The moment Archbishop Inham appeared, the slaughter of the priests by the orcs instantly reversed into a massacre of the orcs.
Even the other bishops had not expected that this man—who had only recently been appointed as a archbishop by the Pope's favor—would possess such an astonishing level of magical mastery. But more remarkable than his magic was his skill in killing.
Three walls of fire crisscrossed through the orc ranks, spreading in perfect angles and positions. More than a dozen orcs were engulfed in flames, their screams filling the air, while the remaining orcs were precisely cut into separate groups. Yet, unlike the other bishops who hid behind the summoned elemental giants to cast their spells, Inham charged directly toward the incoming orcs.
A massive flail, nearly half his size, swept past his face, barely missing him. Inham didn't even blink. Instead, he simply reached out and grasped the wrist of an orc as it lunged past him. His slender fingers, as refined as those of an artist, seemed to sink effortlessly into the orc's wrist as if kneading dough. Using this grip, he propelled himself upward.
The orc, having only been grabbed by the wrist, suddenly let out a bizarre, fractured scream, as if it had been stabbed dozens of times at once. It collapsed instantly, its gaping maw spilling out a grotesque mix of blood and shredded internal organs, its tongue hanging limply from its jaws.
Still midair, Inham was suddenly met with a charging ogre. He spread his hands slightly, conjuring two force field shields that halted the massive creature's clawed hands just as they were about to clasp shut. Seizing the moment, he lunged onto the ogre's shoulder, his palm pressing against its small, exposed ear—one of the few unarmored spots on its heavily plated body.
With a sickening squelch, a blood-streaked icicle, as thick as a finger, pierced through the other side of the ogre's head, emerging from its opposite ear. The towering beast, a walking fortress of muscle and armor, froze for a moment before collapsing like a felled tree.
Inham had yet to touch the ground. Using Feather Fall to hover in midair, he deftly evaded another orc's attack. With a light tap of his foot against the orc's head, he propelled himself upward again. The orc, however, let out no further sound—its eyes had been blasted clean out of their sockets, and a mist of blood erupted from its ears and nostrils, as if a colossal firecracker had detonated inside its skull.
Inham's movements bore no resemblance to those of a typical mage—he was swifter and more agile than even the most seasoned rogue. Yet, unlike any rogue who would struggle to maintain their grace in such a brutal battle, Inham moved with effortless poise. Every step was light, every action fluid, as though he were performing an intricate dance. He struck and withdrew in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing but fallen orcs in his wake, his robes unstained by even a drop of blood.
The other bishops, most of whom had never experienced such a Gruttesome battlefield before, could only watch in stunned silence.
As his figure weaved through the chaos, another dozen of the fiercest orcs crumpled beneath his hands. The remaining ones, seeing their ranks decimated and now outmatched by the combined forces of the elemental giants and holy warriors, let out terrified howls and scattered in retreat.
"Praise be to the Lord, Bishop Inham, we are truly fortunate to have you! I never imagined you possessed such remarkable skill."
"Let us thank the Lord's grace for granting us the strength to cleanse these beasts," Inham replied, nodding slightly to the other bishops with composed indifference. He walked toward Talice, his gaze falling upon the trembling Ayime in her arms. With a calm, unreadable expression, he asked, "Knight Talice, what is the story with this little girl?"
"It's none of your business." Talice took a step back, holding Ayime tightly in her arms.
She knew the true identity of this bishop. And just now, when he had thrown away all pretense, no longer concealing his strength as he mercilessly slaughtered the orcs around them, she could feel it—his attention had never left her or the girl in her arms. Clearing out the orcs with such effortless efficiency was nothing more than him removing nuisances that stood in his way.
Though his tone remained as refined and composed as ever, something about Inham's demeanor had shifted. Perhaps it was the memory of how he had so casually torn through the battlefield moments ago, but now, under his gaze, Talice felt a chill creeping up her spine.
Nearby, one of the other bishops spoke up. "This young lady arrived through a teleportation scroll just now. It seems like she was frightened. Do you recognize her, Bishop Inham?"
