Chapter 64: The Black-Clad Priest

“…Well now.”

The moment he saw the man, Lema’s face contorted into a frown.

It was the first time Bel had seen Lema react so negatively just from the sight of a single person.

Bel stared, and Lema explained.

“I was going to tell you earlier about a strange fellow I noticed in Arena One… but it seems he’s shown up here.”

“A strange fellow?”

“Yes…”

“That’s him?”

Lema nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Bel rather than the man, as though he didn’t even want to look that way. He whispered quietly.

“…I suspect he may be a priest. It would be best not to cross paths with him.”

“That guy?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely certain…”

Lema paused, as if struggling with how to explain, then instead began recounting the match he had fought in.

“Arena One’s preliminaries required us to enter the ring and knock out the other participants. Three people advanced per group.”

And in that arena, the only two who seized victory without sharing it were Lema Valkyte—and that man.

Unlike Bel in Arena Five, where participants faced beasts one group at a time, Arena One had multiple groups fighting simultaneously in the vast ring. Since Lema had quickly finished his match, he had the leisure to observe the other bouts.

The rules were simple: however you did it, force the opponent out of the ring. It could have been an orderly and bloodless contest. Lema himself had dispatched his foes with a single swing, the gale force alone sweeping them all outside. No blood, no need for cruelty.

Bel interrupted.

“You’re allowed to use that much power here?”

Since Lema had used wind pressure, Bel assumed he had imbued his sword with the power of wind to end it instantly.

“…Ah, yes. It’s permitted.”

The topic shifted slightly, but Lema gave it a thought before continuing.

“That may be one reason Lucilonia opposes these arenas. If this power isn’t divine… then others besides Apostles might wield it, and it gets exposed in public. Judging from the size of the rewards this time, I think many like me have shown up.”

He explained that others had also revealed unusual powers in the other arenas.

That was likely why the crowds had gathered—because it was a spectacle to see people fight with extraordinary abilities.

And amidst all those contests, a quiet disturbance broke out around the man in black.

It wasn’t some dazzling display of grand magic, but a subtle and unsettling commotion.

“That man was unfortunate. The others seemed familiar with one another. They tried to gang up on him first, planning to eliminate him so they could fight among themselves afterward.”

But before long, a casualty appeared.

The black-clad man, surrounded on all sides and unarmed, should have been quickly dispatched.

Yet, in an instant, it was his opponents who fell.

“I didn’t see the exact details, but he must have had weapons hidden beneath those heavy robes.”

From the wounds and spattered blood alone, Lema had inferred what happened: with a single swing, the man had inflicted mortal injuries on those surrounding him.

One was unlucky enough to die on the spot. Another lost a fist-sized chunk of flesh from his forearm, bone laid bare. It was a critical wound that demanded immediate medical attention.

And then, the man spoke.

With a face like a holy priest serving a sacred god, he said:

— Oh dear. That could be serious. Do you require healing?

His voice was full of overflowing concern, utterly at odds with the fact that he had just inflicted the injury himself.

And then, astonishingly, he healed the man’s ruined arm.

But only the surface.

The arm, still missing its flesh, was covered over by newly regrown skin. It looked less like a healed limb and more like a grotesque doll patched together with missing parts.

The injured man fainted outright at the sight, while the others turned pale and scrambled out of the ring.

Such power belonged to an Apostle.

Not only in their unique abilities, but in their physicality itself—far beyond the average human.

The others must have realized they stood no chance.

But in truth, they had simply not wanted to face such an incomprehensible madman.

“…Normally, healing powers should never be used on wounds that are severe. Otherwise the blood flow stops, and the flesh necrotizes.”

Minor cuts were one thing, but with a gaping wound like that, you had to wait until natural healing had begun before applying divine healing.

What that man had done meant the victim would need to suffer another wound of equal severity, allowing it to heal naturally, before ever regaining proper use of the limb.

“Why assume he’s an Apostle of Luxlon?”

“…Because healing is the most common ability manifested among Luxlon’s Apostles. Other sects may differ, but if it’s healing, it almost certainly originates from the orthodox Luxlon faith.”

Luxlon—one of the many names of the god.

In some regions, he was the god of water or wind. In others, a war god, or even god of death.

But in the official doctrine, Luxlon was the god of justice and light.

And Apostles’ powers often reflected their sect’s character. Lema’s own punitive force was akin to the divine knights’. Followers of Luxlon’s wind-aspect manifested powers of air.

At least, that was what Lucilonia’s propaganda claimed.

But healing? That was Luxlon’s trademark.

“Judging by his clumsy use, I suspect he only awakened that power recently.”

“So he might not be an Apostle at all.”

“Well…”

Lema hesitated, glancing around nervously.

“As I said… healing manifests most often in Luxlon’s priests. Their doctrine emphasizes altruism—saving and protecting others.”

Bel was searching for a Summoner.

The Summoner would most likely be a zealot—or an Apostle.

But not Luxlon.

Luxlon’s Apostles, after all, represented justice and good. They would not devote themselves to Evil.

“You also told me before, master, that all these powers are truly the power of the Moon. Even if it follows personality, healing would only manifest in altruistic people. And such people… would not pray for the world’s destruction.”

Bel tilted her head slightly.

Sound reasoning. A valid deduction.

But there was one thing Lema had overlooked.

For all his recent vows to follow Evil, Lema was still, at his core, a man who had long served as Luxlon’s holy knight. He was not attuned to recognizing malice.

But what if he did it on purpose?

What if the man hadn’t healed to save him, but to make him rot slowly from necrosis? To let him linger in pain longer?

Bel thought of it immediately, but Lema did not.

Lema called him “a strange fellow,” and urged they keep their distance—likely because of that unsettling aura clinging to him.

“Then why avoid him so much?”

“Eh? Isn’t it obvious? He’s most likely irrelevant to what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Yet his voice lacked conviction.

After all, the man had not just healed—he had inflicted the wound to begin with.

With no hesitation, wielding a weapon meant to kill.

“Even aside from that, you’re avoiding him.”

“…He simply seems odd. Disturbingly so.”

It was rare for Lema to seem uneasy.

Bel hummed softly.

Lema tried not to look his way, but Bel did.

And at that moment, the black-clad man, glancing about, fixed his gaze on her.

His eyes lingered on Bel for quite some time.

Their gazes met. His pitch-black irises resembled Belmias’ own.

“…”

The man tilted his head slightly. Then, as if noticing Lema only belatedly, he stepped forward.

“Sir, we meet again.”

His face showed something oddly akin to relief, even welcome.