As an NPC, having a lot of skills is quite reasonable, right?

In the following days, the once bustling entrance to the rift valley became deathly silent.

The number of bounty hunters who had previously sprung up like mushrooms after rain for the high rewards has plummeted.

A terrifying rumor began to circulate in the community: a monster clad in a blood-stained, glassy robe had appeared in the Blackwater Rift Valley. It was said to be a vengeful spirit transformed from the wronged souls of those who died in the rift, hunting down greedy people.

The rumors grew increasingly fantastical, with some even claiming it was divine punishment sent down by the gods, and that anyone who approached within three kilometers of the rift would be burned to ashes by invisible karmic fire.

Gray was quite satisfied with the result.

The feeling of being watched from behind no matter where he went or what he did used to make him feel uncomfortable. Now that those flies have been killed, no one dares to follow him when he goes out to buy alcohol.

Moen, on the other hand, sat by the campfire in the camp all day, looking at the entrance to the rift valley and sighing, looking sullen.

"Why is no one coming? Bring two more teams."

He drew circles on the ground with a twig, his heart bleeding – those were walking experience packs!

Those bounty hunters are generally around level 20, making them moderately difficult to kill while providing ample experience.

In just a few days, his experience bar has almost reached halfway.

This kind of opportunity to practice skills and level up quickly is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

"No way, you're addicted to killing, aren't you?" Gray, carrying two jugs of cheap beer he'd just bought, plopped down next to Moen.

"All you ever think about is killing, killing, killing. You'll be a little happier if you have a drink with me."

As he spoke, he tossed a jug of wine over.

Moen caught it steadily, and pursed his lips: "Old man, this is called being prepared for danger in times of peace. A big battle is about to begin, and the more we practice, the greater our chances of winning."

Incidentally, to prevent any accidents, Moen has also moved to the camp these past few days.

As for Blackberry Manor, Sylvie, using Lily's face, was with two extras hired by Moen, cooking and turning off the lights on time every day to create the illusion that everyone was home.

Moen took a big gulp of wine and looked in the direction of Nohanville: "I heard that François and Arya entered the city this afternoon."

"I see that the platform in the square has been set up, and there's even a red carpet on the ground."

"Can't we say something nice when we're drinking? Why bring up that nasty stuff?" Gray uncorked the drink and took a big gulp of bitter wheat juice.

In fact, Sylvie's intelligence had already been delivered this afternoon.

François's party was extremely large. In addition to the regular honor guard, what caught Moen's attention the most was a knight who was completely covered in black heavy armor.

The man did not ride a horse, but walked alongside Arya's carriage, carrying a strangely shaped, giant, long-handled warhammer.

Moen recognized the uniform; it belonged to a special execution unit directly under the Archbishop's command, which was only deployed when waging a holy war or purging high-ranking heretics.

They have no names, no emotions, and are pure killing machines, known to players as the "Shadows of Judgment".

"The Archbishop's plan is truly meticulous," Moen thought to himself.

The fact that François had such a menacing figure by his side made the meaning quite clear.

He wasn't just there to kill Gray, but also to monitor François. If François made any unusual moves or the plan went wrong, the warhammer would not hesitate to smash him to death as well.

Moen couldn't understand how François, that old fox, could not see through this.

The archbishop's blatant arrangement of the Shadow of Judgment beside him clearly indicated that he was treating him as a pawn to be used and discarded.

"No matter what that old man thinks, what needs to be done still needs to be done."

He instructed Sylvie to secretly slip a confidential letter into François's lodging for the night through the An Secret Society's channels.

Although it's unclear how effective it will be, even just planting a thorn in that old fox's heart would be good.

"Alright, stop frowning and acting all serious." Gray slapped Moen on the shoulder.

"Get a good night's sleep tonight, tomorrow is the big day, so make sure you're well-rested."

"Also, get back to your manor today. Your snoring has been keeping me up these past few days."

Before Moen could explain, Gray kicked him out of the camp.

Moen figured that Gray might be upset, so he reluctantly headed into the city.

Night had fallen, and the Nohanville Trial Section, which served as the diocesan bishop's temporary lodging, was brightly lit.

François Valen has just settled Arya in.

The girl remained silent the entire way, her eyes vacant, as if she had lost her soul. Only when she heard Gray's name would her eyes move slightly.

That's the mental shackles planted by the archbishop at work.

François sighed and dragged his weary body back to his room.

