It was now twenty-two hundred hours according to his pocket watch. Finally, his first operation in his world was set to begin.

  Marcus used [Unseen Veil] on himself and Stella. With it, they should look barely visible, and even if someone looked at them, they would be truly indistinguishable from cultists.

  Therefore, should they get caught, it wouldn’t be Marcus or Stella attacking the count; it would be deranged cultists.

  It was a bit strange seeing Stella in the cult’s attire instead of her elegant, saintly dress and cloak, though. Even her face was hidden by a white mask used by the cult.

  But she certainly was well-disguised. Just like Marcus.

  This should be a perfect false-flag attack.

  “You ready?” Marcus gently asked as he took Stella’s left hand.

  “As ready as you are, Sir Marcus.”

  “Don’t scream, okay?”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Then hold on tight.”

  With [Blink Step], the two efficiently teleported from roof to roof. Stella seized up and froze in terror throughout it, but at least she didn’t scream as she promised.

  Within a minute, they reached the count’s manor. It was near the center of the city, and it was a walled compound with two buildings inside.

  One of them was the main mansion of the count. Using [Mass Surveillance], he heard something coming from his bedroom.

  “Hehehe, you look quite ravishing tonight. Of course, this means I can’t sell you to the cult anymore, but I ought to have my fun too.”

  “S-stop! Please!”

  “Who told you that a slave has the right to speak? You’re ruining my night.”

  “Someone…sob…someone save me please—”

  “I said shut up!”

  A slap.

  Followed by laughter.

  Marcus felt his fist clenching a bit as he gritted his teeth. He needed to act now.

  Therefore, he decided to finally leave Stella on one of the nearby rooftops to keep a lookout as planned. A slave just called out for her salvation—he cannot waste time.

  And so, he made his entrance.

  He decided to drop right in front of the main estate’s lawn. The couple of maids cleaning outside immediately yelped and screamed after spotting him, which he intended.

  Time for your big test tonight, count. Let’s see if you really are working with the cult.

  To do it, he remained silent, standing at the entrance as the lord’s servants panicked and fled. A butler soon rushed out during the commotion before straightening himself upon seeing Marcus.

  “Ah,” the butler elegantly bowed. “It is you, Archbishop Langley. Please wait, I shall consult my master.”

  “...”

  Heh, it looks like you failed the first part of the test, Count.

  Marcus grinned inside. He felt his blood boiling and his adrenaline rising. It was the same feeling whenever he saw demons on the battlefield.

  The urge to kill.

  The urge to rip and tear.

  The count’s personal guards began to surround him, but none of them acted. Even the captain commanding the troops gave gestures to his men not to make any overt moves.

  It made sense. Who would want to challenge a level 75 [Necromancer]?

  The fact that your servants recognize Archbishop Hector Langley of the Death God Cult, the necromancer I killed, means you must have had a close working relationship.

  But why? Stella told Marcus earlier that this town was attacked too by the necromancer army. Why would the lord work with that guy?

  Even garbage had reasons, and he wanted to know.

  Count Richard Talsby, an old man in his fifties—more resembling that of a pale, ugly husk than a proper human being, practically prostrated himself at Marcus’ feet as he appeared at the entrance.

  “Oh! Archbishop Langley! Please come in. I did not expect you to come tonight, but I swear, I’ll accommodate you to the best of my ability!”

  Marcus turned his gaze to the soldiers surrounding him before walking into the entrance without speaking to Richard. That caused the nobleman to sweat profusely, and he began chattering to Marcus as they walked through the hallways.

  Is he trying to appease me? He seems very afraid. In any case, this is perfect. Maybe he’ll spill a lot while placating me.

  “Whatever it is you ask, I’ll provide,” Richard declared. “The goods should have arrived at your base,” he added. “I’m sure they are up to your great taste!” he continued.

  And on and on he went. From what Marcus could glean from the desperate nobleman, it seemed that the Death God Cult extorted this guy into working with them.

  Whether that was because of the attack they conducted against Almarche or because of blackmail, Marcus didn’t exactly know.

  But what he did know was that he was trash.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  So he kept his mouth shut, allowing the nobleman to continue with his passionate act of freely revealing the reasons why Marcus should definitely cut his head off by now.

  Not only was he working with the Death God Cult by providing them arms, food, and supplies—he was also providing them ‘ritual stock’, in other words, slaves.

  Tch. Disgusting.

  “A-about the elf [Saint],” that finally made Marcus stop. They just entered the nobleman’s living room. It was spacious, most likely capable of entertaining upwards of a dozen guests.

  “...”

  Stella? Why is he talking about Stella?

  “Have you enjoyed her?” Richard tried to awkwardly joke, giggling a bit. “I know we both suffered heavy casualties ‘acquiring’ her, but she must be worth it, no? Her beauty alone makes me long for her…ah, but only you, Archbishop, only you deserves her.”

  The room’s temperature dropped. More sweat came down from the nobleman’s brow, while Marcus remained standing still.

  His gloved hand moved to his left, gently touching the underside of a table beside him. Then, he looked down at the dust on his fingers. After taking a few seconds, he presented it to the count.

  Richard gulped.

  “...Is there a problem, Archbishop?”

  “...I’m curious,” Marcus finally decided to speak, his inhuman mask staring ominously at the man. “For a nobleman of your stature, I wonder, why is there filth here?”

  Filth? What did you just…?

