Chapter Seventy: Sacred Flame

Blazing fire consumed the buildings, and billowing black smoke soared into the sky.

Vade narrowly dodged the imp’s fireball and strode forward, driving the radiant sword into the imp’s chest. Where the blade met the fiery demon, it sizzled, releasing a scalding white vapor.

The imp’s face twisted in agony, its shriek sharp and piercing.

Forged by the combined efforts of the Church and the dwarf master smiths, this demon-slaying sword was the bane of all fiends. Its blade rivaled the finest holy water; against demons and undead—creatures brimming with dark energy—it was a weapon of purification, capable of felling an enemy in a single stroke.

Vade twisted the sword’s hilt with force, and the radiant blade seared the imp’s flesh until the wound charred to blackened coal.

The imp thrashed in torment, but the purifying power of the radiant blade left it powerless to resist.

With a final thrust, Vade slew the flaming imp before him; the demon’s body turned to blackened ash, powder crumbling from its wounds.

Just as Vade had suspected, the Icelanders truly consorted with demons.

On the morning of the eighth day, while speaking with Old York in the study, Vade had written a question on paper.

He asked the gnome, “Under what circumstances does the Radiance emit a glow or vibration?”

The gnome produced an ancient tome of church runes. “This is a divine sigil for sensing demons. Radiance can detect their presence.”

He had already learned the origin of this brilliant longsword the day before, yet he wished to understand in greater detail how the blade would react in practice.

At the time, he had just heard Old York’s tale of Quasimodo, but one question still troubled him.

When Radiance was in his hand, it had never behaved strangely.

He was a skeleton, Mia a ghost—yet Radiance never reacted to either of them.

He had thought perhaps the sword was not forged to target the undead, but in Bronte Village, Radiance had hummed with a low resonance, contradicting his initial assumption.

He hadn’t paid it much mind at first, but the gnome had told him the previous day that the sword’s enduring sigil could sense demonic presence, emitting light and vibration to alert its wielder.

Mention of demons brought to mind the explosion beneath the water.

That flaming imp, which had suddenly appeared in the reservoir by possessing Sweyn’s corpse—a lesser demon like that would not emerge without cause; it must have had contact with Sweyn of Iceland, which explained its presence there.

This led him to recall the melted tributary of the Vltava. A hypothesis formed in his mind:

If the Icelanders had harnessed the power of demons, then melting the ice sea and the frozen rivers would be no difficult feat.

Perhaps, beneath the river’s surface, a demon ceaselessly melted the ice and snow with its heat, keeping the water flowing.

If they could consort with demons, what was so extraordinary about recruiting a necromancer as well?

Demons—enemies of the true gods.

The evil lurking in the shadows was too immense for Vade to wish to confront; he hoped to avoid it altogether.

Yet, the more one dreads a thing, the more likely it is to occur.

There were many reasons why that flaming imp might have appeared before Sage’s workshop—perhaps it sought the necromancer, or perhaps it was drawn by the holy aura of Radiance.

In any case, fate had brought it to Vade and Lukas, and battle was now inevitable.

There was no longer any way to remain hidden; the imp’s fireball had exploded behind the Oak Tavern.

The stone wall had been blown apart, flames roaring, and the explosion echoed throughout Alvador—there was no way Quasimodo Vick could have missed it.

The necromancer’s servants—the undead hounds with iron muzzles—were already converging, drawn by the tremendous noise. Under the moonlight, black night-owls circled before alighting on the rooftops of the alley, their uncanny jet-black eyes fixed intently on the heart of the explosion.

Dozens of bird eyes, watching Vade and Lukas from every possible angle.

Vade had already handed the workshop key to Lukas. Alvador’s streets were labyrinthine and unfamiliar to an outsider like him.

He didn’t want to waste time winding through those twisting lanes any longer, so he raised his sword to block the hounds’ path.

Lukas stood behind Vade, still dazed from the explosion that had nearly knocked him off his feet, staring blankly at Vade’s back. Vade, facing away from him, raised his right hand and gave a thumbs-up.

The key to the workshop was in Lukas’s hand. He knew what he must do, yet his feet refused to move.

Why was he so useless?

Why could he only hide behind this lordly figure?

The night-owls spread their wings again, swirling in the air—a black vortex blotting out the sky.

Dozens of undead hounds formed a line, growling low and menacing.

Suddenly, the night-owls swooped down like moths drawn to flame, launching themselves at the two men in a suicidal assault. Remembering Old York’s teachings, Lukas hurriedly drank an antidote potion.

The night-owls burst apart midair, spraying rotten flesh and blood, black feathers falling like snow.

They did not truly explode near Lukas and Vade; instead, Lukas saw orange flames swirling—a flame moving like a dancer’s silken sash, gathering upon the glowing sword in Vade’s hand.

The sword released a blinding radiance; the red flames, now as pure white as the sword’s light, coiled outward in tongues, forming a vast vortex that swept the attacking night-owls away.

That sacred fire filled Lukas with warmth.

Suddenly, Vade turned and gave him a push. Lukas understood—it was time to run.

No matter how much he wished to stand at the lord’s side, he had to run now, with all his strength.

For on his shoulders, he bore their hope.

“Please forgive me.”

Clutching the key tightly, Lukas dashed toward the alchemy workshop behind him, jaw clenched, knuckles white with strain.

Undead hounds and night-owls attempted to pursue, but the pure white holy flame scorched the path ahead.

The wandering knight stood alone at the mouth of the alley, sword in hand.

He was silent, but his meaning was clear to all:

—No one may pass.

A hound leapt at him; he swung Radiance, unleashing a mighty arc of flame imbued with sacred power.

The wave of holy fire struck the undead hounds, the sword’s purifying force far more effective than mere steel.

Where the sacred flames touched them, it was as though holy water had been poured upon their flesh; their bodies ignited, skin turning swiftly to blackened ash.

It was Vade’s first time fusing the power of Starlight with the extraordinary qualities of Radiance, and the effect exceeded all expectation. He could channel the divine force of Starlight into the fire itself.

This was no simple sum; Radiance’s range and destructive power were multiplied many times over.

This sword, a gift from the bishop to the saint, was forged with the utmost devotion of both bishop and dwarf master, far beyond any ordinary brilliant-grade weapon.

So be it.

Since he had been discovered, there was no need to hide any longer.

Since coming to the snowfields a second time, Vade had not truly tested the limits of his strength.

He might not be fated to alter the fate of the Tanians, but he could still test his sword against that necromancer.

He could hear the wails from the square—the mournful cries of countless lost souls among the heaps of corpses.

May the dead find peace, and never know pain again.