"Of course, I recognize her. So that's what happened." The archbishop smiled faintly, his gaze relaxing. "I thought she was with you, Knight Talice." With a casual wave of his hand, Talice didn't even have time to react before a faint magical glow struck Ayime's forehead, a rare mental magic spell.
"Ah? Sister?" Ayime's eyes brightened, and she regained her clarity. She looked at Talice, who was still holding her, then turned her gaze to Bishop Inham. "It's you?"
"How is it, young lady? Did you bring it?" Inham asked indifferently.
"I did, but..." Ayime wriggled out of Talice's embrace, reached into her chest, and pulled out a strangely shaped dagger. "Someone asked me to pass on a message to you—don't try any tricks."
"I would never do such a thing. She should know I wouldn't dare. Don't worry." Inham did not reach for the dagger. He only nodded, his face showing a rare hint of agitation.
"Good." Ayime finally pulled out a vibrant green leaf from her chest. Even in the midst of this battlefield, filled with screams and howls, the air thick with bloodlust and death, the green leaf still conveyed a sense of vitality to anyone who saw it.
As Inham gazed at the leaf, his eyes gleamed. But just as he reached for it, Talice swiftly pulled Ayime into her arms.
"What are you doing? Where did you get this leaf from? You can't give it to him."
"Let go of me!" Ayime struggled, but Talice held on tight, refusing to release her. She quickly pulled her back.
Inham's eyes flashed with murderous intent. With a flick of his hand, a faint black line extended from his fingers. The leaf was so close, yet slipping away right before his grasp, and it caused him to lose his last bit of patience. However, just as his hand flicked out, a look of terror crossed his face. He turned his head to the side, and the magic he had prepared, ready to strike, suddenly failed to be cast.
Talice, holding Ayime, also sensed the change, her face filled with terror as she turned her head in the same direction.
The killing intent was so overwhelming that it made both of them forget even the most important things at that moment. From the deepest part of their instincts, they both reacted instinctively to the pressure of the killing intent. It was an aura that completely enveloped and devoured them, making them feel as small as ants, as if a single touch would shatter them into pieces. The only person capable of emanating such overwhelming killing intent was one individual.
While Inham had been conversing with Ayime, he hadn't caught the attention of any of the other bishops. The surrounding situation had kept them too occupied to notice such seemingly trivial matters. They were here to support the battle, and after dealing with the orcs in front of them, the most obvious and pressing matter they would focus on was Lancelote and Grutt.
In fact, there were only two people, one standing still in the same spot, covered in blood, while the other moved slowly, his sword pointed at his opponent as he took step after step forward. Despite the surrounding chaos—the deafening sounds of battle, the blood and flesh flying everywhere, and the orcs and swordsmen clashing in violent combat—these two individuals stood out even more.
No matter how intense the battle was or how fiercely the combatants fought, not a single orc or swordsman dared to approach them. Even the rampaging wild bulls kept their distance. A large space automatically opened up around them. When one's attention was focused on these two, the surrounding chaos seemed insignificant, as though it were nothing more than a swarm of ants fighting fiercely.
"Is that the leader of Orford facing Lancelote? Why is no one helping?" a bishop asked, echoing the shared concern of all the bishops present.
The subtle yet overwhelming aura between the two men was so intense that even a bear could feel it. The bishops were no exception, but they still couldn't understand why no one rushed in to help. Clearly, a group attack would be far more efficient than a one-on-one duel.
"It's too dangerous," said one of the two holy warriors, who were more knowledgeable than the bishops about combat. "They're like two active volcanoes that could explode at any moment."
"How dangerous could it be? With all these bishops using their magic together, even the legendary dragons wouldn't be able to withstand it. At least, it would be far better than having Lancelote fight him alone," the other temple knight said, growing more anxious, but failing to explain further.
At that moment, the bishops all began reciting their prayers simultaneously. Together, they cast the white magic of paralysis at Grutt.
"Divine might prison—Freeze!" Their magical prowess, though not quite on the level of the pope, was still formidable, and when combined, it was a force that no creature could hope to resist. Grutt, though nearly a hundred meters away, stood motionless, practically an immobile target. As the bishops pointed in unison, dense points of white magic light began to materialize around Grutt's body.