  Archbishop Langley’s distorted voice caused Count Richard Talsby’s blood to boil. Did he just insult him—in his own estate?!

  “Archbishop,” Richard's voice took a more irritated tilt, his earlier fear giving way to indignation. “Are you well today?”

  “...”

  “You visited me in the dead of the night. Then you waltzed in here without saying a word. And now that you have finally decided to speak, you insulted my home?”

  “...”

  There was no reaction from Archbishop Langley. He remained as still as a wall, as if Richard’s words meant nothing to him. Such was the arrogance of the Death God Cult.

  They were deranged, unstable, and so unpredictable. But this was pushing the line too far.

  They had an agreement of mutual respect and cooperation!

  Who was he to waltz into his county without even a single one of his goons accompanying him? Had he gone insane?

  Perhaps bedding that elf turned you into a moron.

  Or the dark magic he practiced finally got through his head. That was what the Death God Cult was after all. Just a bunch of deranged degenerates with too much dark magic in their hands.

  Archbishop Langley was no different.

  If it wasn’t for the power they wielded, these fools would be a laughing stock. What was with that cloak and mask after all? Are they just a bunch of boys playing cool?

  How immature.

  But Richard tried to moderate himself.

  “Ahaha,” Richard laughed it off. “Right, perhaps you’re just a bit unwell, no? Say, how about we soothe your troubled mind with a new deal?”

  Richard rubbed his hand.

  “The last shipment by our guys has been quite good after all. Lots of pure maidens, the types your group always likes. Or if you need extra workhands to buy, I can easily sell them to you too. Or is it armor and weapons that you want?”

  “...”

  “I can give you anything, anything that you want. I can even give you a discount as a symbol of our eternal friendship! So Archbishop, why…why are you silent?!”

  Finally, soldiers began to surround the living room. It came from Richard’s orders, which he gave with a few brief gestures.

  Immediately, swords and halberds were aimed by soldiers in heavy steel armor straight at the singular cultist.

  Many seconds passed, as the man remained still, as usual. Something was definitely wrong. While Archbishop Langley was unpredictable, he wasn’t this…

  Controlled.

  Where were his erratic moves? The crazed monologues about his greatness and the diligence of his followers? Where was it? Did he change? Did he truly become a more levelheaded man?

  Then why, why, why was he so silent? Why would he break their agreement? Shouldn’t he be lecturing Richard about his lack of diligence to serve the ‘one true god’ if something was wrong?

  “What is wrong with you?!” Richard finally shouted, his blood boiling and face turning bright red. “Do you dare humiliate me, you rotten monster? Do you wish to attack Almarche again? I knew it; you cults cannot be reasoned with! What, you think I’m ‘slothful’ because I missed a shipment? What is it? What is it?!

  “...”

  The man was now surrounded by his soldiers. Richard grinned to himself. Maybe the heavens did provide him some luck today? Indeed, this was quite the perfect setup to get rid of the thorn in his side!

  Then, as he imagined how he would finally defeat this arrogant man, the Archbishop spoke.

  “...Old man, I believe you were asking me if I was unwell or not.” Archbishop Langley tilted his head slightly, his tone unchanging. “Let me ask you the same question. Are you well tonight, Lord Talsby?”

  Richard was about to erupt into another set of expletives before he would order his men to hack the cultist to death, until he picked up a strange peculiarity.

  It made him pause.

  …Archbishop Langley never referred to Richard as ‘Lord Talsby’.

  “Corporal, I’ve noticed. You were quite a hotshot when you relieved that platoon earlier. I wonder—now that you’re stronger than all of us—are you playing the hero at last?”

  Briefly, the face of Marcus’s old captain appeared. His words had always driven Marcus through the battlefield for years.

  He was his mentor. His commanding officer. One of the few who guided his desperate ass through hell.

  So, his damned words stuck in his mind.

  Marcus’ mind drifted to those slaves.

  He laughed internally as he finally answered his captain’s unanswered question.

  Perhaps you’re right. Now that I’m strong enough to do anything, why not play hero?

  But I’m no hero. A hero saves everyone by virtue of the goodness of their heart.

  I won’t. I just want to kill garbage because they make my blood boil.

  This is just a cleanup phase of the job we had in hell, nothing more.

  As the last man of the glorious expedition—the same man who killed the Death God—Marcus loved to kill those who exhibited pure evil. Now, he was once again surrounded by faces that wanted to inflict misery on good people.

  Were they even distinguishable from demons? Weren’t they the same kind of pure evil? The same kind of people that Marcus sliced, ripped, burned, and tore to shreds?

  Slavers. Rapists. Bandits. Crooks. Tyrants. Cultists. Demons. The Death God.

  They were all the same. They had to be exterminated—and only then would the glorious expedition’s crusade against the root of all evil finally end.

  And once this crusade ends, I can rest peacefully with a job well done.

  “What did you just say to me?!” The count bellowed, rage overcoming him. “You…you…you’re not him!”

  “Old man,” Marcus spoke coolly. “You seem to have confused me with someone else. Say, did you perhaps think…”

  Marcus walked a single step forward in the count’s direction, and he nearly tripped over his sofa.

  “That I’m the same garbage as the dead man you believed you were talking to?”

  “Guards!” Richard raged. “Kill him! At once! He’s just some nobody, and he’s alone! He stands no chance!”

  Marcus finally let out an amused laugh as the soldiers around him charged forward as one.

  “Your confusion entertains me.”