“Oh honey,” Pascal stood before the towering, half-beheaded holy pigeon with effortless grace. One hand rested near her lips, not to shield

  “Oh honey,” Pascal stood before the towering, half-beheaded holy pigeon with effortless grace. One hand rested near her lips, not to shield shock, but to mask a sadistic smile as she watched it flail—like a helpless chick searching in vain for its absent mother.

  Even though Pascal remained calm, the [Holy Energy] radiating from the half-roasted bird expanded—raw and unrelenting, not unlike the twenty-four spices from her favorite chicken dish. The comparison was absurd, yet it surfaced anyway, perhaps because the creature’s wounds were severe, flirting with death. The situation hung by a thread. One misstep, one ounce too much pressure, and it would die before giving answers she sought—an outcome as irritating as useless.

  “Let… me… free… you vermin!” the holy pigeon screeched, thrashing with renewed fury. Wings beat against unseen restraints, muscles trembling with effort, a futile rebellion—its strength waning against a fate already sealed.

  “Struggle all you like,” Pascal’s voice sweet as sugar and twice as cruel, clearly relishing the sight of a divine beast ensnared in her domain. “But the moment you get serious—well, I’ll have no choice but to play rough too~”

  Clenching her fist tighter, Pascal’s domain bore down with calculated pressure from all angles, grinding the plump village-sized feast deeper into the earth with ruthless efficiency. The control she wielded over such overwhelming power made it seem like she was toying with a [Level 1] creature, not restraining a [First Conjecture] holy beast.

  ‘Credit where it’s due,’ Pascal mused. The only reason she could afford to treat this with such casual finesse was because the children had already brought the beast to the brink—facing it at full strength, the “battle” would’ve unfolded in very different ways—though no doubt, still victorious.

  “You dare betray… ugh! The sacred church!” the pigeon gasped, its voice cracking under the weight of panic. Whatever divine thunder once laced its tone was gone—remained the squawk of a cornered zealot clinging to crumbling authority.

  Pascal strode toward one of the few motionless children—face down in the dirt, still tainted with traces of [Wild Demonic Energy]—waving off whatever feeble threats were tossed her way. “Please,” she scoffed, flicking her hand to send nearby soldiers stumbling backward like weightless debris, clearing her a path. “Betrayal? Save that sermon for the Saint who turned this island into something far worse than necessary.”

  Fear? Of the church? Hardly. Even setting aside their unwillingness to spark a crusade so far from their capital, Pascal had new allies now—Moorgrel. Known for their famed loyalty and reciprocal generosity, these canine-blooded nobles wove such traits into the fabric of their households and politics. By saving their cherished offspring, Pascal had earned more than thanks—she’d secured a lifelong bond, provided she upheld her end. History told of Guard Households who had mobilized entire western and northern legions in response to a single ally’s call, one being the Nightmare in defense of the Eros Alliance. She wasn’t worried.

  ‘I remember you, old pal,’ she murmured, pulling out a concentrated healing potion as her thoughts drifted to her days as an adventurer. She recalled a foxkin thief—flexible morals and greedy, yet loyal to a fault when it mattered most. In her darkest moments, he had stood beside her, and in doing so, taught her the quiet, brutal truth: genuine friendship wasn’t about purity or reputation, but about presence when it counted. That lesson stayed with her—not a piece of political calculus, but a truth etched deeper than any alliance: the difference between allies and genuine friends.

  With practiced ease, she uncorked the potion with her teeth, casting a sharp glance at the wary soldiers nearby. “How about you dedicated soldier’s focus on healing…” she paused, frowning slightly as she glanced down at the mangled figure beside her—the wounds were so severe, it was impossible to tell who it even was. “Your leaders, I suppose?”

  Most of the gathered soldiers exchanged uncertain glances before rummaging through their packs for high-grade healing potions. The elixirs wouldn’t perform instant miracles, but over the next thirty to sixty minutes, they would steadily coax the most critically wounded back from the brink.

  “Now then, let’s see who you are, little… person~” Pascal cooed, pouring the shimmering liquid generously over the battered body. The potion shimmered with a silvery hue, absorbing ambient light as it slicked across torn flesh and splintered bone. One vial barely made a dent, so she added three more without a second thought—luxuries she fully intended to bill Alexander for later, naturally.

  ‘Talk about convenient timing to switch side,’ Pascal mused, watching as the flesh knit clumsily over broken bone, leaving behind a latticework of ugly, hastily woven scars.

  For many, politics was a deadly game, rooted in one fundamental pursuit—power. Control over land and people reigned supreme. But Pascal hadn’t become a Dame for that. Her reasons were idealistic: to open the world to her mostly isolated people, to show them the vast possibilities awaiting bold, ambitious minds. A true idealist, through and through. Yet governance proved far messier than she had ever imagined—chaotic, riddled with conspiracies, tainted by selfishness and greed at every turn.

