Chapter 399 — Lemont's Dead End
Blade of Dawn · Page 1 of 3
Through the rugged, near-impassable Dark Mountains, Bishop Lemont ran with every ounce of speed he could muster.
He had torn the hem from his robe, flung away the bishop's mitre that caught so badly on branches and brush, and even turned the ornate staff that symbolized the authority of the Holy See into a walking stick, using it to beat a path and keep his balance on the treacherous mountain track. He felt he had never been so wretched in all his life. Enormous frustration and shame burned inside him, yet he did not dare release that fury in the slightest, for the pressure of the ever-climbing, despair-inducingly powerful chaotic magic still had a tight grip on his heart.
Only when he had run deep into the mountain forest, to a place where the battlefield could no longer be seen, did he dare slow his steps and look back at the path he had come.
Even though he could not see them, he knew the knights of the Holy See must be dead—if not slain by that unbelievably powerful energy creature, then surely burned up in the blazing holy light. Lemont, who had bought his own life by sacrificing his comrades, felt no guilt whatsoever, for he believed everything he did served a greater justice: the knights of the Holy See existed to give their lives for the Lord, while a regional bishop was the foundation upon which the Church's strength was preserved and grown. To use the former to secure the latter was only proper.
After a spell of violent panting, Lemont finally caught his breath a little. He raised his head and looked around at the dark mountain path, walled in by withered trees and grotesque growths, and the expression on his face suddenly turned to confusion.
Why was he running? Why was he so terrified? Why had he behaved so pitifully?
Lemont was bewildered, and in that vast bewilderment he suddenly realized that something was wrong with his state of mind.
He was indeed a man who cherished his own life, and among all the regional bishops of the Sun Church he ranked low in ability and personal strength—but he was still a regional bishop. Even if he met with an utterly dire battle and was forced to withdraw, he should never have been reduced to such a sorry state, never have fled at a dead run like a dog driven from its home!
Lemont suddenly clenched his staff. A fine layer of sweat seeped from his forehead. He realized that his thoughts might have been affected by some outside influence—that something, something that could not be warded off by a barrier of holy light, had entered his mind, magnified certain weaknesses in his character, stripped him of all judgment on the battlefield, and left him to meet today's defeat having done almost nothing at all.
Otherwise, with his strength, even if he still could not contend with that dreadful energy creature atop the city wall, he could at least have covered the retreat of some of the knights of the Holy See—at least not have been routed so wretchedly, so bloodily!
"Come out!" Lemont shouted suddenly. Layer upon layer of holy light wrapped around him, strengthening his resistance to all manner of magical effects, yet even so he felt not the slightest security; he could only add some courage to himself by shouting—even though he knew full well that this abnormal yelling was itself proof that his mind had been tampered with. "Get out of my head! I know you are there! Come out!"
He shouted like this several times in a row, and only his own voice echoed back along the mountain path. The old bishop began to doubt his own judgment—but just as he was about to give up, a woman's figure suddenly appeared before him.