"Ah..."
That roar seemed as if it could shatter the clouds in the sky. The Bishop erupted with astonishing Tidal Force, a violent energy sweeping through his entire body, forcibly dispersing the burning flames.
No. 8's mangled body was flung away by this force, smashing against the edge of the stone platform. His charred limbs showed no signs of life.
After the flames were extinguished, the Bishop's gold-embroidered robe writhed as if it were alive—or rather, it *was* alive. It rapidly filled in his scorched wounds.
Flesh and blood were slowly stitched together beneath the fabric, and the dark red blood was quickly staunched. When he stood straight again, he had become a bizarre doll, half flesh, half sewn cloth.
No. 7 and No. 6 couldn't believe their eyes. They had fought with all their might, even No. 8 had sacrificed himself, yet they still couldn't kill this monster. The Bishop's vocal cords sounded like a broken windowpane, yet his voice carried a hint of regret:
"Truly... exceptionally outstanding..."
He grinned, bloodstains on his teeth, the wound in his throat emitting a faint whistling sound with each breath.
"If it weren't for that brat No. 1 messing things up... perhaps... this term, several could have been sent out..."
No. 6's small body trembled violently, tears mixed with blood and grime streaking down her face. No. 7 stared intently at the Bishop, his broken arm hanging limply at his side, the wound in his lungs making every breath an ordeal. He turned his head to look down the cliff. The dark red rock face was covered with slashes and gashes as if made by knives and axes, and hardy cliff cypresses struggled out halfway from the crevices.
No. 7 calculated his position. If worst came to worst, he would jump; it was better than staying here.
When he turned back to look at the Cardinal Sin Bishop, he suddenly noticed a figure appearing at the entrance of the cave in the center of the stone platform.
Cyrus van Clemont.
He was even more disheveled than usual, his golden braids in disarray, stubble growing messily on his chin, his eyes bloodshot. He held a magnificent sword in his hand—a relic left by a saint who had once served the god Jupiter.
The sword blade trembled slightly, resonating with some kind of power. No. 7 suddenly remembered the faint smell of alcohol he had caught when coming down the mountain. Cyrus had been following them all along, only revealing himself now.
The Bishop turned his head. The wound in his throat prevented him from laughing out loud, but the surprise in his eyes almost overflowed.
"Ah... Cyrus... you've come..."
His voice was hoarse and excited; a good show was about to reach its climax.
"Welcome... let us together... bury them here..."
Cyrus didn't answer. His gaze went past the Bishop, landing on the statue of Jupiter in the center of the cave, surrounded by white bones. Its ruby-encrusted eyes looked down upon all beings, the statue's outstretched hand seeming to invite believers to offer sacrifices. Cyrus's expression froze; it seemed as if he was seeing this horrific scene for the first time.
No. 7 stared at him, unsure if he was friend or foe. Cyrus had once been their instructor, and also a "No. 7," but now he held that sword, standing beside the Bishop.
"Cyrus..." No. 7 rasped, a final thread of hope in his voice.
Cyrus finally moved.
He took a step, his boot sole crushing the loose stones on the ground with a crisp crack. The Bishop was still immersed in the joy of victory, his obese body swaying slightly, seemingly convinced that Cyrus would side with him.
However, the next second—
With a "squelch!", the magnificent sword plunged deep into the Bishop's abdomen. The tip pierced through the defense of the gold-embroidered robe without hindrance, tore through fat and muscle, and emerged from his back.
The Bishop's expression froze. He slowly looked down at the sword that had ended the lives of countless test subjects, now embedded in his own body. Blood dripped down the blade, forming a small pool of dark red liquid on the ground.
The Bishop's survival instinct surged through him, wave after wave. He understood that now was not the time to hold back his trump cards. The gold-threaded robe stored Tidal Force that didn't belong to him—a privilege granted by the Church!! That power now surged out like a flood. He suddenly raised his hand, a distorted ball of blue light condensing in his palm, and slammed it heavily into Cyrus's chest!
Cyrus was sent flying by this blow, his back hitting the rock wall, sending loose stones clattering down. But he quickly steadied himself, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth, yet his eyes burned with an even more ferocious rage. He charged silently, like an enraged brown bear, the veins on his muscular arms bulging.
The Bishop seized the opportunity to pull the sword from his abdomen. The gold-embroidered robe immediately writhed, stitching the wound closed, fabric and flesh intertwining with a sickening "sizzling" sound. He had just staggered upright when Cyrus's iron fist came smashing towards his face!
This punch landed squarely on the Bishop's fat face with a sickening crack, half the fist sinking into the soft fat. The sound of his nasal bone shattering was clearly audible. The Bishop flew sideways, crashing through the dilapidated wooden main door behind him. Half of the heavy door flew more than ten meters before falling into the cliff.
But the next moment, the Bishop did something unexpected. He struggled to his feet, turned around, and dragged his injured body towards No. 7! The bloodstained sword in his hand glinted coldly. This old fox knew very well: the only one Cyrus truly cared about was this "No. 7."
No. 7 was too heavily injured. His ribs had pierced his lungs, his right arm was broken, and even standing was difficult; he was completely unable to dodge. The terrifying figure drew closer and closer to him. A force suddenly rushed in from the side.
No. 6 used all her strength to push No. 7 away, but she herself was struck in the chest by the Bishop's heavy fist. Her slender body was like a leaf fluttering in the wind. Her amber eyes turned bloodshot under the tremendous impact, and a flicker of release flashed in them. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something, but the next second she disappeared into the pitch-black abyss.
"No. 6!!" No. 7 roared, heartbroken. He struggled, wanting to lunge towards the cliff, but the Bishop grabbed him by the neck and lifted him up. Those murky eyes stared at him up close, filled with cruel pleasure.
"Your little lover is gone just like that?" the Bishop said hoarsely, deliberately waving the sword tip in front of No. 7's eyes, yet delaying the final blow. He was waiting, waiting for Cyrus to walk into his trap.
Sure enough, Cyrus let out a beast-like roar and charged over. He seemed to have long since been deprived of his reason by alcohol, or perhaps it was No. 7's words that had made him lose his ability to think calmly.
The sharp blade pierced through Cyrus's chest, emerging from his back. Then, the Bishop released his grip and threw No. 7 into the chasm as well.
Like a desperate beast, Cyrus's eyes were completely filled with blood. He didn't stop but let out a roar of extreme grief. Alcohol had numbed his sense of pain. He continued to charge forward with the sword piercing his body, the blade cutting deeper and deeper inside him, blood gushing out along the hilt.
The Bishop stared in horror, his eyes wide. Before he could react, Cyrus's fist smashed into his face!
"Bang!"
This punch shattered the Bishop's cheekbone. Cyrus didn't stop. A second punch, a third... He was like a machine that felt no pain, each punch carrying years of suppressed anger. The Bishop's fat face was soon beaten to a bloody pulp, his nose caved in, teeth flying, his eyeballs almost bulging out of their sockets.
"This ... for No. 7!"
"This ... for No. 3!"
"This ... for all the children who died here!"
Cyrus's fists were covered in blood, his own knuckles exposed. The Bishop finally couldn't hold on any longer, his obese body collapsing to the ground with a thud. Cyrus pounced on him, continuing to mechanically throw punches, until his own movements became slower and slower, his breathing weaker and weaker...
Finally, Cyrus lay motionless on the Bishop's bloody, mangled body. The magnificent sword was still embedded in his chest, glinting coldly in the moonlight.