"STOP!"
Zion's dual layered, monstrous voice tore through the sacred silence of the Cathedral, echoing off the vaulted golden ceilings like a physical blow.
But it was already too late. The ritual was completely, violently breaking.
The brilliant pillar of Holy Light descending upon seventeen year old Lyra violently twisted. High up in the shadowed balcony, Marchioness Cassandra Thorne crushed a small, black activation crystal in her palm. Beneath the marble altar, the cursed relic fully awakened.
The pure white light instantly mutated into a putrid, pitch-black miasma. But the corruption didn't just envelop the altar the relic's dark magic actively twisted the visual flow of the mana. To every single person in the Cathedral, it looked exactly as if the blinding, demonic darkness was pouring directly out of Lyra's stomach.
The entire Cathedral froze in absolute, breath-stealing horror.
Then, the panic erupted.
"Demons!" a Southern Duke screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the altar. "The children are demons!"
"Heresy!" a Northern Lord shouted, frantically backing away in terror. "She is carrying monsters! The Imperial bloodline is corrupted!"
The nobles instantly turned against her like starving wolves. In a matter of seconds, the pregnant Princess went from a glowing symbol of the Empire's future to a horrific, apocalyptic threat that needed to be exterminated.
The absolute easiest way to turn a holy sanctuary into a bloody execution ground is to give a terrified, cowardly crowd a monster to point their fingers at.
"Lyra!" Zion lunged forward to reach her.
But the exact moment he crossed the perimeter into the inner sanctum, the ancient, sleeping defensive wards of the Cathedral recognized his chaotic, surging Three Aditya mana as a hostile threat. The overwhelming, oppressive weight of a thousand years of holy magic crashed violently down onto his eighteen year old shoulders.
It felt like walking bare chested into a solid wall of iron. The breath was violently forced out of his lungs. His chaotic red mana violently flickered, becoming entirely unstable under the absolute holy suppression.
He didn't instantly break through like an untouchable god. He gritted his teeth, hot blood dripping from his bitten lip as he forced his body to move forward, one agonizing, bone-crushing step at a time, actively fighting the very divine laws of the church to reach his wife.
Back at the Royal boundary, Emperor Aldric did not draw his massive broadsword. He did not scream in rage or blindly rush the corrupted altar.
He remained perfectly, unnaturally still. For exactly two seconds, his calculating, glacial eyes scanned the panicked room. He saw the precise geometric angle of the dark mana. He saw the subtle, deeply victorious smirks flashing across the faces of the Southern delegation. He saw High Priest Malachi subtly, cowardly backing away from the altar he was supposed to protect.
Aldric knew instantly. It was entirely, meticulously staged.
The Emperor did not act emotionally. He simply lowered his heavy, armored hand to his side, extending two fingers in a sharp, precise downward motion.
Execute.
True, absolute power is not a raging, uncontrollable storm; it is the silent, devastating precision of a falling guillotine blade.
The screaming panic of the nobles was entirely deafening. But beneath the chaotic noise, an absolute, silent terror was surgically unleashed.
In the third row, the blind monk's wooden cane snapped open with a lethal click. Commander Vesper stepped out of his disguise like a hunting ghost. A razor-thin garrote wire wrapped completely silently around the throat of a Southern agent disguised as a nobleman. With a single, brutal flick of his wrist, the agent dropped dead, soundlessly sliding beneath the wooden pews.
Up in the balcony, the innocent choir boy dropped his golden hymnal. A poisoned throwing needle pierced directly into the neck of a hidden archer aiming a crossbow at the altar. The attacker's nervous system shut down instantly; he collapsed without a single cry.
Right beside the altar, the acolyte lighting the candles stepped fluidly out of the holy shadows. High Priest Malachi turned, his cowardly eyes widening in shock. Before Malachi could even utter a single syllable of a defensive spell, the acolyte's magic-sealing dagger slipped precisely between his ribs, severing his vocal cords and instantly paralyzing his mana core. The corrupted High Priest crumpled silently to the pristine marble floor in a pool of his own blood.
It wasn't a chaotic, messy brawl. It was absolute, surgical extermination. Within exactly five seconds, every single hidden threat in the Cathedral was silently, flawlessly eliminated by the Obsidian Owls while the crowd continued to scream, entirely oblivious to the slaughter happening right next to them.
The Cathedral's defensive wards briefly flickered as the corrupted priests powering them fell, breaking the heavy suppression just enough for Zion to shatter the barrier.
He closed the distance and slammed his fist directly into the front of the solid marble altar.
The heavy stone exploded into shrapnel. Hidden deep within the hollow base was the cursed wooden relic, violently oozing a sickening, pitch-black corruption.
"Look!" Emperor Aldric's sovereign voice boomed over the crowd with terrifying, earth-shaking authority. He pointed a massive finger at the shattered stone. "The darkness does not come from the Princess! It comes from the altar!"
The public confusion was instantaneous. The frantic shouting stopped. The terrified nobles stared down at the cursed relic in absolute, jaw-dropping shock. Wait... it wasn't her? The Holy Altar itself was rigged?!
But Lyra was already falling. The violent, agonizing clash between the descending holy light and the dark corruption had completely destabilized her fragile, recovering core. Dark blood dripped from her pale lips as her knees finally gave out.
"Lyra!" Zion caught her just before she hit the stone ground, pulling her tightly against his chest. Her skin was freezing cold.
Suddenly, a tiny, almost imperceptible pulse emanated from deep within her stomach.
It wasn't a massive, destructive explosion of power. It was just a single, pure, perfectly quiet ripple of golden-white divine light. The gentle pulse washed over Lyra's trembling body, instantly and miraculously incinerating the remaining black miasma clinging to her skin. It pushed the rotting corruption back, sealing her fractured core and stabilizing her frantic breathing in a fraction of a second.
It was short. It was incredibly mysterious. But the sheer, unmatched purity of that light left the few who were close enough to see it completely breathless.
Zion held Lyra safely in his arms. She was unconscious, but she was breathing steadily, entirely protected by the divine spark of her unborn twins.
The terrifying, chaotic red Three Aditya mana that had been violently leaking from his body completely vanished. He didn't roar in explosive anger. He didn't summon a blinding, destructive spell to tear the roof down.
He became absolutely, deathly calm.
Zion slowly turned his head, his completely hollow eyes locking onto the trembling Southern nobles and the remaining, terrified priests cowering in the front rows. His dual-layered voice was no louder than a whisper, but the pure, unadulterated cold intent behind it made the ambient air in the Cathedral drop instantly below freezing.
"You touched what belongs to me," he said, the words cutting through the dead silence like a scalpel across bone. "Inside a holy place."
The most terrifying wrath of a man is not the roaring, explosive fire of his anger; it is the absolute, freezing silence that follows the exact moment the fire burns out.
High up in the dark, hidden balcony, Marchioness Cassandra Thorne watched the High Priest fall and the cursed relic be entirely exposed.
Her grand, meticulously crafted plan to ruin the Princess in front of the entire Empire had failed. The Emperor's secret guard had outmaneuvered her elite assassins perfectly.
But Cassandra didn't look angry. She pulled her heavy velvet hood over her head, melting seamlessly back into the hidden passageways of the Cathedral. A wicked, deeply satisfied smile curled on her lips.
"Enjoy your survival, little Prince," Cassandra whispered into the dark, echoing stones. "This was only the beginning."