_Serious? He looks like a typical hooligan! Where does Yuriel see seriousness?_
Evangeline watched as Jelly sauntered over and positioned himself behind her with all the grace of a lounging predator. The moment his golden eyes landed on Daisy, his eyebrows shot upward.
"Wow! Is that you?"
Daisy, recognizing him, turned even paler than before—a feat Evangeline hadn't thought possible.
"I... I'll go," she muttered, already backing away. Then she turned and ran.
Rafaella shouted after her in confusion. "Nun! Wait!"
"Everything's fine! The carriage stand is just nearby!" Daisy called back without slowing.
The parking area was indeed only a stone's throw away. Rafaella seemed to decide it wasn't worth pursuing her—he was unlikely to extract anything new from her at this point.
"She's gone," he stated flatly.
Then he stepped aside, pretending to show Evangeline the way, but his entire attention remained fixed on her and Jelly. He was listening. Watching.
"Who? Oh, that nun?" Jelly's brow furrowed in thought. "Hmm... we helped each other out somehow."
"No, of course not! I told you—I *helped* her. We escaped together."
"I covered my tracks well."
---
## — Rafaella's Observation —
Rafaella couldn't hear Evangeline's words again. Her lips moved, but no sound reached his ears—only silence where speech should have been.
Yet even this fragmentary conversation was enough for him to grasp the essential truth.
The man had just answered the very question Rafaella had posed to Yuriel earlier.
_This man helped Daisy escape from the monastery. And now he poses as Evangeline's bodyguard._
Evangeline claimed not to know of Daisy's existence. Meanwhile, Daisy knew both Evangeline *and* the magic circle—that was how she had learned of Berg's ritual. But her escape had been orchestrated by Evangeline's so-called bodyguard, who supposedly didn't know Daisy either.
Had he done it out of pure goodwill? But what business did he have in that remote monastery? How had he even gotten there?
Rafaella's head spun as he tried to construct a logical explanation for any of this.
Then—noise. Shouting.
Rafaella, who had been straining to catch every syllable of Evangeline and Jelly's conversation, was the first to notice.
"Fire! *Fire!*"
"Knight! Help us!"
"*No!*"
The screams shattered the Temple's sacred silence. Yuriel didn't hesitate—he sprinted toward the commotion without a backward glance. Rafaella moved to follow, then stopped, his gaze flickering to Evangeline and Jelly.
_What do I do with them? I can't just leave them here._
"Let's go," Evangeline said, as if reading his thoughts.
Rafaella nodded and ran after Yuriel. *Fire? Another fire?* A strange sense of déjà vu washed over him, cold and unsettling.
He followed the sounds of screaming, paying no attention to where his feet carried him. Only when he arrived did he realize where he was.
People groaned and screamed around him—not from physical wounds, but from something deeper. Terror. Their cries were raw with it, primal and unrestrained. Every face was turned toward a single point.
Rafaella followed their gaze.
The painting was burning.
Jim Nopedi's *"Doomsday,"* which depicted Donau Blue's eternal torment, was engulfed in flames. The fire that should have destroyed the world *within* the painting was now consuming the painting itself.
A grim irony.
Relief flooded through Rafaella when he confirmed no one was physically injured. But the sight of these people—writhing, wailing, crawling on their knees as though the world itself were ending—sent shivers cascading down his spine.
Yuriel had arrived first and now stood frozen nearby, silently observing the chaos with wide eyes. He seemed equally paralyzed.
The writhing supplicants noticed Rafaella. They crawled toward him on their knees, fingers clawing at his legs, his boots, the hem of his cloak.
"Knight, put out the fire!"
"Knight, the painting is burning! *It's burning!*"
They begged for his help, and Rafaella understood exactly what they wanted.
They wanted him to save the painting.
_Is it worth it?_
Should he extinguish the flames? Perhaps when the painting burned to ash, these people would finally come to their senses?
The thought stopped him cold. Yuriel seemed to hesitate as well, his hand hovering over his sword hilt as though uncertain what enemy he faced.
And then—footsteps.
_Evangeline Lohanson?_ Rafaella thought.
But no. Instead, he saw a familiar figure with long golden hair streaming behind him.
"Michelle?"
"*Damn it!*" Rafaella hissed under his breath. "Why is he here? I locked him in his room!"
He lunged forward to stop Michelle, but the people clinging to his legs anchored him in place.
The moment they saw the paladin armor on Michelle's frame, their prayers intensified with renewed fervor:
"Knight, save the painting! *Please!*"
Rafaella's blood ran cold. He knew—*knew* with absolute certainty—that Michelle would obey them.
Michelle seized the burning painting with his bare hands.
The flames licked hungrily at his palms. Blisters erupted across his skin, angry and red. But he didn't let go. Instead, he pulled the canvas closer, trying desperately to smother the fire with his own body.
_Madman! It's destroying him!_
Rafaella shoved aside the people clinging to him. He didn't want to use force—these were civilians, parishioners, innocents in their own twisted way—but he couldn't stand by and watch Michelle burn alive.
"Michelle! *Wake up!* Drop the painting!"
The flames continued their relentless consumption. Only half the canvas remained now, the rest reduced to ash and memory. Michelle's skin blistered and blackened, and the fire began spreading to his robes.
Rafaella lunged forward and seized Michelle's arm, wrenching him away from the inferno. Bodies came with him—the supplicants still clinging to his legs, dragged across the floor like grotesque weights.
"What's going on here?"
