But the healer wasn’t listening to her, either. “I’ll save you… I will save you. If I don’t…” Only her muttering reached Adlet’s ears.
Chamo ambled toward Mora at her usual lazy, seemingly apathetic pace, wearing a carefree smile, as if she wasn’t the slightest bit concerned that Hans was gone. “Aw, so the catboy’s dead now? That’s too bad.” Chamo looked down at where Mora knelt and said, “Chamo really liked him. He was cute, and strong, and he talked funny. At first, Chamo hated him after he won that fight, though. But then traveling with him got kinda fun.” Chamo clenched a fist and whacked Mora in the face. Mora’s head rocked only slightly in response to the tiny blow. “You’re not gonna get away with this. You’re gonna die. And it won’t be pretty!”
Mora averted her eyes from the enraged Chamo. “It matters not to me if you kill me. I am prepared.”
“Ohh? So you’re all ready, huh, Auntie? That’s a big disappointment.”
“But first,” said Mora, “allow me the time to tell you the truth.”
Chamo raised her fist once more, but Fremy grabbed her hand. “Talk, Mora. And make it as brief as possible. Once you’re done, you die.” Fremy’s eyes also radiated quiet anger.
Still hanging her head, Mora began. “This was not my desire. I did not wish to kill Hans. Not him, not anyone.”
“What did you say?”
“There was nothing for it but to kill him. Every avenue aside from his murder was closed to me.” A single teardrop fell from her eye. “I wanted to protect the world. I wanted to defeat the fiends alongside you, to stop the revival of the Evil God.”
“Who could believe that?” spat Chamo.
Adlet disagreed. Mora wasn’t lying. He was convinced she was sincere.
“Up until just yesterday—no, up until one hour ago—I had every intention of doing just that.”
Chapter 1
Advance into the Howling Vilelands
Mora Chester was the Saint of Mountains and the current Elder of the venerable All Heavens Temple, impeccably skilled and well regarded by the Saints. She had a reputation for being both impartial and strict in her governance, with a serious talent for educating the younger Saints. People said that, at this time—the eve of the revival of the Evil God, it was amazingly fortunate for humanity to have a Temple Elder such as her.
So why did Mora kill Hans Humpty? Part of the answer lay in the life she’d led.
Mora had been fortunate in life. Born in the Land of Silver Peaks, the youngest daughter of a wealthy lumber merchant, she had grown up beloved by her parents, her older brother, and their employees. Mora’s father had deep connections with the Temple of Mountains, since the Spirit of Mountains was the protector of their family’s industry, and it was through those connections that Mora had been initiated into that temple as an acolyte at thirteen.
Life at the temple had been busy and strict, but this did not trouble Mora. She had a serious personality, excelled at her studies, and possessed superior self-discipline compared to other girls her age. When she was nineteen, the previous Saint of Mountains retired, and Mora was chosen from among the acolytes to be the next Saint. As she was the most exceptional of their number, all agreed that she was the correct choice.
Following her selection, Mora’s uncommon aptitude blossomed. In just three years, she became one of the most powerful fighters among the Saints. She also proved herself highly capable when it came to managing the temple’s territory and other tasks. At the age of twenty-six, she assumed the office of the Elder of the All Heavens Temple. When she accepted the designation from the previous Elder, Leura, three-quarters of the eighty Saints endorsed her.
Mora had just about everything a person could want: favor, renown, status, power, wealth, and the talent to wield all of those resources appropriately. But to Mora, none of that mattered. She had accepted her position as the Elder of the All Heavens Temple simply by virtue of the fact that no one else had been suitably qualified. Her popularity and reputation were unimportant. As for wealth, getting by without struggling was enough for her. Even her great power as the Saint of Mountains was something she could easily cast aside once there was no longer a need for it.
Something else was more important to her.
Roughly three years before the awakening of the Evil God, Mora had attended the Tournament Before the Divine in Piena—the place where Adlet would later cause an uproar.
“Princess!” chided Mora. “How many times must I say this for you to understand?! You may manifest as many blades as you like, but there’s no point if none of them hit!”
She was accompanying three young Saints who aspired to be Braves of the Six Flowers and whom she had been called upon to instruct. At the time, Mora considered it her most important duty.
“How about this, then!” said Nashetania, Saint of Blades, summoning her signature weapons from the ground in rapid succession and flinging them unrestrained at Mora. Impressive as the feat might have seemed, she was slow, and her accuracy was lacking.
Mora casually repelled the blades with her gauntlets and slipped under Nashetania’s guard to give her a good, hard punch. “You have power in such excess, but you fail to control it! You may defeat weaklings like that, but never more powerful foes. Next!”
“Roger, boss! Today’s the day I’m finally gonna beat you up!” The next to challenge Mora was the Saint of Salt, Willone. Her power turned anything she hit into a lump of salt. But even an instant-kill punch was pointless if it failed to connect. Mora dodged her monotonous swings with her upper body alone and swept the girl’s legs out from under her at the first sign of an opening. Willone staggered, and Mora slammed her backward with a kick.
“Your attacks are dull and repetitive! And if you