  ‘I’m just as greedy, aren’t I?’ Pascal chided herself, though the thought carried no bitterness—a sincere wish—born of someone who had scraped for every morsel. Wealth meant little to her; she could always return to adventuring and earn more than most nobles ever imagined. Her desire was for others to have that same freedom—to experience Orbis and all its people in their true glory.

  Dreams were just that—ephemeral. As a member of the Essence Alliance council, Pascal knew she would eventually have to cede parts of her “hard-won” territory to aging bureaucrats who would squander its potential. Yet her instincts urged her toward a different path: alliance with Alexander. His canine heritage made him inherently loyal and reliable, but it was his razor-sharp intellect—almost too clever for this world—that truly intrigued her. He was the ideal partner: dependable by nature, but with the spark of otherworldly invention that hinted he might very well be a transmigrator.

  As she opened the fifth potion, watching the children struggle to heal like delicate mimosas in a frost—perhaps due to lack of discipline—Pascal’s thoughts churned beneath her calm exterior. The information she now held—likely true—was volatile enough to paint a target on Alexander’s back. ‘Better to keep the reincarnation detail to myself,’ she mused. ‘No need to kick a hornet’s nest unless I’m ready to burn it down.’

  They went by many names—transmigrators, reincarnators, isekai—souls who had perished in distant worlds only to awaken on Orbis, memories intact. Though secretive historical records overflowed with such accounts, only a rare few proved useful beyond flaunting inherited gifts and initial acceleration. Alexander, however, seemed the genuine article. And he had the immense fortune of being born into Moorgrel, where the Guard Households placed no stigma on otherworldly origins—they simply didn’t care. Family was family, blood was blood—miracles or not. A trait etched into their canine lineage, never diluted by time, which made the boy even more enticing. Even in an unfamiliar body, Alexander already embodied their most revered traits: loyalty, compassion, and unwavering support to his pack—family, friend, subject, and otherwise important bond.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  ‘Nobody escapes their blood~’ Personality shifts among transmigrators, molded by the traits of their new lineage, were expected. Alexander was no exception. While others cloaked their changes in morality or lofty ideals, he had embraced his nature without pretense. That honesty impressed Pascal—and the way his idealism echoed the instincts of a pack leader only deepened her respect.

  Pascal had crossed paths with—and outmatched—plenty who fancied themselves divine gifts to the world, reborn to rule and lead. Arrogance cloaked in talent, believing the universe owed them reverence. But Orbis was neither forgiving nor biased—but cruel and fair in equal measure. Supernatural talent and quiet training meant nothing without wisdom. Born with a conscious mind wasn’t a crown—only the beginning.

  ‘Spouting this could get him killed,’ Pascal reminded herself, recalling all too vividly what befell those discovered. Most transmigrators, once exposed, were executed on the spot or enslaved for their knowledge. Only in rare regions—Moorgrel being chief among them—did such origins provoke little more than a shrug. The Guard Dogs already operated like an unshakable wall of willpower, capable of obliterating threats through raw tenacity alone. A bit of otherworldly talent hardly moved the needle—especially with the Nightmare only all too eager to take them under her wing. Still, that didn’t mean Pascal should attract more attention to him than absolutely necessary.

  “Much better already,” Pascal remarked with clinical satisfaction as the girl beneath her twitched, tendons partly knitted back and skin drawing closed… partly. “I’d say that’s sufficient, wouldn’t you, my semi-decapitated darling?”

  Pascal sauntered toward the broken mass of feathers with unhurried confidence, eyes tracing the way its mangled head hung by a thread. The creature struggled to locate her through the sole non-locatable eye left—vision clouded, orientation lost, its sense of direction severed along with most of its neck.

  “If you so much as—gah!” The chubby bird launched into another pompous threat, only to choke mid-sentence, pain silencing bravado before reaching the climax.

  Pascal clenched her fist with theatrical slowness, steadily tightening her domain until the pigeon’s mangled form buckled further—snuffing out its complaint mid-squawk. “Yes, yes, crusade this, divine retribution that,” she drawled, voice dripping with disinterest as she admired the battlefield’s aftermath. Her gaze lingered on the worst of the bird’s wounds. “Honestly, another scratch or two and you’d be a feathered corpse. Credit where it’s due—those kids didn’t hold back. Impressive work~”

  “Thanks,” Pascal turned toward the distant voice and spotted a girl struggling to sit upright, aided gently by her loyal subordinates. Despite her battered state, there was a glimmer in her one functional eye—a tiny heart flickering like an afterimage of admiration. “We definitely owe you for this.”

  Pascal’s smile widened with genuine glee, recognizing immediately who she was addressing—Sarah M. Leonandra, future heiress of the Leonandra family and no longer just Alexander’s ‘little companion.’ The thought of the two of them fully grown amused her; Sarah would tower over him, and Pascal’s mind drifted toward entertaining possibilities about how their dynamic might evolve in the years to come.

  “Hmm,” she strolled past the holy fat pigeon without so much as a glance, her tone airy and conspiratorially warm. “Personally, I prefer my men built like siege towers—but hey, everyone has their appetites, and who am I to critique a love story~,” there was something about lightheartedness on the battlefield, a sure way to make friends in the face of death.