As the highest-class VIP room, it is extremely luxurious, with a roaring fire in the fireplace that dispels the chill of the winter night.

However, when he went to his desk to pour himself a glass of water, he discovered that a letter had been hidden under the exquisite crystal glass.

There was no postmark, and no signature.

François squinted and glanced back at the heavily guarded men at the door.

"Has anyone come in just now?"

"Your Excellency, only one Judgment Knight came in to clean the room," the guard replied respectfully.

"The Knight of Judgment?" François waved for the guards to leave and closed the door.

He did not panic, nor did he order a search.

At his level, he naturally knew that there were some rats in this world that couldn't be stopped, such as the all-pervasive Anmi Society.

He sat back on the sofa and, by the light of the fire, opened the envelope.

The letter paper was rough, and the handwriting was crooked and twisted, as if a child had written it with their left hand. There were also many misspellings and character annotations in the middle, but this did not prevent him from understanding the contents.

The letter contained information about the Black Knights, and it was very detailed. For example, it stated that the appearance of the Black Knights would inevitably be accompanied by the destruction of heretics, and that the Black Knights would not obey anyone except the Archbishop.

An ordinary person might have been surprised and suspicious upon seeing this letter, but François simply read every word without expression and then casually tossed the letter into the fireplace in front of him.

The flames licked at the letter, turning it to ashes in an instant.

"A childish tactic." François took a sip of hot tea, watching the flickering flames.

This letter couldn't have been written by Gray; that old barbarian couldn't write something so convoluted. It was most likely written by that kid named Moen.

"What a pity, young man."

François muttered to himself, "Some roads, once you've embarked on them, even if you know they're wrong, you can only keep walking without looking back."

He knew, of course, what the black-armored knight had come for, and he also knew that the archbishop had left him no way out on his chessboard.

He was simply the first among them to understand the archbishop's meaning and propose a plan. All he did was prolong his own death, and he knew this from the beginning.

"But what can we do?" François looked out the window at the dark night sky.

"Tomorrow..." He closed his eyes, and the image of two young men sharing a pot of wine in a corner of the training ground on that snowy night forty years ago flashed through his mind.

"What would you do, old friend?"

Under the same night sky, Gray was also awake.

He sat leaning against the dying campfire, a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

This was something a newsboy had slipped into his pocket yesterday when he was buying wine in town; the newsboy pretended to fall and slipped it into his pocket.

By the dim light of the fire, Gray read the contents of the letter over and over again.

The handwriting was strong and vigorous, though it trembled slightly, but he recognized it all too well; it was François's handwriting.

The letter was short, without any small talk or insincere apology.

It detailed all the defensive deployments for tomorrow's ceremony, the positions of the black-armored knights, and the overall picture of the archbishop's plan.

"Arya was branded with a mental mark by the Archbishop when she was young. During tomorrow's ceremony, the Shadow of Judgment will activate the mark within her and control her to use the relic [Scales of Judgment] on you."

The Scales of Judgment are sacred objects that have been passed down since the founding of the religion.

Once activated, the sins of both sides will be weighed and judged, and the side with more sins will receive a fatal blow from the sacred object.

Gray's hand trembled slightly.

Using the hands of his most beloved disciple, he conducted a trial directly in front of everyone through the scales of judgment.

The result is obvious: Gray is undoubtedly the one with more sins.

Because the ring of judgment never represents fairness.

The letter contained no words urging Grey to escape, because François knew better than anyone that Grey would not run away.

Just as Gray knew François wouldn't turn back.

These two people, who had fought each other their entire lives, reached a strange and tacit understanding in the final moments of their lives.

The letter ended with only four neatly written characters.

Live well.

There was no signature.

Gray smiled, took out the old flask that had been with him for forty years from his pocket, and gently stroked the bottom of the flask.

There was a line of small, worn-out words, yet still clearly legible: [To my dearest friend, Grei – François]

He placed the wine jug at the end of the letter.

The inscription engraved on the metal perfectly overlapped with the blessing on the letter, spanning forty years and providing a complete ending to the letter.

"Are you living well?" Gray looked up at the snowflakes dancing in the air, his eyes slightly moist.

He raised the wine jug and offered a distant toast to someone in the void:

"Ah...you too."

"Old buddy."

-----------------

François Valen did not fall asleep.

He sat in front of the fireplace, holding a glass filled with a dark red liquid.

That's Wolf Blood Wine.

"cough……"

The spicy liquid slid down his throat, causing François to cough violently.

