"It looks… peaceful," Valeria whispered, sheathing her claymore. The tension in her shoulders, which had been tight since the battle with Kincaid, relaxed slightly. "Maybe the intel was wrong? Maybe this Vicar really is protecting people."

Alvian stood on the precipice, his [Vestments of the Void Monarch] absorbing the sunlight, making him look like a tear in the bright landscape. He adjusted his gloves, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the idyllic scene below.

"Look closer," Alvian said, his voice flat. "Peace is inefficient in a mana-rich environment. Nature demands growth, conflict, and evolution. Silence is not peace, Valeria. Silence is suppression."

He pointed to the fields.

Valeria squinted. From this distance, the farmers looked industrious. But as she focused, she realized something was wrong. They moved in perfect unison. They didn't speak to one another. They didn't pause to wipe sweat from their brows. They swung their hoes with the mechanical rhythm of automatons.

"They aren't resting," Seraphina noted, peering through a set of high-grade magi-binoculars she had swiped from Kincaid's hoard. "And… Alvian, check the mana flow. It's all moving in one direction."

"To the Cathedral," Alvian confirmed. The [Tablet of the Earth Core] fused within his body hummed, allowing him to sense the ley lines beneath his feet. The natural flow of the earth had been hijacked. It wasn't just mana flowing toward the church; it was vitality. The entire valley was a farm, and the crops weren't the corn or wheat in the fields.

The crops were the people.

"We move," Alvian ordered. "But we don't march in. We infiltrate. Seraphina, scout the perimeter. If you see a patrol, do not engage unless necessary. Valeria, stick to me. We're going to intercept a supply line."

They descended the ridge, moving into the tree line. The forest here was dense, but unlike the mutated, aggressive flora of the rest of the Chaos Zone, these trees were pale and weeping, their leaves a sickly grey.

Ten minutes later, they found a road. It was well-paved, another anomaly in this broken world. A cart was approaching, pulled by two massive, docile oxen. The cart was covered with a heavy canvas tarp. Walking alongside it were four guards dressed in pristine white robes with gold trim. They didn't carry guns or swords; they carried heavy, iron-shod staves.

[Target: Vicar's Faithful]

[Level: 35]

[Status: Fanatic / Enhanced]

"Monks?" Valeria frowned. "They don't look like soldiers."

"They aren't," Alvian whispered. "They're wardens."

He stepped out from the trees. He didn't use stealth. He simply walked into the middle of the road, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Halt," Alvian said.

The oxen stopped, snorting. The four monks looked at him. There was no surprise in their eyes, no fear. Only a blank, terrifying devotion.

"Lost lamb," the lead monk said, his voice smooth and practiced. "You have wandered far from grace. Kneel, and the Vicar will absolve you of your burdens."

"I have no burdens," Alvian replied, taking a step forward. "But I have a question. What's in the cart?"

"Supplies for the holy sacrifice," the monk replied, tightening his grip on his staff. "Matters of the spirit are not for the unclean."

"Supplies," Alvian repeated. He tilted his head. "Show me."

The monk didn't waste words. He moved with surprising speed, launching himself at Alvian, the iron-shod staff aiming for Alvian's temple. It was a kill shot, disguised as a subduing strike.

"Inefficient."

Alvian didn't draw his weapon. He raised his left hand.

"Catch."

He caught the heavy iron staff mid-swing. The impact, which would have shattered a normal man's arm, didn't even make Alvian flinch. His 220 Physique made him a wall of iron. The monk's eyes widened, the first crack in his mask of serenity appearing.

"You..."

"Sleep," Alvian said.

He didn't use a skill. He simply twisted his wrist. The staff snapped like a dry twig. Alvian drove his fist into the monk's solar plexus.

"THUD!"

The monk folded, gasping for air that wouldn't come, and collapsed. The other three monks roared, their bodies glowing with a faint, white light—a buffing spell. They charged.

Valeria burst from the bushes. She didn't use her sword. She shoulder-checked the first monk, sending him flying into a tree with a sickening crunch of bone. She grabbed the second by his robes and slammed him into the ground.

"Stay down!" she barked.

The last monk tried to cast a spell, raising his hand toward the sky. A beacon.

"Flash Freeze," Alvian whispered.

He pointed a finger. A beam of cold air shot out, hitting the monk's hand. The limb froze instantly, encased in a block of blue ice. The monk screamed, clutching his frozen hand.

The skirmish was over in seconds. Alvian walked to the cart and ripped the canvas tarp away.

Valeria gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Inside the cart were not sacks of grain or barrels of water. There were people. Six of them. Men and women, bound and gagged, their eyes wide with terror. They looked malnourished, their skin pale and waxy. They weren't just prisoners; they were cattle being taken to the slaughter.

Alvian pulled a dagger—not [Voidpiercer], just a standard steel blade—and cut the ropes of the nearest man.

"Who are you?" the man wept, falling to his knees. "Are you angels? Did the Vicar send you to test us?"

"We aren't angels," Alvian said, looking toward the distant white cathedral. "We're the exterminators."

He looked at Valeria. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes were burning. It was the same look she had worn when she saw the students in the tanks at the Syndicate lab. A righteous, burning fury.

"They're taking them to the church," Valeria said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "This is the 'Tribute'?"

"Mana is energy," Alvian explained coldly. "Blood is a carrier for mana. If you want to build a kingdom in the apocalypse, you need fuel. Kincaid used water. The Vicar uses life."

He watched Valeria. He saw her knuckles turn white as she gripped the side of the cart. He saw the way she gently helped an old woman down, her touch tender despite the deadly strength in her hands.

"Valeria," Alvian said softly.

She looked at him.

"Focus that anger," he instructed. "Don't let it blind you. Use it. We are going to that church. And we are going to burn it down."

Valeria nodded, a single, sharp motion. "Lead the way, Alvian. I'll clear the path."

Alvian looked at the rescued civilians. "Go west. Find the road. My forces control the Old Fort now. Tell them Alvian sent you."

He didn't wait to see if they obeyed. He turned toward the cathedral. The "False Prophet" had built a paradise on a foundation of corpses. It was time to show him the true face of godhood.

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