Given his current level of power, there were very few individuals in the entire Macedonian Kingdom that he could not divine.
To suffer such a terrifying backlash while attempting to foresee someone's fate—this was a first, even for him.
He was, after all, the Kingdom's foremost Prophet.
If anyone had seen him now, vomiting blood and looking deathly pale, they would have been so shocked that their jaws might have dropped to the floor.
Meanwhile, as discussions about the mysterious powerhouse continued to grow louder across the kingdom, more and more Awakeners noticed something even more astonishing—
The Codex of Divine Arms, the ancient record listing all of the legendary weapons that had appeared throughout the Macedonian Kingdom's history, was undergoing unprecedented changes!
Weapons that had held their ranks for centuries were suddenly being pushed down by one position.
"The number one! The number one weapon on the Codex of Divine Arms has been replaced!"
A cry of disbelief spread like wildfire.
The Codex was a sacred archive, chronicling all divine arms throughout the Kingdom's history.
For countless years, the rankings had remained unshakable, as immovable as mountains.
And yet now, that seemingly eternal first-place weapon had been knocked down to second place.
In its place was a new champion—
a sword.
To be precise, it was a plain, unremarkable iron sword.
Its appearance was so ordinary that if it had been tossed onto the shelves of a random blacksmith's shop,
no one would have spared it a second glance, much less purchased it.
Yet now,
this simple iron sword had been crowned the most powerful divine weapon in the history of the Macedonian Kingdom!
The reason was simple—
it was the sword wielded by the mysterious powerhouse who had single-handedly annihilated a hundred thousand-strong army!
—
In the thawing mountains, where the last traces of winter's ice were giving way to the rebirth of spring,
the world was slowly awakening once more.
Tiny green shoots emerged from the earth,
and the scent of new life filled the air.
Among the scattered peaks lay the crumbling ruins of ancient temples,
their walls covered in cobwebs,
their rooftops dripping with the meltwater of departing snows.
By one such ruin stood a weathered stone stele,
towering as tall as a man.
Carved into it, though partially faded with time, were the words:
Punching Feminists.
Inside the temple, two slender young women trained diligently.
Their skin was fair as snow, and their figures graceful, each curve outlining an elegant S-shape.
Though their clothing was ragged and stained from long hours of sweat-soaked training,
their beauty remained undeniable.
At this moment,
each woman drew her right fist back, then lashed forward with full force at the marble pillars before them.
BANG!
Twin dull thuds rang out in perfect synchronization.
The thick marble columns, each half a meter in width, cracked and collapsed under the tremendous force,
sending plumes of dust into the air.
"Not bad!"
A voice called out from the front of the hall.
"But your aim is still off. Strike the vital points!
A single blow should kill, or at the very least cripple the enemy severely."
Standing before them was a petite, doll-like girl.
Despite her adorable appearance, her voice was filled with the stern weight of authority.
She was none other than Sybil,
the Chief of Punching Feminists.
According to Monica,
Sybil was already over a hundred years old,
yet she looked no older than sixteen.
She cherished each member of the Association deeply.
Yet even so, Sybil often found herself puzzled—
Why was it that under her leadership,
the Association seemed to decline generation after generation?
She treated her members well.
These twin sisters, like many others, were orphans she had personally raised,
training them into fierce, tiger-like warriors.
And yet, no matter how she tried,
people simply refused to join Punching Feminists.
To solve the issue of declining membership,
Sybil had been forced to order her members to descend the mountains periodically,
searching for anyone willing to join.
Otherwise, when her generation passed,
Punching Feminists would vanish into the sands of history.
Still, she harbored little hope.
For years, despite countless efforts,
she had failed to recruit new blood.
Even her subordinates often returned empty-handed.
All she could hope for now was that Monica might at least bring back some orphans—
anything to ensure the Association's legacy would not perish.
As she was pondering these things,
laughter and chatter drifted in from outside the temple.
Sybil's ears perked up.
Among the voices, she recognized Monica's!
Peering through the entrance,
she saw Monica approaching,
accompanied by three figures.
Monica had really brought people back!
And three of them, no less!
Sybil's heart leapt with joy.
Of the three, two were middle-aged men with somewhat frail auras,
while between them stood a young man whose calm, steady presence was like an unshakable mountain.
"Jennie! Fanny! Monica's back!"
Sybil called out to the twin sisters, who had been happily munching on rations nearby.
Hearing the news, the two girls wiped the sweat from their brows and rushed outside.
—
Meanwhile,
John stood in front of the weathered stone stele, surveying the dilapidated surroundings.
Even though Monica had warned him about the humble state of the headquarters,
he still found himself taken aback by how… ancient it all seemed.
"Come on, John, what are you standing around for?
Hurry up and come inside!"
Monica called out with a cheerful wave, eager to welcome the newcomers.
Barton and Stanley exchanged uneasy glances.
Sweeping their eyes over the crumbling ruins,
they struggled to believe that this was Monica's mighty Association.
It looked more like a rundown gang's hideout,
only marginally better than a slum.
Was this really an official Association?
The whole scene felt surreal.
Just then,
a loli-like girl with youthful features—but an overwhelming presence—approached them at high speed.
Though she appeared delicate,
the raging blood force sealed within her body felt like a blazing furnace,
exerting immense pressure on them all.
"Welcome!
I'm the Chief of the Association.
You must be Monica's friends!
Come in, come in!"
She smiled warmly,
grabbing John's hands tightly with her own delicate, snow-white fingers,
as though afraid he might bolt at any moment.
"Chief, actually, it's these two I brought as new members,"
Monica quickly explained, worried Sybil might misunderstand.
"New members? These two?"
Sybil tilted her head to glance at Barton and Stanley.
Her welcoming smile froze awkwardly.
Monica grinned sheepishly.
"Surprised? Honestly, I'm surprised myself…"
Before she could continue bragging,
Sybil's face darkened.
"I asked you to find promising recruits,
and you bring me two middle-aged men?
Their bodies have long since passed the prime for foundational training!
Even if they work ten times harder, their potential will always be limited!"
Barton and Stanley: "…"
(They suddenly felt insulted but had no grounds to refute it.)
"However,"
Sybil's gaze softened slightly,
"this young man you brought is excellent."
Though dissatisfied with Barton and Stanley,
Sybil was clearly delighted with John.
Still, since all three were Monica's guests,
Sybil quickly smoothed her expression and said warmly:
"Since you're here, you're friends.
Come inside, let's talk more."
—
Meanwhile, elsewhere…
On a dusty road leading toward the imperial capital,
a knight clutched his severed right arm,
sweat pouring down his forehead from the excruciating pain.
Yet he didn't spare a single thought for his own agony.
All his focus was locked onto the elderly man standing before him.
After John and the golden-haired girl had left with this old man,
he had been ordered to secretly track them,
hoping to uncover their destination and background.
But he had barely begun tailing them before he was discovered.
Wanting to test their strength,
he made a move—
only to immediately suffer devastating consequences.
The instant he attacked,
the old man casually swung his hand—
and his right arm was cleanly severed!
He hadn't even seen how the old man struck.
All he knew was that death had brushed terrifyingly close.