"The control over the undead… this isn't the work of any ordinary necromancer."
Pablo's eye twitched uncontrollably, the sense of danger swelling heavier and heavier in his chest.
The scene before him felt hauntingly familiar — it dragged his mind back to last year, when he had followed the Hand of Inquisition into the Free Nation to battle the Witch of the Underworld.
Back then, the undead that witch commanded had been just as terrifying.
"No… it's not her," Pablo muttered, forcing himself to stay calm. "If it were the Witch of the Underworld, none of us would still be alive after a single strike."
He began to think quickly. "Besides the Seven Kings — Blood, Soul, Bone — the remaining witches of the Death lineage should only be the River of Oblivion and the Netherworld…"
Then another thought struck him.
"No… there's still Death herself. But even if the new Witch of Death has been born, it can't have been more than ten years since her awakening. How could someone that young possibly wield such terrifying magic?"
As Pablo's thoughts churned, the sound of click-click-click echoed again from the alley — sharper this time, like high heels striking the stone street.
Moments later, the figure finally appeared.
Silver-white hair streamed freely behind her, shimmering with soft light under the moon.
It was Morrigan, the puppet avatar controlled by Hel.
"Not the River, not the Netherworld… then who are you?" Pablo demanded, unease tightening in his gut.
The woman before him didn't resemble any of the witches he knew — not the Seven Kings, not the Underworld Witch, not Oblivion nor Netherworld.
There was only one possibility left.
"Me?" Hel smiled faintly. "You already know the answer."
"…The Witch of Death?"
Pablo's voice trembled between defiance and fear. If it were any ordinary sixth-rank witch, he would have drawn his sword without hesitation.
But this woman… this was Death — the supreme ruler among witches of her rank, nearly invincible even against equals.
And from the surge of mana she had deliberately let him sense, Pablo could tell her power matched his — sixth-rank peak — but her presence alone crushed him.
He barked a laugh, pressing a trembling hand to his face.
"Hahaha… what an honor!"
But his laughter was hollow — filled with despair.
He knew he had no chance of winning this fight. And yet — as a Holy Inquisition Knight, as a man bound by his convictions — even if he died, he would take a piece of her with him.
"You damned witches… why do you even exist in this world!?"
He roared, raising his sword high, and charged.
A beam of blinding swordlight erupted — a strike that split heaven and earth itself — and hurtled toward Hel.
For a moment, it looked as though she would be cleaved in two.
But Hel merely lifted a finger. A wisp of pure, absolute death gathered at her fingertip.
[High Death Magic: Extinction of All Things.]
A black sphere formed — twisting, unstable — and met the swordlight head-on.
There was no explosion. No clash of power.
Instead… the world went silent.
The scream of rending air vanished. Pablo's battle cry vanished. Even the terrified cries of his knights behind him were swallowed by stillness.
And then, as quickly as it began, the world returned to normal — except the swordlight was gone, as though it had never existed.
Pablo's eyes widened.
"T-this… this isn't ordinary necromancy! Not even Death's Touch could erase my strike so easily! You… you invoked your Authority, didn't you?"
He clenched his teeth, fury burning through his fear.
"But who said you're the only one with an Authority!?"
From his right side — over his liver — a searing white light burst forth.
[High Divine Miracle: Judgment of Sin.]
Behind him, the phantom of a blindfolded goddess materialized, weeping a single drop of crimson blood.
"Guilty… guilty… guilty…"
A chorus of low, heavy female voices echoed across the battlefield.
Every living being who heard it — the knights, the hiding townsfolk — fell to their knees, consumed by hallucinations.
They slapped themselves, sobbing prayers of repentance:
"I'm guilty! I shouldn't have…I repent! I deserve to die!"
But the eerie divine whisper had no effect on Hel.
Such magic couldn't possibly break through the layers of soul networks she'd built across countless puppets.
With calm precision, she raised a hand and pointed at Pablo's chest.
[High Death Magic: Death's Touch.]
A bolt of sickly green lightning burst from her fingertip, streaking toward him.
Pablo, still in the middle of channeling his miracle, couldn't defend himself — he barely managed to throw himself to the side.
The spell grazed his shoulder and struck the knight behind him squarely in the chest.
The man let out a muffled grunt and dropped dead on the spot.
"Damn you, witch! Such cruelty! I, Pablo, will never rest until I've slain you!"
Hel blinked, momentarily speechless.
Wait… you dodged, your teammate took the hit, and somehow that's still my fault?
She sighed. "Sometimes I really can't understand the logic of you zealots."
Her voice turned cold.
"You slaughter civilians, you sacrifice innocents, and you call it justice — all in the name of hunting witches. And yet you dare claim the relics of righteousness as your own. Tell me, Pablo… do you still think you resemble anything like 'justice'?"
Pablo bared his teeth in a twisted grin.
"Heh… what right do you evil witches have to speak of justice?"
His bloodshot eyes burned with hatred.
"My justice… is to kill or contain every wicked witch in this world. No matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice — only when the witches are extinct can this world return to the embrace of true justice!"