Chapter 229: Angel’s Wings
The ring was extremely thick, as if a finger had forcibly pierced through a stone, worn directly as a ring.
As for its size, rather than saying Marl wore it, it was more accurate to say he slipped it on. Loose and wide, it could even fit two fingers.
Marl took a deep breath, glanced at the cross placed at the center of the fortress behind him, then closed his eyes and prayed to the Lord.
On the thick ring, golden cracks suddenly appeared, spreading out and peeling away the stony shell, revealing the golden band within.
The platinum-white ring bore golden patterns, and these patterns contracted, allowing the ring to fit snugly onto Marl’s finger.
In the cloudless sky, only the White Star hung high above, scattering golden rays of light across the heavens, as if descending from the unknowable Heavenly Kingdom. The fortress was illuminated, as though receiving a Blessing Marl had long been familiar with.
Then, from the light pouring down from that Heavenly Kingdom, a pair of vast wings descended. Marl saw how they seemed to block out the heavens, their white feathers adorned with golden threads spreading across them.
Marl seemed to feel a summons, his body slowly levitating as he drifted toward those wings.
In midair, Marl’s ears were filled with countless voices of prayer—at times beautiful, at times repulsive. The cacophony tangled together, making him feel as if he himself was but one fragment of that clamor.
Turning his head, he saw the Temple Warriors who had already climbed the fortress walls, lifting their heads to gaze at the sky. Their expressions were filled with fanatic fervor. At the center, the cross emitted a faint glow, expanding outward until it formed a thin barrier above the fortress, as if shielding and filtering all below.
Drawing closer to the wings, Marl saw that at their center was a narrow ring.
He felt himself becoming like the light itself.
He felt himself climbing higher and higher until he touched the ring—both painful and yet like returning to a comforting embrace.
Then, his consciousness felt stretched, extended, spreading outward into the vastness of those wings.
Marl suddenly thought: How could his consciousness possibly cover such enormous wings?
But wrapped in that comfort, he did not wish to think further.
……
Bear-Men were primitive Dark Creatures, their behavior even less social than the lowest Cave Dwellers.
But they were powerful—ordinary Bear-Men could clash head-on with unarmored knights.
Naturally, their numbers were scarce. In the Northwind Mountains, which bordered Baron Puniel’s territory, only a dozen or so could be found.
Because they were few, they had no need for complex hierarchies—only common Bear-Men and their Chieftains. Unlike Vampires or Werewolves, they had no knowledge of crafting Holy Relics to suit their needs. All they possessed was primitive worship, and from that worship, their Holy Relics were born, allowing them to summon primal strength.
But once those Holy Relics became the Church’s Holy Relics, what descended upon them was, of course, the Lord’s power.
And Corleon naturally manifested this power as angels.
Corleon’s will fixed upon this place, as he “saw” Marl being assimilated by the descending angel.
This too was the future he had foreseen. With a thought, Corleon altered Marl’s Priest Commandment to the Bishop Commandment, allowing him to better resist the angel’s assimilation.
But the power of Faith stood on the same tier as Original Sin. Even when wrapped within the guise of an “angel,” a mere Bishop-level Marl could only barely retain fragments of his consciousness, no longer able to actively control the angel.
It was not that Corleon could not bestow him with a higher rank, such as the Archbishop Commandment—equal in level to the “angel”—but Marl’s will could endure only that of a Bishop. If given the Archbishop Commandment, the moment it activated, he would instantly fall into the Lord’s embrace.
Guided by Corleon’s will, Marl’s consciousness drove the angel’s wings to beat, soaring forth toward the Fishmen tide.
It swooped down, gliding over the heads of the Fishmen.
The Fishmen raised their heads, opening their sharp-toothed maws with shrill cries.
Flame-like crimson-gold markings spread wildly across their bodies. As they surged upward, their gray scales shuddered violently, wrestling against the golden blaze, the two forces vying for dominion over their flesh.
When they clashed, faint golden radiance of Holy Light emerged along the edges of the crimson-gold. At first hidden, it soon devoured the crimson hue as nourishment, transforming it entirely into Holy Gold. Like an unstoppable knight, it advanced against the gray, pushing forward—until it suddenly halted, then rapidly receded.
The Fishmen froze, their gaping mouths caught in a silent scream. Their eyes burst, spraying blood and brain matter as their life force vanished along with the retreat of the golden light.
