* * *
Meanwhile, away from Mirthwater, at the border between Landmarrow and Aquilora, in the forest called the Niverlem Grove.
The night air was cool and crisp, blanketing the canopy of towering trees that stretched high into the inky sky.
A crescent moon hung above, casting a silvery glow that filtered through the leaves, creating a dappled pattern on the forest floor. The rustling of the wind whispered hush among branches from the chaos unfolding below.
In the shadows, a man stumbled through the underbrush, his white shirt, grey jacket, and jeans soaked in blood, the crimson staining the fabric to create a contrast against the muted colors of black.
Deep slash marks marred his skin, each wound was an indication of the violence he had endured so far. The most severe injury was a gaping puncture wound in his stomach, blood oozing from the depths of the injury, leaving a trail of red in his wake.
Behind him, many figures cloaked in black pursued relentlessly, their movements swift and silent like shadows.
These assassins were adorned in dark attire that blended seamlessly with the night, and it surely was a menacing sight.
Silver masks covered their faces, intricate lines of gold tracing cryptic patterns that glinted in the moonlight, obscuring their identities.
The eyes of the mask were gleaming red, adding to their ominous presence.
As the man ran, he leaped over branches and maneuvered deftly among the trees, his extraordinary instincts guiding him as he dodged the deadly projectiles that whistled past him.
The man often also hopped on another tree, only for his legs to kick something invisible in the air, causing his body to swerve oddly to the side, peering away from the direction of the first jump.
The shuttling sound of throwing knives sliced the silence, each blade aimed with precision, yet it still failed to hit the mark as it embedded itself into the soil or the trunks of trees with a dull thud.
But then, in a chilling display of skill, the knives somehow trembled.
Summoned by an unseen force, they detached from their resting places, flying back to t
he hands of the black-clad assassins who took the knives skillfully, ready for their next throw. The forest echoed with the sound of metal slicing through the air, producing a deadly symphony that underscored the urgency of the chase.
The man, with his breath already in a ragged gasp, suddenly stopped in his tracks. Because someone was standing right in front of him. And he could feel a dangerous aura emanating from him.
Obscured by the shadows, stood a man clad in a striking white vestment, its fabric shimmering faintly under the moonlight.
A hood was draped over his head, obscuring his face in shadow, adding an air of mystery to his presence.
There was also a mystifying emerald gem resting right at the back of his hood. The vest featured a bold line of gold running vertically down the center, from the hem to the bottom, where the end of the vest seemed to float just above the ground, defying gravity.
Against the color of the gold pattern, a deep blue sky was depicted, adorned with seven radiant red jewels that glimmered like stars.
Thirteen intricate symbols completed the vest, marking him as a Priest from the Church of Origin, a figure of both reverence and enigma.
"The end is nigh. Will you surrender obediently now, Sir Raynard?" the priest spoke, his voice was soft and soothing, but also had a depth to it―it was low yet loud enough to resonate across the clearing.
The assassins quietly dropped to the ground, and like a cat, they landed without generating any sound. Now standing by in reticence, they created a circle that surrounded the injured man, called Sir Raynard.
He was the mysterious man who had brought El to Mirthwater and left him there alone. Currently, his facial features were different from those he had shown to El.
"Sigh… oh, how flattered I am. Not only am I being hunted by members of the Praetorian Guard, but now a priest from the Church of Origin is here as well. I wonder what crime I committed to deserve such special treatment?"
Sir Raynald said mockingly. His body tightened, ready to dodge and retaliate at a moment's notice.
"You know well enough our purpose, don't you, sir? Besides, you are a criminal who has betrayed the order. It would be best if you came with us willingly," the priest replied.
"How old are you, kid? I bet you're not even past thirty, right?"
The priest remained silent.
"Why? No answer? How rude," Sir Raynald narrowed his eyes.
"I apologize…" the priest said, bowing his head slightly.
"But the Cardinal specifically instructed me not to engage in any conversation with you, sir, lest I be bewitched by the devil. So please, surrender now, or we may have to resort to extreme measures to bring you to the Pope."
In response, the Praetorian Guard drew their knives, positioning them defensively in front of their bodies, ready to attack.
"Why go to the Pope? Don't tell me the relationship between the Church and the Empire has become amicable these days. Have I missed that much while wandering outside?"
Sir Raynald asked nonchalantly, though inside his soul space, he quietly began to create a few Rune Orbs.
"I'm sorry, but I don't plan to converse with a Renegade."
After saying this piece, the priest lifted his right hand and directed it toward Sir Raynald. Behind him, a massive, blue, ethereal skeleton hand broke through the ground, attempting to seize him.
Sir Raynald turned and punched the skeleton hand, reinforcing his strike with Rune Magic, {Blast}.
*Bang!*
The skeleton hand exploded from the impact, and Sir Raynald used another Rune Magic.
It was {Accelerate}. His body then moved at a ghostly speed that left an afterimage, dodging another skeleton hand that came out from just below his feet.
All the Praetorians then proceed to charge, too.
Their movement synchronized, attacked using their blades or spells at the same time or in turns, trying to incapacitate Sir Raynald and take advantage of his condition, who had already exhausted most of his Soul Essence from the chasing and assault that had been progressing for almost a week now.
More wounds accumulated on his body, and his situation became more perilous the longer the clocks ticked.
Sir Raynald gritted his teeth, deflecting the incoming knives with his bare hand, crushed the skeleton hands with punches, easily dispelling various spells thrown at him, and even counterattacked by throwing the Praetorian over his shoulder, hitting them in the face or the gut, while making sure not to kill them outright because how strong he was when using Soul Essence to {Fortify} his body.
After all, he was once a renowned Rune Master under the Order of the Sacred Flame.
His name was Raynald from the Amblecrown Noble Family, known as the Fist of Justice.
What an irony. He even needs to smash these people to the ground using only his palms.
But even then, no matter how strong an elephant was against a mouse―when numbers and other factors came in the count, the unchallengeable animal would be no more but a slightly bigger animal, especially with how Sir Raynald refused to kill any of them.
Besides, they were not ordinary mice either, especially the priest from the Church of Origin.
Even now, Sir Raynald could feel how enormous and pure the Soul Essence which was contained in the priest's small body.
It was like a glaring sun, contained in a vessel that was not strong enough yet to unleash all of its potential.
From his observation, it was easy to deduce that this priest was the Church of Origin's newest member, born blessed. Or perhaps not at all.
One or two of the strikes had found their way to bypass the shield made from the solidified Soul Essence that covered his whole body, producing more wounds on his flesh.
A few of the assailants even used curse magic, which weakened him greatly.
Curse was one of the most difficult subjects to learn, and equally hard to cleanse or expel from the body.
Even for a Rune Master like him, it took a considerable effort, added to his Soul Essence that was close to being emptied.
One of the skeleton hands finally managed to land right on top of him, slamming him to the ground.
With dirt and roots exploding outward, the priest clenched his hand tight, as the skeleton hand did the same.
Now lying in the ethereal grasp, Sir Raynald could only helplessly watch as he was brought closer to the front of the priest, while blood streamed down from his head to his chin.
"You're satisfied now, kid?"
Sir Raynald spoke, while secretly letting go of the notion to keep resisting.
Once he got the chance, he would flee anyway. This was not the first time he had been caught by members of the Order of the Sacred Flame, nor was it his first encounter and fight with a Priest or Priestess of Origin.
However, in his opinion, the kid in front of him was amateurish and relatively weak compared to the people he had encountered in his past. There was a Priestess he knew who was so powerful that he would rather flee at the mere mention of her name.
* * *