Chapter 759: Divine Will (10)
Silence descended, sharp as a blade cutting through sound itself.
A wave of Holy Knights surged forward, weapons flashing as they charged toward the demon. Above the Burnt One’s head, a ring of fire whirled and flashed. The Holy Knight at the very front was instantly consumed in flames, leaving not even ashes behind.
Still, the wave of Holy Knights didn’t stop. They pressed on, filling the space left behind, rushing even faster toward their target. Once more, the ring of fire flashed, and the Holy Knight at the forefront was incinerated, leaving nothing but charred air where he had been.
Their charge remained relentless. Each time a Holy Knight fell to the flames, another immediately took his place.
...
The Burnt One watched them wordlessly, turning the fiery ring once again. Another Holy Knight at the front was reduced to ash, and another swiftly filled his place. Thus, with each sacrificed life, the Holy Knights closed the distance between themselves and the Burnt One, one step at a time, driven solely by their own will.
Step by step.
As the fiery ring whirled faster, the number of Holy Knights being incinerated surged as well. The scene resembled ice melting in boiling water, the Holy Knights' numbers dwindling rapidly as their once-mighty wave shrank before the enemy.
Still, they pressed on undeterred, advancing until they finally stood directly before the Burnt One.
A Holy Knight drew back his spear.
The fiery ring spun once more, and he was consumed in flames. Another Holy Knight raised his longsword high overhead, only to be burned away just as quickly.
Shouting the names of their fallen comrades who left nothing but ash, the next Holy Knight swung his flail. The fiery ring ignited, consuming the knight as he wielded his weapon. Then, the last Holy Knight—using his fallen comrades as shields—brought his sword down in a swift, blinding arc, aimed directly at the Burnt One's face.
The moment the blade nearly met the Burnt One’s face, the fiery ring spun again, incinerating the longsword and then the Holy Knight himself. Their desperate struggle fell just short, leaving nothing behind, not even ashes—
Boom—!!
A resounding roar shattered the unnatural silence blanketing the surroundings.
“Graaargh...!!”
Bartholomew tore through the bindings wrapped around his body, returning to his original, damned form as he charged toward the Burnt One, striking him in a full-bodied collision.
The Holy Knights had not died in vain. Using their noble sacrifices as cover, Bartholomew’s claws managed to reach the Burnt One’s body.
[Disgusting appearance, sinner,] remarked the Burnt One, watching as Bartholomew made contact with his flesh. His observation was accurate. Bartholomew’s form was grotesque; his skin was inside out, his bones twisted into a shape closer to that of a beast—or a monster—than a human.
[But somehow, it suits you,] he continued, remaining calm even as Bartholomew’s beast-like claws sank into his flesh.
[A man who exploited the innocent—women, children—for his own gratification and perverse indulgence, relying on nothing more than his worthless status,] the Burnt One added, his voice laced with venomous calm.
Bartholomew’s claws sank deeper, piercing the Burnt One’s flesh. Yet, strangely, it was Bartholomew who appeared to be in agony.
Fiery flames blazed along his claws and rapidly spread, igniting his entire body.
“Aaaaargh...!!”
Bartholomew screamed in pain, yet he refused to retreat, continuing to push against the Burnt One. He did so to buy time for Oliver’s escape.
The Burnt One flicked his tongue like a demon.
[Do you think you can find salvation in this way?]
“...”
[Do you think that by doing this, your cursed descendants will be saved?]
“...”
[I assure you, no matter how hard you try—]
“—Shut up! I know it already!!!”
Bartholomew cut off the Burnt One’s words, shouting with defiance.
“I know better than anyone else that my sins cannot be absolved with mere words! We’re stopping you purely out of our will—!!”
[...Our?]
The Burnt One paused for a beat, his reaction slower than usual. He soon realized that he was now surrounded, as Mari, Joe, Bathory the Corpse Puppet, Seamus the Flesh Chef, Durans, members of the Development Opposition Committee, the Chosen Ones, the Fighter Crew, the Kel Liberation Army, and soldiers from the kingdom had all converged on him.
...
Oliver lay motionless as if dead. Only his faint, barely audible breaths hinted that he was still alive.
The people around him looked down at him, their expressions complicated and difficult to describe. Oliver, though, was not unconscious and could sense their presence, yet he couldn’t clearly see the emotions they bore.
