Translator: AkazaTL
Pr/Ed: Sol IX
***
Chapter 185 – The Little Prince (4)
“Hold tightly.”
Suppressing his excitent, the Inquisitor Abel clenched his mace. The Crusaders gripping Frey's arms tightened their hold. They already knew what was about to happen.
‘This woman has backbone.’
Even in this situation, Frey did not bat an eye. Though.
‘She’ll be reduced to whimpering soon enough.’
They knew her attitude wouldn’t last long. When they had first arrived in the City of Stars, the priests of the star had all been the sa—proud to a fault. Even when captured, they glared fiercely at the Crusaders. But.
‘There’s no way they can endure.’
No matter how proud they were, they were still frail won. Resolve never equaled reality.
Those priests who had acted as though they were prepared to die had broken within half an hour, weeping and begging for their lives. It was natural. Even soldiers hardened by countless battles never beca accustod to pain—so how could priests, who spent their lives praying, endure the torture of a sadistic inquisitor?
“To begin with, I must deal with your wicked tongue.”
Abel approached Frey with bloodshot eyes.
The Crusaders gripped harder, anticipating her soon-to-co thrashing.
And then.
“…?”
Swaeek—sothing sliced the air.
“Aaaagh—!”
After the wind’s whistle ca a scream.
The Crusaders turned at the thud behind them and found Inquisitor Abel groaning in pain. What happened? Confused for a heartbeat, they soon noticed a bolt embedded in Abel’s thigh.
Shot from a crossbow.
‘There was another sinner…’
Not just the girl and the priest. There were three sinners hiding. No—at least three.
The exact number was unknown.
“Heretics! Deceivers!”
One furious Crusader strode toward the citizens of Antoine with his mace raised. But another Crusader grabbed his wrist.
“We must judge them, but not now.”
“What?!”
“We must protect our brother first. That is why we wear iron.”
Protect their brother— that reminder snapped them back to rationality.
Abel could perform miracles through divine power, but unlike the Crusaders, he could not protect himself. And if there was more than one enemy? If the enemy had multiple ranged weapons? They had no information.
Thus, instead of punishing the sinners, the Crusaders surrounded Abel in a defensive ring.
“Brothers… I apologize…”
Abel muttered as he looked at the Crusaders standing firm around him.
He glared at Frey and the girl.
‘So that’s why they ca out so willingly…’
To hide soone else. Abel was less enraged about the bolt in his thigh and more enraged about this: They had lied to the Inquisitor of the Cross. Which was the sa as lying to their god. Blood dripping from his bitten lip, Abel watched the citizens flee the restaurant.
Why were they running?
Ah— they must be accomplices.
Not one confessed that more sinners existed beyond the girl and the priest. They had revealed only those two. To Abel, that was deception. And deceiving the Inquisitor was the sa as deceiving the god of the Cross.
Realizing this, rage surged within him, unbearable.
“Protect … just a little longer.”
Abel dipped his fingers into the blood pouring from his thigh. He drew a cross upon the ground and began chanting a prayer. The authority he had activated upon entering Antoine—the Inquisitor’s dominion—was beginning to awaken fully.
“No sinner escapes before this Inquisitor Abel.”
His divine power swelled with wrath.
The cross he had planted at the city gate began to spread its influence.
“…We’ll guard him. Brothers, go capture the sinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not kill him. The Inquisitor will judge him personally.”
There were eight Crusaders in total. Not all were needed to guard Abel. Thus, four remained to protect him, while the other four marched toward the direction the bolt had co from.
To seize the fool who dared harm the holy Inquisitor of the Cross.
And then.
“Aaaagh!”
Not long after the Crusaders entered the dim interior of the restaurant, screams echoed. At first, they believed their comrades had already executed the sinner.
But very quickly, they realized sothing was wrong.
‘…What?’
The screams ca from the Crusaders.
***
‘Even shooting a single bolt is exhausting.’
Damn this pathetic body. Even pulling the bowstring to reload was a struggle. I could force it if I strained myself, but since my position was exposed, I needed to move imdiately.
They knew my general direction—but not my specifics.
They couldn’t know whether I was alone or not.
The Crusaders lacked the Path—the kind of extrasensory perception that real martial artists used.
They were rely tanks in heavy armor. If they had even the level of a Sword Walker, they would have sensed the bolt and blocked it easily.
‘Four Crusaders peeled away to protect the Inquisitor. Not bad.’
Wounding the thigh had been intentional. I could have aid for the head, but I didn’t know what authority Abel possessed. He might transform into a spiritual form at death’s door, or reflect damage. Better to wound than to kill—since a wounded Inquisitor would drag several Crusaders away with him.
