Chapter 45: The Weight of Information

Clang! Crack!

With one more strike, Lema’s sword shattered the man’s weapon in two.

His only means of blocking gone, the man collapsed to the ground at once, throwing his arms up in surrender.

Had he simply begged for his life then and there, perhaps things might have gone differently.

“Hey! Is this all because of her? You’re losing your mind over some wh—”

Thud!

Lema’s fist smashed across the man’s jaw before he could finish. His heavy but fast blow twisted the man’s head, knocking out his front teeth.

He did not use his sword, for that would have killed the man too quickly.

Soon, the narrow alleyway filled with the stench of burning flesh. The punitive power of a holy knight was being used exactly as intended.

“Aaaaghhh!”

The wailing came as a cruel bonus.

With ruthless precision, Lema sliced while simultaneously searing the wounds shut with holy fire.

It was torture unlike anything most mortals could imagine: being cut alive while the blade itself burned the flesh to ash.

So sudden and overwhelming was the pain that the man finally realized—too late—that only begging might save him.

When he sputtered an apology through his ruined mouth, the torture finally ceased.

The place had been chosen precisely for its seclusion. Even a scream like this would not easily be heard by outsiders. In his own trap, the man now writhed.

To any ordinary person—even a seasoned fighter—the sight alone would have broken their composure.

And Belmias did not miss the faintest twitch of movement.

“Lema. Three above. Two below.”

The ones lurking in ambush stiffened. And then, panicked, they bolted.

They had simply watched as their companion was mutilated—yet even if Lema had accepted their proposal, it was unlikely this information would have stayed buried.

“…I will not let a single one escape.”

Having already sliced out the broker’s tongue and seared the wound shut, Lema burned their hiding spots into memory and sprinted after them.

It would be a mistake to assume a towering knight with sword and shield was slow.

His boots struck a protruding brick, shattering it as he ran up the wall, leaving a fiery scar along the stone with his blazing greatsword.

Crashhh!

A perfect cut.

The wall did not collapse at once from how cleanly it had been severed.

Instead, the man hiding just beyond it gasped and died, sliced open, before the bricks finally gave way with a roar.

And above that roar, thunder rolled across the sky—like the heavens themselves sanctioning this judgment.

Dark clouds collided, and rain that had been trickling now poured in earnest, sizzling as it struck the flames along the walls. Even the mutilated body of the broker lay soaking in it.

A finger rolled along the wet ground, pale flesh mixed with blood and mud.

The finger that had so arrogantly pointed at Bel, calling her that woman.

“…Hmph.”

Should she take it?

By rights, it was an offering. Lema had presented it to her as a sacrifice, after all. The broker’s body meant nothing, but the severed tongue and finger were tokens of devotion.

Eating it would mean consuming Lema’s intent.

But dirty scraps, muddied by soil and rain, were not worth her palate.

Lema had told her to only eat the finest. Even if she did crave it, that nagging knight would probably have cleaned and cooked it before offering it to her properly.

Besides, something far fresher remained.

One more man had not fled with the others.

“…Perhaps I’ll take this one myself.”

Unlike the rest, this one moved differently—quieter, more discreet.

“If you come out now, I may spare you.”

“…My apologies. I’ll come out.”

A reply came instantly.

From the shadows emerged the man who had guided them earlier at the inn—the cheerful server who had first whispered the code.

The one Bel had found appetizing at first glance.

Unlike the broker, he bowed deeply, showing the utmost respect.

“…Polite.”

“Yes. I don’t want to die.”

At least he knew how to speak properly.

“Where are we going?”

“To where the Guildmaster awaits you.”

He introduced himself as Gerard.

The simple tavern boy guise was gone. A change of clothes and hair color was enough that he hardly resembled the man who had once served them food.

He waited until Lema had returned from slaughtering the others, then led them through the streets.

“…I must also apologize for what just happened.”

“Are you trying to cut ties?”

Gerard was still a member of the Information Guild. Even if the broker’s actions had been his own, six witnesses had been present. It would be impossible to wash his hands of it.

No matter that he had stayed silent while the torture unfolded.

The one whose tongue had been ripped out had soon died from shock. And the others—trying to flee—had all been killed. If even one had been a woman, Lema might have spared her, mimicking his master’s will. But there had been none.

Dead men tell no tales. Now, if Gerard tried to pin the blame on them alone, Lema would not overlook it.

“…I will explain everything and make amends.”

“We shall see.”

Lema growled.

Gerard led them past the inn where they had dined that morning, and onward for some time, until they arrived at an unassuming general store. It sold ropes, firewood, nails, and farm tools.

Cheerfully greeting the shopkeeper, Gerard purchased a few items before descending into the basement.

The underground chamber was vast, well lit with oil lamps, and free of damp stench.

Most striking were the sheer number of doors. A corridor lined with plain, undecorated doors like an anthill’s tunnels. To a newcomer, it was overwhelming.

Without hesitation, Gerard led them through one door after another, down long corridors, until finally they arrived at their destination.

Beyond the last door was… an unexpectedly comfortable space.

Save for the lack of windows and presence of lamplight, it could almost have passed for a home. The only oddity was the faint smell—not bread or cookies, but something sharp, herbal.

At a desk sat a man.

He had been watching since the door opened, and rose to greet them as they entered.

“Welcome, visitors. I am Light Sage, Guildmaster of the Eissen Information Guild. You’ve already met Gerard, who escorted you here.”

“Gerard,” the man echoed with another bow.

Lema, ready to snap at this man for disrespect, faltered for the first time.

For Light Sage’s face was grotesque—seventy percent of it melted away by burns or plague, a mask of horror that made one instinctively avert their gaze.