When Orsaga's fist collided head-on with the flaming longsword of the four-winged angel—
An invisible shockwave of energy erupted from the point of impact.
Though neither the angel's divine power nor Orsaga's chaotic demonic force was aimed at the bystanders, the surrounding space was still heavily distorted under the intense clash. Everything grew sluggish and oppressive, as if the very air had thickened.
It felt like shallow-water fish had suddenly been thrown into the deep sea—wave upon wave of pressure came crashing down on the nearby clergy.
Crack—Snap—
The sounds of bones fracturing and blood spurting echoed one after another, as if a steamroller were slowly grinding over them. Their internal organs were ravaged by the overwhelming force.
In an instant, a large number of priests were killed on the spot—caught in the crossfire.
Realizing this, the four-winged angel's heart wavered slightly. These priests were his people, after all.
But before he could even consider what to do, he sensed the power in Orsaga's fist intensify dramatically.
Within a dazzling golden radiance, the blazing demonic fire began to spread—clinging to the angel's flaming sword like maggots to rotting flesh, forcibly eroding it.
The angel's expression changed. "You—"
He never got to finish.
Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, Orsaga's other hand swiftly gathered energy into an AT Field, forming a golden blade-like force.
With deadly speed and precision, it stabbed straight for the angel's chest, aiming to pierce his armor and rip out the energy core within—a core that served as both the anchor of the summoning ritual and the foundation of the angel's manifestation in this world.
If it was destroyed, the angel would vanish instantly.
Realizing the fatal threat, the four-winged angel's face contorted with fury. He roared, "You bastard!"
Just as he was about to discard his sword and dodge, Orsaga abruptly retracted his hand and leapt back twice in quick succession.
The very next moment—
A long, rune-etched spear shot up from beneath where he had just been standing.
Having narrowly avoided the ambush, thirteen figures slowly emerged from the shadows, taking position beside the four-winged angel.
After observing them for a brief moment, Orsaga confirmed from the dullness in their eyes: these were merely corpses—animated by combat instinct alone.
He felt neither alarm nor excitement.
Fighting them was no different from dismantling non-sentient machines—mere automatons without thought or improvisation.
Unless an outside force intervened or their power level exceeded his own, such opponents posed no real threat. They were little more than decoration.
So long as the four-winged angel was dealt with, the rest were irrelevant.
That was the confidence Orsaga had built atop a mountain of billions of slain souls.
And so, the battle resumed.
This time, the battlefield widened considerably.
The entirety of the Vatican had become their arena.
As the stronghold of Christianity, the enemy clearly held the home-field advantage. Ancient magical formations built up over the centuries constantly poured energy into the four-winged angel and the thirteen saints.
Conversely, Orsaga was fighting under suppression.
But that hardly mattered—he still had the upper hand.
Their fighting techniques weren't necessarily poor, but compared to Orsaga, they were in a completely different league.
They were repeatedly exploited, their openings mercilessly taken advantage of, often turned against them with their own momentum.
After all, if nothing else—
Orsaga had plundered the combat memories of countless beings. The sheer volume of his accumulated knowledge rivaled the total sum of all memories from Earth's seven billion people combined.
In contrast, the combined combat experience of his enemies didn't even make up a fraction of that.
A few minutes later—
Half the city of Vatican had been reduced to rubble.
And the battle, fought with a casual air by Orsaga, was now coming to an end.
With the piercing power of his AT Field, his right hand drove upward through the four-winged angel's abdomen and gripped the glowing core within.
He ripped it out—and crushed it.
No hesitation. No mercy.
The angel's body began to dissolve into glittering particles, his eyes filled with disbelief as he faded into nothingness.
As for the saints—they'd long been ripped to pieces by Orsaga and discarded like trash across the battlefield.
From start to finish, he hadn't taken a single scratch.
He strolled over to the Pope, speaking nonchalantly:
"Do you have any other tricks left?. If not, I'd suggest surrendering now. You still have some value."
The Pope, though struggling to accept the loss of the angel and the saints, gritted his teeth and shouted:
"Impossible!. My Lord is the one true God!. Thou shalt have no gods before Him!. I am the shepherd of His flock! You will suffer divine retribution!"
Hearing this, the smirk vanished from Orsaga's face, replaced by roaring laughter.
"The only true god?. If He can be one, why can't I?"
His tone was arrogant and absolutely domineering.
On other planes of existence, perhaps he wouldn't be so confident in comparing himself to another god.
But in this world, the so-called "god" was nothing more than a group of alien beings.
How could he not surpass them?
With that, he casually swung his arm—sending the Pope flying like a cannonball.
Splat!
The man hit the wall with a sickening thud and slid down, silent and lifeless.
Seeing this, many priests widened their eyes in fury and charged at Orsaga with weapons raised.
He didn't even glance at them.
A flicker of energy from the halo behind him vaporized them into ash—utterly insignificant.
Having cleared the rabble, he turned to a nearby cardinal and asked:
"Now, you answer my question—live or die?"
The cardinal responded without hesitation, "I refuse—"
Splat~
"Next. Your turn."
"You mustn't—"
Splat~
One by one, the cardinals fell.
Then came the other high-ranking clergy.
"..."
"Next. Your turn."
His tone remained calm and indifferent.
But to those hearing it, it was like the voice of death whispering beside their ears.
Amidst the hundreds of corpses, a young priest collapsed onto his knees, trembling, tears streaming down his face as he begged:
"...I agree. Please… don't kill me…"
All his resolve had shattered in the face of death.
Orsaga gave a satisfied nod.
"Good. From now on, you're in charge of this bunch."
Then, turning his crimson eyes toward the remaining priests, he asked:
"Anyone else want to object?. I'm very democratic—you've had your chance to speak. If so, come forward now so I can deal with you all at once. If not… then kneel, like him."
A few seconds of silence.
Then came the scattered sounds of knees hitting the ground.
Only a handful still glared at him with hatred in their eyes.
The cowards and the stubborn had been clearly separated.
Among those kneeling, perhaps some intended to endure and bide their time—but that didn't matter.
To Orsaga, kneeling for a moment or for a lifetime made no difference.
After all, the Tower of Temptation would soon make sure they were "reformed."
_____
T/N:
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