he now resembled a man who had lived for centuries, utterly drained of every last drop of vitality, with only a single breath left to sustain him. The once vast and boundless holy magic within him had completely vanished. It was not simply a matter of depletion—it was the withering of his body itself.
Adra and the other two bishops had tried to heal him, but to no avail. Even the Universal Salvation had no effect on the Pope's deteriorating body, let alone other forms of white magic.
Summoning the Guardian Angel, casting Universal Salvation—such spells did not consume mere magic power or even life force. They devoured lifespan, something no magic or power could ever restore. The repeated use of these spells, especially with the aid of the Ring of Kings and the mental energy gathered by Glory Fortress, should have been an incredibly draining process, and the Pope's age only added to the toll it took..
"Your Holiness… Your Holiness…" Adra called softly. But the Pope gave no response. And then, Adra smiled.
Lancelote and three other temple knights were locked in an intense battle with Grutt in the middle of the plaza, their fight evenly matched. Everyone else was too preoccupied with the chaos and bloodshed to pay attention to what was happening elsewhere. With the Pope unconscious, Bishop Adra, as his closest confidant, naturally became the only one left by his side.
"So, even you have a day like this?" Adra looked down at the Pope lying in bed, his smile radiant, joyful—even as his eyes gleamed with a twisted malice. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this day? Do you have any idea how many years I've put up with you, you decrepit old fool? Finally, finally, the day has come… Hahahaha…"
Suppressing his laughter, Adra reached out and tried to pry open the Pope's clenched fist. He had seen it clearly: when the Pope collapsed atop the Glory Fortress, the Ring of Kings had fallen from the sky. And even in his semi-conscious state, the Pope had still managed to catch it and hold it tightly in his grasp.
The Pope's fist was clenched so tightly that Adra was shocked—how could this old man, on the verge of death, still possess such strength? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pry open the Pope's grip. Growing anxious, he stomped his foot. Even if the Pope truly died, he couldn't just take a blade and cut off his hand—if someone saw, especially Lancelote, it would be disastrous.
Just as Adra was about to look for a small tool to use as a lever, the Pope suddenly opened his eyes. In a frail whisper, he said, "You have truly disappointed me…"
Adra froze like a statue, utterly petrified. His eyes widened in sheer terror, as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. His legs began to tremble, then his entire body started to shake uncontrollably.
After speaking those few words, the Pope coughed, struggling to take in a deeper breath, as though desperate for more air—but even that seemed beyond his strength. Just saying those words had drained the last of his energy.
Adra trembled like a leaf in a storm, his body shaking violently. He stared at the Pope, who was barely clinging to life, still trying to draw breath. Moments ago, he had been gloating, but now, under the weight of the old man's lifelong authority, all his arrogance had been crushed—leaving him paralyzed with fear, unable to think of anything else.
The explosions and sounds of battle outside grew louder and more chaotic. Adra's body trembled uncontrollably, his eyes filled with increasing terror. The Pope was still struggling to breathe.
Suddenly, with a snap of determination, Adra lunged forward, throwing himself onto the bed and straddling the Pope's body. His hands gripped the Pope's neck tightly, his once-beautiful face now twisted and contorted in a grotesque expression, though the dominant emotion on his face was still fear.
How long it lasted, Adra couldn't tell. Eventually, gasping for breath, he released his hands. The old man beneath him showed no signs of life—he had died peacefully, without a struggle. Adra hadn't even realized when the Pope had passed.
Falling off the bed, Adra collapsed onto the floor, sitting down hard. Only then did he notice that his pants were wet, though he couldn't remember when it had happened.