Since becoming the disciplined bishop, he hadn't touched this thing for over a decade.

But tonight, he wants to drink.

"boom!!"

A loud crash suddenly came from downstairs, followed by the clanging of metal against metal and the screams of a knight.

François paused slightly in the hand holding the wine glass, but did not show any surprise.

He downed the remaining wine in his glass, then casually tossed the glass into the fireplace, watching it shatter in the flames.

"So they still came...?"

He sighed, took the bishop's red robe, a symbol of authority, from the coat rack and draped it over his shoulders. Then he walked to the wall and took down the bishop's personal scepter.

"I thought you would really wait until tomorrow's ceremony to make your move, as you implied in the letter."

François gripped the scepter, feeling the cold touch of it in his palm.

"That's true, if you can hold back, then you're not that wild wolf from the North."

As François, leaning on his scepter, descended the stairs, the lobby on the first floor was already a mess.

More than a dozen fully armed elite Judgment Knights lay on the ground, some clutching their chests and groaning, others unconscious. Without exception, their armor was covered in huge dents.

In the center of the hall, there was only one person standing.

Gray carried the black greatsword with one hand and grabbed a knight by the collar with the other, tossing him away like trash.

The knight crashed into the wall and slid to the ground without even letting out a scream.

"You expect this bunch of trash to stop me?" Gray turned around and looked at François on the stairs.

"I never expected it."

François stopped on the last step of the stairs, looked at the wounded scattered on the ground, and a nostalgic smile appeared on his face.

"But as a bishop, a certain pomp and circumstance is necessary when traveling, otherwise I won't appear dignified enough, will I?"

"Where is Arya?" Gray didn't reminisce. He slowly raised his greatsword, the tip pointing directly at François's throat.

"You're still the same as ever, no plan, no backup plan, just recklessly charging ahead." François shook his head.

"You're not going to tell me?" Gray grinned.

"Then I'll have no choice but to beat you until you submit."

Before he could finish speaking, Gray vanished instantly, followed by a deep roar.

With that roar, Gray's originally aged body instantly swelled up, his dark red blood energy boiled as if it were a tangible substance, his pupils turned into vertical beast eyes, his canines grew outwards, and grayish-white fur grew wildly from his neck.

"【Law - Refusal】!"

François remained calm. Although he had neglected to hone his combat skills, he knew Gray all too well.

He slammed his scepter heavily on the ground, and a golden ripple instantly spread out, solidifying the air in front of him into a tangible wall.

"when!!"

The heavy sword slammed into the invisible wall with a loud bang, causing the golden wall to tremble violently and instantly become covered with cracks.

Gray's arms bulged with veins as he exerted even more force.

"Splash!"

The defensive spells were brutally shattered.

But taking advantage of this momentary delay, François had already completed the second technique.

"【Discipline - Gravity Shackles】!"

A black light shone from the top of the scepter, and Gray felt his body sink, causing his movements to falter for a moment.

In that instant, François did not create distance, but instead lunged forward!

The scepter in his hand whistled through the air as it slammed down at an extremely tricky angle towards Gray's ribs.

Gray had no choice but to parry with his sword, and the two instantly engaged in a fierce battle.

One is a berserker with immense strength who can send bricks flying, and the other is a mage who is proficient in the laws but insists on engaging in melee combat.

A minute later, the two clashed again, and the enormous recoil sent them both flying.

Gray slid backward several meters before regaining his balance, his greatsword carving a deep furrow in the ground.

His clothes were torn, and his exposed chest had several charred marks, which were burns from the magic of the law.

François, on the other hand, was in an even more sorry state.

He leaned against a broken stone pillar, his scepter trembling slightly. His once impeccably dressed red robe was now tattered, and a trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth.

Gray straightened up, casually wiping the blood from his face. Looking at the panting François, a hint of pity flashed in his eyes, but he still said sarcastically, "What, you're done after just a few moves?"

"François, have you spent the last few decades on women's bellies? You've neglected your exercise."

François swallowed hard, wanting to retort, but found he barely had the strength to speak.

He didn't know why, but he just wanted to fight Gray again, even though it was unwise, but he enjoyed the fight very much.

"Hand over Arya." Gray, sword in hand, approached step by step. "This is your last chance to atone."

"Atonement?" François gave a bitter laugh, and just as he was about to speak, the floor-to-ceiling window on the second floor suddenly shattered.

A massive, dark figure crashed heavily between the two, raising clouds of dust.