  “Hehe—ow!” Sarah tried to laugh at the comment, but the motion triggered a sharp wave of pain, forcing her to clutch her side. “Damn it… that still hurts.”

  A night-elf soldier swiftly stepped in, cutting off her attempt at conversation by shoving a healing potion directly into her mouth and essentially force-feeding her the remedy. “Recovery first, gratitude later,” he said, voice calm but insistent. His eyes held apparent concern as he glanced at her, then offered Pascal a respectful nod. “We’re all deeply grateful for your timely aid.”

  “I genuinely appreciate—”

  Before she could continue her diplomatic pleasantries, a string of “creative” profanity cut through the air from another direction—the voice unmistakable. “Fuck Pudgy! Let me at that bloated freak—I’ll pluck him feather by feather!”

  Lorient squirmed, her movements erratic and ineffective under the weight of her injuries. Internal trauma ravaged her frame, and half her limbs vaporized, leaving behind charred stumps and raw agony.

  “Ms. Lorient, please—you need to stay still!” one of her subordinates urged, voice tight with panic as he tried to steady her thrashing form.

  “Fuck your calm!” Lorient snarled, baring her teeth as she glared at her team, her voice more growl than words. “Get me up and drag me the fuck over there—I want Pudgy’s head in my hands! I want to personally—”

  Everyone turned as Pascal broke into unrestrained laughter, shoulders shaking with unfiltered delight. “Pudgy?!” she gasped, eyes gleaming as she faced the holy beast. “That’s really your name? Oh, that’s priceless—utterly, divinely perfect!”

  Pudgy’s emotional state surged into something resembling divine fury—though its warped, half-melted face made reading it impossible. The response came not in sound but in a blaring, telepathic roar that echoed straight into their minds. “You dare to mock my sacred designation?!”

  As Pascal’s laughter tapered off, a flicker of concern shadowed her expression. Pudgy was regenerating—slowly, but unmistakably—as its innate holy abilities began knitting flesh and sinew back together. Left unchecked, this sluggish recovery could become an infuriating obstacle, one she had no intention of tolerating.

  “Let’s wrap this up, shall we?” Pascal’s steps were unhurried, each one matched by a methodical rise in pressure that compressed the holy beast further—bone grinding against bone, radiant [Energy] flickering into unstable sparks. “Letting you regenerate would be such a tedious mistake, wouldn’t—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, every combat instinct Pascal possessed jolted to life. In an instant, her domain surged into overdrive, prioritizing the protection of herself and the wounded children. Her defenses swelled outward, forming a barricade denser than forged steel—a bulwark of pure force. Simultaneously, her muscles coiled, ready to spring in either direction to snatch a child from danger if needed. But above all, her gaze stayed locked on Sarah—the linchpin of politics, and therefore, survival.

  “By Orbis, what in the abyss is that?” Pascal’s eyes widened, the weight of genuine surprise cracking through her playful demeanor.

  What followed shattered her expectations—a bizarrely shaped spear soared in a flawless arc toward Pudgy with astonishing velocity. As it cut through the air, the rush of wind gave way to an unexpected sound: a pitiful, almost comical whimper, thin and strained, riding the weapon’s trail like a forgotten echo.

  “Heeeeeeeeeeeelp meeeeee!” the voice wailed, growing clearer—and more absurdly pitiful—as it hurtled closer, like a terrified soul strapped to a missile of divine retribution.

  The closer it flew, the more it looked like a dog-shaped spear rather than any conventional weapon—ears flapping, limbs tucked tight, covered in a layer of metallic gleam. With a sickening, meaty thump, the improvised projectile punched clean through Pudgy’s half-pulped body before slamming into the ground with a thunderous, earth-rattling boom.

  “Argh! All divine servants of justice will—” Pudgy’s telepathic cry fizzled mid-threat, its conviction crumbling into silence. Whatever fury had fueled it vanished, leaving only a hollow void where defiance once roared.

  Upon receiving the [Experience] ring—unremarkable in value, but satisfying nonetheless—Pascal finally withdrew her crushing grip on the thoroughly pulverized, face-mangled, and impaled Pudgy. The holy beast collapsed with a wet thud, its final dramatic vow of divine vengeance disregarded. She’d heard it all before, and frankly, from better zealots.

  “Well, if it isn’t a familiar snout.” Pascal approached the spear-shaped object as it shifted back into its natural, furred form, recognition lighting her expression. “You’re Alexander’s loyal mutt—and that bitch’s ever-faithful watchdog. Lili, was it?”

  Lili lay sprawled on the ground, contorted in a way that defied anatomical logic—more abstract sculpture than… whatever she was. Her dog-like form matted with dirt, grass, and what might have been divine feathers, all courtesy of her less-than-graceful airborne entrance. “Help... me...” she wheezed, every syllable dragging itself over broken breath.

  Patreon—30 and more advanced chapters for 5$

  RoyalRoad—please rate, follow, and fav!

  Discord—feel free to debate me. I am ready to go for it!