While Grimgar solidified its foundations and welcomed a fallen saint into its heart, the world outside its veiled borders descended further into madness and intrigue. The fragile peace the Empire had projected was shattering, revealing the rot beneath.
In the royal capital, the throne room was once again a stage for King Arthen's unchecked fury. A Marquis, a man from a lineage almost as old as the royal family itself, had dared to voice the concerns many nobles whispered in private.
"Your Majesty," the Marquis had said, his voice trembling but resolute, "the conscription is decimating the harvest. The forges stand idle without their apprentices. We are starving the kingdom to find a ghost. I beg you, reconsider this decree!"
King Arthen had listened, his face a placid mask that slowly cracked into a grotesque smile. "Reconsider?" he had whispered, the word slithering through the hall. Then, he had erupted. "You dare tell your king to RECONSIDER? You, whose loyalty is as thin as your bloodline?" He had stood, pointing a trembling finger. "This is not a debate! It is a command! Your treasonous tongue has condemned you and your entire house! Guards! Seize him! Seize his family! His sons, his daughters, his wife! Let the execution square run red with their blood as a lesson to all who would question their king!"
The screams of the Marquis's family echoed through the capital that afternoon, a brutal symphony conducted by a madman. The message was clear: dissent was death. The search for the dragon, the singular focus of Arthen's paranoid obsession, would continue, no matter the cost to his own people.
In the Holy Temple, a public ceremony was underway to select a new Saintess. Bells chimed, choirs sang hymns, and the faithful gathered, their faces uplifted in hope. The official story was one of tragic martyrdom—Saint Evelyn, slain by a dragon while on a holy quest. She was to be venerated, her memory a tool to inspire greater devotion and, more importantly, greater donations.
Yet, in the Pope's private chambers, far from the chanting crowds, there was no piety, only a cold, calculating rage. Valentine, the Pope, was a man whose face, though lined with the appearance of wisdom, was a roadmap of avarice. He stared into the cold embers of his fireplace, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
The plan had been perfect. Isolate the commoner Saintess, let the ambitious Alice orchestrate a "tragic" end, and then, using the forbidden artifact, transfer the Goddess's boundless power—a power he could not naturally wield—into a more pliable vessel. He would have controlled the next Saintess completely, merging the Temple's spiritual and temporal power into his own hands.
Now, it was ash. Alice was dead. His trusted Cardinal Valerius was missing, his scrying revealing nothing but a void. And Evelyn… Evelyn was gone. Not just dead, but vanished. The power, the glorious, divine power he had coveted, had slipped through his fingers. The instrument was broken before he could play his tune.
A young cleric entered, bearing a scroll. "Your Holiness, the candidates for the new Saintess await your blessing—"
"Get out," Valentine hissed, his voice low and venomous.
The cleric froze, the color draining from his face. The air in the room was thick, suffocating with the Pope's displeasure. He dropped the scroll, scurried backward, and fled, leaving Valentine alone with his failure. The public ceremony was a farce. He would find a new Saintess, yes, but she would be a pale imitation, a empty vessel without the true blessing he had sought to steal. The loss was a festering wound in his soul.
In Magaret City, the Hero Party was basking in the adulation of another victory. They had crushed a Demon General and its legion, liberating the city. The citizens cheered, showering them with flowers and praise. Takuma flexed his muscles, laughing boisterously. Mizuki glowed under the attention, her holy light a beacon for all to see. Megumi was already dissecting the battle tactics with the local garrison commander.
A messenger from the Temple had arrived, delivering the official news of Saint Evelyn's death. There was a moment of sober reflection, quickly swept away by the tide of their own glory.
"A shame," Takuma said, shrugging. "She was nice. But we have a war to win."
"Indeed," Mizuki agreed, adjusting her pure white robes. "We must be strong. Sentimentality is a luxury we cannot afford in these dark times."
But Charlotte Rin stood apart, the cheers of the crowd feeling like a physical weight. She remembered Evelyn clearly. During their brief audience at the Temple, Evelyn had been the only one who looked at them not as weapons or symbols, but as people. She had asked Rin if she was sleeping well, if the weight of the Holy Sword was too heavy. There had been a genuine kindness in her eyes, a light that seemed absent from the other temple officials.
"A person like her is dead," Rin whispered to herself, her grip tightening on the Holy Sword. "How sad."
Mizuki overheard her and sighed. "Rin, you are too sentimental. She died a martyr, in service to the Goddess. It is a glorious end. We must honor her by fulfilling our own destiny."
Rin didn't answer. She looked out at the celebrating city, at the opulent nobles already beginning to feast in their mansions, and felt a hollow disconnect. The Empire's "peace" was built on the blood of martyrs and the tyranny of a king. Where was the glory in that?
Back in the strategic heart of Grimgar, the leadership council was in session. The mood was serious, focused. Evelyn, now dressed in simple, practical clothes instead of her saintly vestments, stood before the assembled leaders.
"The Empire is vast," she began, her voice clear and confident, a far cry from the broken woman of a few days prior. "But it is not the only power on the continent. For generations, a delicate balance has been maintained, a three-legged stool." She gestured, and a Lizardman scout unrolled a large map.
"Here," she pointed to a mountainous region to the far north, "is the Kingdom of Valhalla. A society of peerless warriors, where strength of arms and honor are the only currencies. They have held the northern passes against both imperial expansion and demonic incursion for centuries. They respect power above all else."
Her finger then moved to the west, to a peninsula shrouded in mist on the map. "And here is the Magical Kingdom of Magitopia. A nation ruled by archmages, where the very air is thick with mana. They are reclusive, proud, and possess arcane knowledge lost to the rest of the world. They have maintained their independence through formidable magical barriers and a policy of strict neutrality."
She looked around the table, meeting the eyes of Seiji, Tsurugi, Riveria, Logan, and the others. "The Empire, under Arthen's father, tried to conquer them both and failed. The current stalemate is one of exhaustion, not peace. They have no love for the Empire. Furthermore," she added, leaning forward, "within the Empire itself, there are many noble houses who despise Arthen's madness. But they are trapped, targeted by his loyalists and paralyzed by fear."
Silence hung in the room as her words sank in. She was offering them a geopolitical masterstroke.
"If Grimgar is to step onto the world stage and not be immediately crushed," Evelyn concluded, "we cannot stand alone. An alliance with Valhalla and Magitopia would transform us from a rebel enclave into a legitimate third power. It would give the discontented nobles within the Empire the courage they need to rise up. We would not be breaking the stool; we would be replacing its rotten leg."
The debate that followed was intense. Ganz worried about revealing their location. Logan questioned if these kingdoms would treat non-humans as equals. Orias pondered the diplomatic intricacies.
Through it all, Seiji and Tsurugi listened, their minds working in parallel. The strategy was sound. It was bold, it was dangerous, but it was the only path that led to a future other than a slow siege or a glorious, futile last stand.
Finally, Seiji stood. "The proposal has merit. A direct, open approach would be seen as weakness or provocation. We need to send envoys who can command respect and demonstrate our power without appearing hostile." He looked at his brother, a silent understanding passing between them.
Tsurugi gave a sharp nod. "Valhalla respects strength. I will go to Valhalla. I will speak to them in the only language they truly understand: the language of the blade."
"And Magitopia values knowledge and power of a different sort," Seiji said. "I will go to Magitopia. I will show them that our strength is not merely physical."
The decision was made. The twin pillars of Grimgar would venture out into the wider world, not as conquerors, but as diplomats bearing the promise of a new alliance and the threat of a new dawn. The isolation of Grimgar was over. The next phase of the war for the continent's soul was about to begin.