episode_0012

The Durahan’s greatsword swiftly turned and pointed at Arina.

“So you do have memories of the past. You are Riel Frost from the Hero’s Party, are you not?”

Realizing her identity, the Durahan reassessed the threat level. The girl beside her couldn’t harm him. The same went for most mages, but Riel Frost had once baffled him with an array of spells in the past. To eliminate variables, keeping Arina in check was the right move.

“I don’t know how you ended up like this, but even if you are Riel Frost, nothing changes. Neither the Hero nor the Saintess is here now. You cannot defeat me.”

“If we’re going by the last time we fought, you wouldn’t be wrong. But I developed a technique to deal with you before I ended up like this. Thanks to a certain bastard, all my efforts went to waste—but today’s the day I finally get to show it off.”

Mana swirled around Arina, coalescing in her palm. The Durahan laughed as he watched.

“You’ll kill the undead with magic? Entertaining. Show me.”

The Durahan dismissed it as bravado, but Arina was confident. She had never used it in real combat, but she had proven its feasibility in practice.

The theory is flawless.

It was taboo—an idea punishable as blasphemy just for thinking it. The mediocre wouldn’t dare attempt it; the geniuses dismissed it as impossible.

Yet Riel Frost had succeeded. What others shunned as unthinkable, she made real—all to slay the enemy of humanity.

Magic was the conversion of mana into other energies—heat, frost, light. Mana, capable of infinite possibilities, was praised as an omnipotent force.

Then why couldn’t mana be converted into sanctity? Arina recalled a time in her youth when this very topic had stirred the Magic Tower. Countless mages rushed to tackle the challenge of reaching the divine.

The secrecy was so strict that even attempting research had to be hidden. Documents had to be hauled underground daily, and every trace had to be erased if outsiders approached.

Many attempts were made to convert mana into sanctity, but after countless failures, everyone eventually gave up.

Not only were there no results, but the biggest reason was this: Even if sanctity could be synthesized, wielding it was impossible.

Sanctity was the force priests needed to perform miracles, but ultimately, it was merely an offering. It was the gods who granted miracles in response.

And gods would never aid arrogant mages who sought to command miracles with their own power. After this conclusion, mages abandoned sanctity research.

But Arina—no, Riel Frost—hadn’t given up. Fighting on the front lines against the Demon King’s army, she couldn’t afford to lose, even without the Saintess or the fallen Hero.

So Riel Frost dared to challenge the divine—as a mere human.

Now, the Durahan faced the fruit of that defiance.

Crackle! Crackle! Sanctity sparked violently from Arina’s body like electricity.

The exchange ratio was abysmal—1 sanctity for 10 mana. Even a stray dog would refuse such a terrible deal, but now, she had to endure even this injustice.

“Th-that’s impossible! How can a mage wield sanctity?!”

The succubus Lilit shrieked in disbelief at the blasphemous sight.

The Durahan adjusted his stance. Only Marin, oblivious to the gravity of the situation, scratched his head with a stupid look.

“Don’t even think about fleeing now, Durahan.”

Arina’s threat masked her apprehension. Though sanctity was strong against the undead, the 1:10 exchange ratio made victory uncertain. If she ran out of mana before defeating him, she’d lose by default.

All he had to do was stall. One miss would doom her, but even landing every hit might not guarantee victory. The odds were brutally stacked against her. Fighting was the only option.

“Flee?”

The Durahan’s armor trembled with a metallic shudder.

Marin mistook it for fear, but Arina’s tension spiked.

Mortals shook in terror—but not the undead. Fear was foreign to them.

And the Durahan, their immortal lord? Only one thing could make him tremble:

Anticipation.

“What a waste that would be. Though called undead, I’ve been pushed to death’s door countless times—by your party, the previous ones, and those before them. But this is the first time I’ve dueled a mage to the death. You’ve always amazed me.”

A cold sweat dripped from Arina’s chin. Marin tensed, ready to lunge if the Durahan moved.

The wicked aura of a wraith. Not as a Demon King general, not as an immortal lord—but as a warrior, the Durahan stood before Arina.

“RIEL FROST!!!! NO ENEMY HAS EVER SET MY BLOOD ABLAZE LIKE YOU! FOR THAT, YOU HAVE MY THANKS.”

His greatsword swept behind his shoulder. Knees bent. Marble cracked as his greaves gouged the floor.

“IN RETURN, I SHALL GRANT YOU A FIGHT WORTHY OF MY ALL.”

CRASH! The ground split as if an earthquake had struck the moment he kicked off.

The greatsword was already at Arina’s face. Her mana shield shattered instantly. Using the recoil of the blunt deflection, she barely dodged.

Her silver hair, once tied up, spilled loose like a dandelion plume as her hood was severed.

Not easy at all. In raw strength, he surpasses Yuria.

But his true strength lay elsewhere. The Durahan raised an undead army.

Rotted, branch-like limbs burst through the cracked marble, encircling Arina and Marin.

“Handle the small fry. Don’t let a single one slip.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“No complaints. This should be nothing for—”

The undead swarmed.

BOOM! Arina blasted a group away first, breaking the encirclement to secure her sightlines.

Had the Durahan focused on Marin first, disaster would’ve struck—but his gaze never left Arina. Though unspoken, both sought a duel undisturbed.

Confident now, Arina gathered the crackling sanctity. One hurdle remained. Converting mana was old hat, but using it as sanctity was untrodden ground.

Unlike magic—where mana directly shaped phenomena—sanctity was an offering, a prayer for divine intervention. A mage, much less a blasphemer like Arina, had no right to expect miracles.

She’d have to force it. Make miracles with her own hands. Eyes closed, she focused entirely on taming the rampant sanctity within.

If magic was humanity’s miracle, sanctity was the gods’.

Thus, their mechanisms couldn’t be wholly dissimilar. Yet none had crossed the line—no mage learned sanctity; no priest mastered magic.

Arina was the first. The greatest.

She had to succeed. Desperately, she recalled the tactics of the ones she now despised—her former comrades, her friends. The Saintess Marika’s miracles.

Crackle. Fizz. Sanctity writhed like oil meeting flame.

No, not this.

She rewrote the formula. From all her studies, from the scriptures she’d read beside Marika, from the fabric of the world itself, she sought the thread of miracles.

She reforged the gears of logic again and again—until one piece clicked.

Tink! A spark, like flint striking. TINK! A larger one followed.

The puzzle aligned. Gears meshed.

The flame now visibly flickered before her. TINKTINKTINK! Fireworks of sparks burst around her, then stilled.

And then—

CRACK! Golden chains erupted from the earth at her feet, finally taking form.

The Durahan, perhaps more eager for her success than even Arina, grinned and reset his stance.

“Ready? Then I come.”

He kicked off again. A blur even eyes couldn’t follow—yet chains snared his limbs. SCREECH! Metal shrieked as his armor ground against them.

Seizing the opening, Arina summoned a massive sword above him—the Blade of Judgment. Saintess Marika’s ultimate technique.

Once, this very skill had brought the Durahan to death’s doorstep.

“Not as good as the original, but passable, wouldn’t you say?”

“Magnificent.”

“Save the review for after you taste it.”

The blade impaled him, slamming him into the ground. Sacred light incinerated even the undead Marin fought.

Hiss— The Durahan’s armor blackened, smoking as if scorched.

Freed from the chains, he staggered once.

“Tell me again. How does it feel?”