There were nine enemies total. In a situation where I lacked numbers, crippling more than one at once was ideal.
I hadn’t expected four to separate, though.
Still— one bolt had effectively neutralized three.
“Co out. Sinners.”
“Sinners”—plural. Good. Let them think there were many of .
Fools. Running their mouths, giving information.
They lacked the sense of those who’d tasted death. Living peacefully in the South Continent, smashing commoners with maces had dulled their instincts.
‘Still, they’re not easy.’
Their full plate armor made them tough.
They could rapidly heal minor wounds through holy power. Killing them wasn’t simple.
‘I can’t pierce their armor now. I need to aim for the eye slits or exposed flesh.’
But aiming for armor gaps was dangerous. If my blade hit bone and stuck, I wouldn’t have the strength to pull it out. Not with this weakened body.
I needed certainty.
The Inquisitor was still chanting. His authority could complete at any mont.
I could not reveal myself until it did.
Abel’s abilities, as I knew them, were four:
Spirit Form – becoming untouchable by mundane force.
Chains of Punishnt – homing chains that bound movent.
Punishnt Ti – multiplied pain torture.
Repentance Ti – widespread ntal attack.
He was chanting long—aning he was preparing the fourth.
Could I withstand a ntal attack? Absolutely not.
Therefore, I needed to:
• Stall the four approaching Crusaders.
• Break through the four guarding Abel.
• Stop the authority before it is completed.
‘Sigh.’
Why did everything have to be so difficult?
“For the final ti—co out!”
Why does that idiot keep shouting? I climbed the wall and clung to the ceiling.
Full plate armor offered great protection—but terrible stealth. Every step rang out loudly.
My physical strength had weakened, but not my senses.
My paranoia had sharpened them long ago.
‘Crossbow is reloaded.’
I hung from the ceiling and pulled out four glass vials. Listening to their steps, I threw them.
“Hmph!”
Crash.
The over-alert Crusaders, still jumpy from the bolt, swung their maces reflexively the mont sothing flew toward them.
If they’d let it hit them, nothing would’ve happened. Bolts couldn’t penetrate their armor anyway. But.
“Gah! Kh—!”
“W-What…?”
The vials burst. A red cloud filled the air.
‘One of the recipes from the old Adventurer from 「Flight」.’
Specifically, created by his son: a sneezing powder. Cheap ingredients, easily mixed. It adhered to nasal mbranes like hooks.
The Crusaders began coughing violently.
They could heal themselves, but not instantly. And wasting divine power on trivial irritants was undesirable.
I dropped from the ceiling deliberately loud.
They heard the sound and lumbered toward , still coughing.
“You little—hic—tricks won’t last—cough!”
Good. Let them follow.
‘The kitchen.’
This restaurant’s kitchen was close to where the others had been hiding. A small storeroom connected straight to it.
The girl probably hoped I’d escape through here while she bought ti.
But I wasn’t running.
I scanned everything in a breath:
• simring soup
• boiling oil
• knives, mops
• awls, small hamrs
• tool boxes
• a curtain covering the entrance
I built the plan in my head.
‘All this work… just to kill these idiots.’
Being weak was humiliating.
***
“Cough—khek!”
The Crusaders followed the trail of the sinner. Such tricks wouldn’t stop a Crusader—they believed. As they reached the kitchen, one raised a hand.
“S-Stop!”
Stop? Why?
“The… floor.”
They looked down. Broken glass and nails littered the ground.
Laughable as a trap—but after the sinner’s earlier tricks, they no longer dared underestimate anything.
“He’s… trying sothing again!”
They all agreed. One Crusader stepped forward—Only for his head to snap backward violently.
Thud. He collapsed. The others stared blankly.
Sothing long and pointed was lodged in his eye socket—a crude spear made from kitchen tools.
No divine light activated. He wasn’t healing.
He had died instantly.
The spear had pierced the eye, bone, and brain.
They looked up at the curtain hiding the kitchen.
A small hole was cut near the top.
‘How?’
The sinner had thrown it from behind the curtain—without seeing them— and yet struck the exposed part of the helt with enough force to kill instantly.
Impossible. Unless he flew. Or was a ghost.
“Focus! It’s a trick!”
One Crusader, still coughing, spoke through grit teeth.
“I’ll go first—arms guarding my face. The rest follow.”
Smart. The sinner’s makeshift weapons couldn’t penetrate armor unless they hit exposed flesh.
He crouched and pushed the curtain aside—“Mmgh!”
Sothing splashed on his face. He turned his head sharply—Oil.
Then sothing dropped onto his face.
A rag—on fire.
FWOOM.
The fla, touching oil, burst violently. He died without even screaming, burning black on the floor.
Two corpses already. Without ever laying eyes on the sinner.
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