Sure enough, Grutt stiffened. Though he remained unmoving, there was a subtle pause in his overwhelming aura. Strangely, Lancelote's massive sword energy and momentum did not surge forward as expected, and even his steps faltered slightly.
This brief stiffness and stagnation lasted only half a blink, before Grutt suddenly turned his head and locked eyes with the bishops. This joint paralysis spell, cast by several of the top white magicians, had only caused him to freeze for the briefest moment. Yet, the mere glance he gave in return made two of the bishops drop to the ground in terror. It felt to them as though they had been seared with a glowing-hot iron rod on the backside of a massive, bloodthirsty, near-mad behemoth.
"Looking for death?" Grutt's voice wasn't loud, yet every person there could hear it clearly. Instead of charging straight at them, he lifted his foot and turned, then launched a powerful kick.
With a thunderous roar, Grutt's foot slammed into the ground, sending a massive cloud of sand and debris flying. The sheer force of the kick, built up from the momentum he had originally intended for his duel with Lancelote, was unleashed with ferocious intensity. It wasn't just his full strength; it was the overwhelming rage, the desperate fury, and the unrestrained bloodlust that had built up from the interruptions, the ambushes, and the relentless pressure.
The sand and rocks sped forward with such ferocity that no magic could match their velocity. The sound of the wind ripping through the air was deafening, and the force was so overwhelming that it felt as though Grutt's kick had directly struck the bishops themselves.
"Get down!" The shout from the two holy warriors came too late. The bishops, overwhelmed by the immense killing intent that seemed to pierce through to their souls, were already frozen in fear, unable to react to the warning.
Only one of the holy warriors, reacting faster due to their training, was able to drop to the ground in time. As warriors, they were conditioned to respond to raw killing intent far quicker than the bishops. However, one of them, trying to grab a nearby bishop, was a fraction of a second too slow to avoid the incoming storm.
A sound reminiscent of a decayed, torn rag being violently ripped apart filled the air, magnified a thousand times. The bishops, who had been standing moments ago, were sent flying. The dense, brutal storm of sand and stones, fueled by the power of his killing intent, tore through their bodies like a grinder through pudding. The bodies were shredded into a scattered mass of flesh, no protection offered, no escape possible.
Even the holy warrior who had managed to drop to the ground in time wasn't spared. Several stones, close to the earth, slammed into his skull, crushing it beyond recognition. He was the only one whose corpse remained relatively intact, while the others were scattered across the ground, their bodies reduced to mangled pieces and bloody remnants. More parts were flung farther away, lost to the destructive force.
The storm of sand and debris crashed into a building behind them with a deafening roar, and the structure immediately collapsed under the sheer force. The aftermath was utter chaos, with debris, blood, and broken bodies strewn across the battlefield.
Only one person stood up after the storm of sand and stones subsided—Bishop Inham. Unlike the others, he had sensed the killing intent and seen the massive storm of sand coming his way. Reacting swiftly, he knew he couldn't escape the overwhelming wave of debris. He couldn't maintain his usual elegant composure anymore, so he rolled to the ground. However, unlike the holy warrior, as he fell, he cast a spell. A thick earthen wall suddenly erupted from the ground, rising to shield him from the oncoming onslaught.
As the debris flew and the chaos settled, Inham emerged, looking a bit disheveled with dirt and dust covering him, but otherwise completely unharmed. The magic had protected him from the worst of the storm.
As Inham stood up, his expression shifted. His gaze followed Talice, who, with her divine shield of protection, was rapidly making her way toward the Glory Hall.
Grutt, panting heavily, had expended his energy with that final powerful kick. The immense momentum he had built up was now fully drained, leaving him vulnerable for the moment.
At that moment, Lancelote, like a streak of white sword light, surged toward him. Despite his rhythm and focus being disrupted, Lancelote remained unfazed. He hadn't lost any energy in the confrontation, unlike Grutt. The balance had shifted—after the cost of more than a dozen bishops' lives, Lancelote had regained the upper hand.