Whether it was the Burnt One's flames that had scorched his left eye, the crushing impact that had mangled his right eye, or the relentless beatings that left his entire body ravaged, Oliver could neither see their faces nor feel the depth of their sentiments as he once could.
Even the Holy Knights who were disappearing in real-time seemed blurred, their once-bright presences fading like dying flames.
Each one, like a moth to the flame, threw themselves at the Burnt One, vanishing in searing bursts.
Why?
Why would they do this? Even if they couldn't escape, why would they hurl themselves at the Burnt One? Oliver could not comprehend it.
"Ahhh..."
He tried to rise, emitting a beast-like groan as he did so.
Crack!
But as he put weight on his left arm, it broke, and he fell back to the ground.
Intense pain spread from his broken arm, along with a throbbing ache in the back of his head where it struck the ground.
Meanwhile, the Holy Knights continued to burn away like fleeting embers.
In desperation, yet feeling helpless, Oliver found himself succumbing to a forbidden thought.
‘How… comfortable…’
In this moment of absolute peril, Oliver realized how strangely comfortable it felt to lie here doing nothing, as if detached from the events around him.
When had this started? When had he begun to recognize the ease of doing nothing?
Perhaps, it was from his orphanage days—the very beginning of his memories.
In that orphanage, he had learned nothing, neither how to speak properly nor how to read. But there was one thing he had learned—to survive.
Through the strict orphanage director’s beatings and the fists of other children who prioritized their own survival, Oliver had learned that doing nothing was often the safest, most comfortable choice.
Whenever the weak version of himself tried to act, it only brought pain and hardship.
So, Oliver chose not to interact with anyone, to help no one. Even if others went hungry or were bullied, he ignored it. It wasn’t his concern.
This approach carried over to his time in the mines and even to when Joseph had taken him in with the Joseph Family.
It was only with Mari—after receiving her help and helping her in return—that a change had seemed possible.
‘Did I truly change?’
Oliver questioned himself, then shook his head. He had received help but had never properly returned it.
Yes, he had shared his dark magic knowledge and given money to Mari and others who needed it, but it was nothing more than scraps, insignificant things that didn’t matter to him.
When faced with a true responsibility that only he could shoulder, Oliver had turned away and chosen to flee.
When the red-skinned warlock volunteered to take on that burden—bearing the world’s hatred and risking the chance of apocalypse—Oliver had gladly allowed him to do so.
It was simply… easier that way.
Oliver asked himself again.
If, just maybe, he had fulfilled his responsibilities from the start, could this situation have been avoided? Could Rosburn and Kent still be alive?
“…”
There was no answer, but the sight of the Holy Knights—more than half of whom had already been reduced to ash—seemed to provide a grim response.
In a sense, it was the perfect answer, emphasizing the futility of dwelling on what could no longer be changed.
If anything, it was even worse to do so now.
By grieving over those he couldn’t save in the past, he risked overlooking those he could still help in the present.
Due to his own foolish complacency.
What Oliver needed to do now was to focus on those he could still help and to act.
“Please… help me…”
Through lips cracked and dry from the intense heat, Oliver asked the people around him.
Help me to stand.
No one responded.
Why?
Did they resent him?
That was certainly possible. Still, Oliver repeated his plea, asking them to help him up.
He desperately wanted to rise on his own, but his body refused to obey. No matter how he commanded it, no matter how he begged…
“Please… just lift me—”
Softly, someone touched Oliver’s cheek.
A fragrant scent drifted into his nose, and a warm, gentle hand rested upon his scarred skin. The touch felt somehow familiar.
“Joanna…?”
“Yes… it’s me…”
Joanna’s cracked voice replied, struggling to hold back emotion. Oliver’s injured eyes couldn’t clearly see her face, nor the expression she bore, but it felt as if she might be crying.
Drops of her tears fell onto Oliver’s face.
Quickly wiping her tears, Joanna supported him.
“I’ll help you up.”
“Thank… you…”
But his voice caught in surprise.
Joanna was indeed helping him up—but in the wrong direction. She was guiding him away from the Burnt One, in the opposite direction.
“What are you doing, Joanna?”
Oliver asked, his voice rough from the scorching heat.
“The Holy Knights are all dying.”
“It’s their choice.”
Joanna responded, astonishingly calm, as if she knew everything.
