(Note: The Angel faction will be renamed to Old Gods Faction.)
Chapter 157 — The Angel of Slaughter
"This ritual comes from the Old Gods.
It forces ordinary people to see things they shouldn't,
and in the end…
their minds collapse."
Archbishop Mattheus's tone was unusually grave.
"In the Church's historical records, this rite appears only a few times.
But every time, casualties exceed a thousand."
Bettice's expression tightened.
"Then what is their goal?"
Mattheus exhaled slowly.
"Who knows? I once met a devotee of an Old God in the Vatican—never spoke a word, only smiled at whoever he saw."
He shook his head.
"Those lunatics' brains are twisted beyond saving."
But then Mattheus frowned.
"These dark-green fluids… they don't match the style of Old God cultists."
"Rotten, foul, saturated with malice…
It resembles another group."
Bettice and Roderick both looked at him.
Mattheus lowered his voice.
"The Wings of Vengeance."
Bettice's eyes narrowed.
She knew that name well—many recent violent cases were attributed to that group.
The Church had been investigating them for months.
"The two cults… teamed up?"
Roderick gasped. "Is there some rare treasure here they're after?"
Mattheus shook his head.
"Old God worshippers never act in the open—they hide and whisper in corners.
More likely, Wings of Vengeance acquired this ritual by accident."
Bettice quickly asked:
"Can the ritual be stopped?"
The venue was already descending into panic.
People ran blindly, desperate to escape.
"Only if we find the ones who cast it."
Mattheus searched the hall with sharp eyes.
"But with your holy artifacts, you three should resist its influence."
He raised his hand—
a soft halo slid off his fingertips.
The green miasma drifting from the glowing runes recoiled away from the archbishop,
blocked by a radiant field of holy light.
But not everyone was as fortunate.
Ordinary clergy brushed against the halo—
and their faces twisted.
Grimacing.
Crying.
Muttering.
They stood frozen, as if enduring indescribable internal torment.
Bettice opened her Spiritual Sight—
yet saw no monsters near them.
At the same time, she noticed something else:
The creatures that crawled from the green fluid
were not attacking the afflicted clergy.
Instead—they circled protectively around them.
Guarding them.
Bettice immediately whispered this to Mattheus.
Mattheus's eyes hardened.
"So it is them…"
He knew too well what Wings of Vengeance sought.
"Jolan… what in Heaven's name are you doing right now?"
---
Backstage:
"Huh? Archbishop Borah, what brings you here?"
Hans smiled politely—
quietly loosening his grip on the girl beside him.
Jolan didn't bother responding to the pretense.
"What is your objective?"
Hans blinked innocently.
"I… don't really understand what you're saying?"
Jolan tossed a file to him.
Hans opened it—
his hand tightened—
but his expression instantly shifted into feigned panic.
"Pointless theatrics. Enough."
Jolan's voice was ice.
"We've known about your crimes for a long time.
Confess now, and maybe you'll die cleanly."
"Heh."
Hans lowered his gaze.
When he raised his head again, his aura had completely changed.
"For someone trying to negotiate, Archbishop…
you're terrible at it."
With one swift motion, he yanked the girl—Mira—close,
clamping a hand around her throat.
The children gasped.
Sister Heidi covered her mouth, pale.
"Someone is targeting the ceremony today…
but it's not me.
Still—
I can tell you everything I know."
"Mr… Hans…
I… I can't breathe…"
Mira whispered.
Hans squeezed harder—her face reddened instantly.
"You know threats don't work on me,"
Jolan replied calmly.
"Of course.
If I really meant to kill her,
you'd catch me before I finished squeezing."
Hans backed away two steps, smirking.
Jolan narrowed his eyes, analyzing every movement.
Then Hans suddenly barked:
"Hey—how long do you all plan on hiding?
Waiting for me to die first?"
Jolan instantly turned toward a shadowed corner.
From it, a figure emerged.
"Heh.
I was worried the Bishop might betray us."
Mashal stepped forward,
holding a dark red lump of dried flesh—
clearly some kind of mutilated organ.
Mashal began chanting—
a harsh, guttural language no human throat was meant to pronounce.
A second later, scarlet light erupted from the floor,
forming a ritual circle that swallowed the children and Jolan whole.
The moment the surge hit him, Jolan felt his blood boil upward,
and his expression instantly darkened.
"Blood Rite…
So your real target is the children."
Mashal sneered.
"Correct.
No reward."
Inside the ritual field, everyone except Jolan was showing severe symptoms.
"It's… it's so hot…"
"I… I can't breathe—"
The children's skin flushed fiery red.
Sister Heidi was already bleeding from all seven orifices.
Seeing this, Jolan frowned sharply.
He flicked a cross into the air.
The sacred artifact hovered beside the children,
pouring out a radiant stream of pure holy energy,
wrapping them in protective light.
Mashal snorted.
"As expected of a Church archbishop—always clinging to your precious faith."
Jolan ignored him.
He focused fully on the ritual's energy flow.
"The formation just activated.
It can still be broken."
His eyes flashed.
He pulled several iron nails from his robe.
thunk—thunk
The nails embedded themselves in the wooden floor.
Jolan ripped the cross from his chest—
And an overwhelming of holy force exploded outward,
blasting debris everywhere.
White light surged along the nails, forming a counter-array.
In the next instant—
the Blood Rite began collapsing.
"Hey! You Old God-wannabes only have this much skill?"
Hans, who thought he'd escaped danger after Jolan was trapped,
watched in horror as the formation began to unravel.
"Hmph."
Mashal didn't respond.
Just as Hans was preparing to run—
A new pressure suddenly filled the room.
Jolan lifted his head.
For the first time, his expression grew solemn.
A pulsing mass of black energy swirled above them—
thick with malice and death.
Then a figure stepped out.
Pale skin.
Razor-sharp nails.
Butterfly-like fleshy wings unfurling from her back.
She held a cross-shaped longsword,
its blade burning with sickly green fire.
In a blink—
She was right in front of Jolan.
Oppression.
Decay.
Death.
Her power swept the room like a storm.
Without hesitation,
the longsword swung down.
"BOOM!"
Black and white light clashed,
erupting like a miniature supernova,
engulfing the entire backstage area.
When the dust finally settled,
a long, deep scar split the floor.
In the corner—
Jolan was half kneeling.
His breath was ragged.
His upper garments shredded.
But his eyes were fixed on the cross in his hand.
Two energies—
black and white
—coiled around it like warring serpents.
A sign of holy power contamination.
"So that was your trap…"
Jolan frowned.
To break the Blood Rite,
he'd released his own sacred power—
not just relying on artifacts,
but the personal divine essence he cultivated through years of theological discipline.
If such power becomes tainted,
it could drive a priest insane—
or worse…
Corrupt them completely.
But Jolan was no ordinary priest.
At the last moment,
he'd activated a second sacred artifact he kept hidden.
Szzzz—
The black taint was burned away in a flash of holy purity.
Jolan brushed the dust off and stood.
His gaze locked on the pale, winged figure.
"With a body like that…
so you truly received a demon's baptism."