First perished the Fishman Servants, followed by the Fishman Hunters. Only several dozen Fishman Warlords, their forms more robust than human knights, managed brief resistance before their eyes too exploded and they collapsed lifeless. In the end, only the Deep Diver leading them remained alive.
He rose from his crouched stance. His structure now resembled a human’s, though far larger—nearly four meters tall, a true Giant Fishman.
His limbs were mighty, fins protruding at the joints. Raising his head, he opened his sharp-fanged jaws wide and roared at the angel.
Once cloaked in fine dark-violet scales, he now flickered with alternating crimson-gold and holy-gold. His body, solid and unyielding like stone, bulged grotesquely as though some force kneaded his muscles into dough, deforming his once distinct lines.
The angel, having soared above tens of thousands of Fishmen, halted in the heavens, gazing down at the roaring Deep Diver.
Its wings beat once more, then it dove straight into the Fishman.
With a thunderous crash, the impact annihilated the Deep Diver. Holy flames spread outward, igniting the corpses of the fallen Fishmen, consuming them in golden fire.
The spreading fire gradually dwindled, leaving behind extinguishing golden torches, taking with them the lingering Mystery within their bodies.
Angel feathers drifted down, before dissolving into golden light, leaving only Marl lying on the ground.
His body was shriveled, like one drained of moisture. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, lungs heaving with raspy “Heh—Heh—Heh” gasps as he struggled for air.
To embrace Mystery and wield Mystery naturally came at a cost. For Marl, that price was one-third of his lifespan, consumed in the use of this Holy Relic.
The cost was great, but it ensured no lingering Mystery remained within him. So long as he refrained from using the Holy Relic again, he could still live out the remaining two-thirds of his life.
Moreover, to have touched Mystery and survived allowed his will to at least barely withstand the erosion of the Bishop Commandment.
Shaking, Marl pushed himself upright. He felt utterly drained, yet a faint smile spread across his face.
Perhaps the Fishman Hunters below had not all been slain. But these were mere hunters, not Fishman Warlords capable of matching knights. The Temple Warriors could finish them.
Thus, he had held against this attack.
But then his smile froze.
On the distant horizon, more gray waves appeared—this time with even greater numbers of Fishmen.
More, and more still. Marl even wondered whether every Fishman from the Principality of Corlay had surged forth.
He lifted his head to the sky.
The angel was gone. The Holy Light from the Heavenly Kingdom had vanished, leaving only the faint glow of the White Star.
Turning back toward the fortress, he still saw the thin barrier lingering above.
Marl trembled as he touched the Holy Relic ring, now utterly transformed, and offered his prayer.
“Lord, please descend with Your power once more. Let Your servant cleanse this filth before me.”
Corleon’s will heard his prayer and gave him an answer—denial.
“Your body cannot withstand a second descent.”
The revelation struck directly into his heart.
Marl’s expression turned ashen, his body collapsing limply to the ground.
Yet Corleon’s will spared him no further glance. Instead, it gazed across the battlefield, as though seeing the Fishmen’s god’s will from across an unfathomable distance.
“My children are endless. Yours are about to perish.”
It was as if the enemy’s voice declared this.
The Fishmen’s god could not clash wills with Corleon directly, so instead, it sought to erase Corleon’s “substance.” These believers of the Lord, who bore Corleon’s will, were that “substance.”
Once the bearers of will perished, the world’s corrective force would assimilate a god’s will.
For it was the world itself that sustained divine existence. Without the protection of recognized “substance,” the will of the world would assimilate a god’s will, just as gods assimilated the will of mortals.
Then, on both material and willful planes, the god’s existence would be banished into annihilation.
This was the Fishmen’s god declaring war on Corleon—sending its children to kill Corleon’s believers, devour their flesh, and storm Corleon’s Sanctuary, erasing every being aware of Corleon’s existence.
It had over a million children—and in half a year, it could multiply them tenfold. By sheer numbers alone, just as the Fishmen once consumed the Principality of Corlay, so too could they devour Corleon’s faithful.
“Despair, suffer, and await eternal annihilation!”
That will seemed to roar.
But Corleon’s will paid it no heed, turning instead toward the distance.
There, over the Misty Forest, a vast cloud mass was rising.