The Rotten Saint Heir Montiluo lay on the ground, staring blankly at the boundless sky.
His eyes widened.
From the moment he was born, to every year, every day, every event—it all flashed chaotically through his mind, gradually causing his eyes to burn with acidity.
Just a moment ago, he launched an assault on two low-ranking Mafia thugs.
The next second, he found himself on the ground.
A savage slap to the face snapped him entirely out of it.
"Tsk."
Tolyado shook his hand, feeling the lingering sting from slapping someone as a mage.
"Which branch are you from? You're ridiculously bold, huh."
Tolyado was almost impressed by this guy.
In all his years as a bishop, this was the first time he encountered a Resurrection Believer this hell-bent on self-destruction.
Even though the two of them were basically the top-ranking bishops in the contemporary world, it wasn't as though any Saint Heir or Saintess could casually pick a fight with them.