The voice was calm. Too calm.
It seemed to drift from somewhere beyond the grave—cool and detached, utterly divorced from the chaos surrounding them. The oppressive heat receded, replaced by something else entirely. Something that made Rafaella shudder.
He felt eyes on his back. Something vast. Something *ominous*.
Evangeline Lohanson walked slowly through the hell that had erupted around them.
The people surrounding Rafaella froze mid-motion, their bodies going rigid as though turned to stone. Their moans and screams died in their throats. They stared at her with glassy, unblinking eyes.
They stood motionless, hypnotized, and Evangeline passed through them unhindered—a queen walking through a field of statues.
She reached Michelle without a single person moving to stop her.
Michelle looked up at her, still clutching the burning painting to his chest. His face was scorched, his hands ruined, his robes smoldering. And yet his eyes...
In that moment, Rafaella witnessed the birth of a new fanatic.
Snow-white skin. Blazing crimson eyes—the only spots of vivid color on that pale, ethereal face. What did Michelle see in those eyes? Delight? Horror? Awe?
No words could capture the range of emotions playing across his features.
Evangeline snapped her fingers.
Jelly understood instantly. He stepped forward and pressed a vial of holy water into her waiting palm.
Evangeline uncorked it and poured the contents over Michelle.
One vial. Then another. She continued until the flames finally surrendered.
The fire consuming Michelle vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. In the profound silence that followed, the only sound was water dripping—*plink, plink, plink*—onto the marble floor.
Michelle was soaked from head to toe, as though he had just emerged from a river. Rivulets of water trickled from his golden hair and pooled at his feet.
Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
"Sir Michelle!" Yuriel shouted, rushing forward.
He caught Michelle's unconscious body before it struck the ground. Despite the fainting spell, the paladin's face wore an expression of blissful calm—the serene countenance of a man who had glimpsed something divine.
Evangeline pried the charred remnant of the painting from Michelle's ruined hands. All that remained was a fragment—singed edges surrounding what appeared to be a magic circle, still faintly visible through the ash.
She tossed the scrap to Jelly.
"Catch!"
Jelly snatched it from the air with practiced ease.
The whole scene felt unreal to Rafaella—dreamlike and terrible in equal measure.
The rest of the onlookers continued to stand motionless, like mannequins in a shop window. If they had wept, screamed, shown any human emotion whatsoever, it wouldn't have been nearly so disturbing.
"I poured holy water on him, so he won't need any treatment," Evangeline said calmly.
She stood amid the chaos like a statue herself—a single island of stillness in a turbulent, burning sea.
---
## — Evangeline —
_Wow... The morals and ethics in this place are absolutely abysmal! I'm so exhausted I can barely stand._
Everything had happened so fast. One moment Yuriel had sprinted off toward the screaming; the next, Rafaella was staring after him with such desperate longing that Evangeline gave him permission to follow.
He'd rushed off immediately, practically tripping over his own feet.
They ran so quickly that Evangeline couldn't hope to keep pace. Instead, she followed Jelly's lead. Werewolves, like all canines, possessed an excellent sense of smell.
When she finally reached the scene, the sight before her defied belief.
People stood in a loose semicircle, *watching* a man burn—and not a single one of them lifted a finger to help! They looked like those horrible onlookers who, instead of calling emergency services, filmed disasters on their phones for social media clout.
Except they didn't even have phones!
When Donau's house had burned, these same people had simply stood and watched. And now they were calmly observing a man burn alive? Did they possess no conscience whatsoever?
"What's going on here?"
_Seriously? I ask what's going on, and everyone just stares at me? A man is on **fire**! The flames could spread to others at any moment! We need a fire extinguisher!_
_Although... where would I find a fire extinguisher in a medieval fantasy Temple?_
Water, then. Where could she get water?
Evangeline remembered the fountain in the Temple courtyard—but that was too far away. She needed water *now*. Her gaze swept desperately across the scene and landed on the vials clutched in Jelly's hand.
*Eureka!*
She sprinted to him and snatched one of the vials. Yanking out the cork, she began pouring holy water onto the flames.
But the neck of the vial was absurdly narrow. The water emerged in a pathetic trickle.
_It's like trying to put out a bonfire with an eyedropper!_
Jelly, sensing her frustration, had already uncorked another vial. He pressed it into her hand without a word.
She emptied vial after vial—five, six, more—until the flames finally sputtered and died. Fortunately, holy water seemed to work faster than the ordinary variety.
_Phew... That's done._
Evangeline felt the tension drain from her shoulders. The man she'd just saved—the golden-haired paladin—gazed up at her with wet, wondering eyes. He was absolutely soaked, water streaming from his hair and pooling around him.
_He looks like a half-drowned kitten,_ she thought. _Sorry about that! But better wet than burned alive, right?_
"Sir Michelle!"
He appeared to have lost consciousness. Yuriel caught his falling body, cradling him with surprising gentleness.
Meanwhile, Rafaella was looking at Evangeline with unmistakable disapproval.
_So what? I put out the fire! Why is everyone scolding me?_
Even Jelly shot her a reproachful glance. Evangeline quickly looked away, pretending she hadn't noticed.
_Oh, forget it! I didn't do anything wrong!_
She decided to double down—to be even more brazen and perhaps boast a little. Did they think she'd merely splashed ordinary water on him? This was *holy water*! Premium divine healing liquid!
"I poured holy water on him," she announced with an air of great importance, "so he won't need any treatment."