Oliver twisted his battered body, trying to pull free from Joanna’s grasp.
Worried that he might injure himself, Joanna didn’t hold him too tightly, and he slipped from her hands, collapsing back onto the ground.
Joanna cried out, her voice trembling.
“Please… live!”
The sound of tears hitting the ground echoed around them.
Joanna knelt beside him, gripping his shoulders as she begged.
“Please, I beg you… just live.”
“…”
“You’ve done more than enough. You’ve sacrificed so much already!!”
Though Oliver couldn’t clearly see her face, he sensed that Joanna’s plea was sincere.
In the background, he could hear the Burnt One’s telepathic taunt and Bartholomew’s growling.
The Holy Knights had all perished by now, and Bartholomew was holding onto the Burnt One’s ankle, enduring the flames for Oliver’s sake.
[Do you think salvation awaits you?]
[Do you believe your cursed bloodline will find redemption?]
[I assure you—]
“Shut up! I know it already!!”
The one-time royal, who had once sacrificed innocents for his own twisted desires, screamed in defiance.
“I know my sins can’t be absolved with words! No one knows that better than me!!” he cried, his distorted body and monstrous descendants forever a reminder of his own guilt.
And just then, Mari, Joe, and countless others joined the fray, charging at the Burnt One.
Most of them were swiftly reduced to ash, with Bartholomew, who stood at the front, being torn apart by the searing flames.
Lives were disappearing like fallen leaves.
“They all agreed to this! Each of them chose to act of their own will! To save you…”
“I am a prince, the prince of hell—”
“You’re just a boy! A boy!! So please… stop and live. Just live for one more second!!”
Joanna held Oliver, her voice breaking with emotion, as people continued to perish around them. Even Child’s agonized screams echoed.
“...No.”
Oliver shook his head.
“If I go, everyone here will die—”
Tap.
Someone grasped Oliver.
One of the citizens in the crowd, interrupting him, helped lift Oliver up and assisted Joanna in carrying him.
“Come on, let’s take him away.”
Unable to understand, Oliver asked.
“What are you doing?”
The answer was simple.
“Please… live.”
Oliver was rendered speechless. Just as he tried to speak again—
Tap.
A gentle hand touched his back.
Even though he couldn’t see, he felt the warmth of their emotions through that touch.
Gratitude, admiration, courage, trust, and countless other sentiments...
“You’ve done enough. You can go.”
“…”
Tap.
Another hand rested on his shoulder.
“It’s okay. You’re free to leave.”
Tap.
A hand brushed his leg carefully.
“Thank you. You can rest now.”
Tap.
“You’ve done well. Thank you.”
Tap.
“May divine blessings be upon you.”
Men, women, children, the elderly, merchants, scholars, officials, laborers, tradespeople, beggars, gang members, even criminals—all of them whispered the same words to Oliver.
“Please… live.”
With no ulterior motives or insincerity, they only wished for him to survive.
“...Excuse me,” Joanna said softly as she gently lifted Oliver once more.
Tap.
“Thank you.”
Tap.
“You’ve been through so much.”
Tap.
“I will never forget.”
No one held Oliver back. They only offered him comfort and assurance, allowing him to leave without guilt.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
In their touch, Oliver felt the love that Kent had once spoken of.
“Hah… Ha, ha.”
Oliver’s quiet laughter spread softly, a low, satisfied sound.
“Joanna.”
After a moment, he called to her.
Joanna, trying to ignore him, kept moving forward. But when he pulled her closer, she had no choice but to stop.
Joanna reluctantly let go, crying out.
“Oliver…!”
“Help me.”
Joanna, panicking, called for help, but Oliver whispered calmly.
“There’s something I’d like to try… something I failed at long ago. Please, help me.”
“…”
“I used to think it impossible, but with your help, I might succeed this time.”
“But—”
“—Please. Trust me.”
Oliver looked at Joanna, imploring her. She remembered the promise she had made to him long ago, that she would believe in and support him no matter what happened.
Tightly, Joanna clasped her hands.
“What… do I need to do?”
“Would you place my left hand on your chest?”
Joanna gently lifted his broken left arm and carefully positioned it over her heart.
Once he was ready, Oliver asked again.
“Do you trust me?”
“I… always have.”
Joanna replied, and Oliver responded in kind.
“Extraction.”