"Enough."
The laughter broke apart as if struck by something invisible.
The voice itself was small—fragile, almost soft—but it carried a weight that pressed down on everyone who heard it. It did not shout. It did not demand. Yet somehow, it commanded.
Allen turned toward the sound at once.
Standing near the steps was a tiny figure, her small body trembling with emotion. Elena's cheeks were puffed with anger, her hands clenched into fists so tight they shook. Her eyes were burning—not with childish defiance, but with something raw and fierce.
The moment Allen felt that gaze, his blood ran cold.
It was the same fear.
The same instinctive terror he felt whenever his mistress grew truly angry.
Without thinking, Allen released his grip.
The sword slipped from his hand and struck the stone steps with a sharp clang, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. He moved quickly, panic flashing through his mind. If Elena lost control here—if she revealed herself—then everything her parents were enduring would be for nothing.
But before Allen could reach her, Elena spoke.
Her voice shook. It wavered, caught between tears and anger, yet she forced it to stand firm.
"Elena… Papa will reach the top," she said, her voice shaking, barely holding together.
"Elena's Papa is strong."
Her words cracked at the end, almost breaking into a sob.
The crusaders exchanged glances.
Then laughter returned—crueler than before.
"Look at this toddler," one of them sneered.
"She really thinks her father can reach the top."
Another scoffed.
"Not even trained guards can climb those
stairs carrying heavy loads. And she believes that man will make it?"
Laughter rippled through the group—but it no longer sounded confident.
Something had changed.
Outside the church grounds, the crowd had split in two. One group mocked openly—the same men who had placed bets on Yuuta's fall. The other group remained silent, their faces tense, already preparing water and cloth, just in case he somehow reached the top.
The laughter cut deeper than words.
Elena's shoulders shook violently as she broke down.
Her lips trembled.
"No…" she whispered.
"Papa is strong."
Her voice rose as tears spilled freely.
"Papa beat bad guys alone in the mall. Papa saved people many times. Papa will reach the top!"
No one listened nor show any interest.
"He saved people," she sobbed, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
"He saved me so many times!"
She tried to defend him with every memory she had, every moment where Yuuta had been her hero. But the mocking eyes only grew colder.
Sharper.
Crueler.
The crusaders only looked down at her.
Not with anger.
Not with fear.
With mockery.
Their eyes were cold, dismissive—eyes that saw her as nothing more than noise. Useless. Small.
Elena's breath hitched.
It was the first time in her life she had ever seen that kind of gaze.
Something inside her cracked.
The pressure became unbearable.
Her sobs grew louder, raw and unrestrained, as she covered her face with both hands and rubbed at her eyes like any frightened toddler. Her shoulders shook violently as her cries echoed across the stone steps.
"Papa will reach the top!" she wailed.
"He will! He will!"
But the laughter did not stop.
And that was when her voice changed.
"Humans…" she whimpered.
"Humans are bad…"
The words slipped out between sobs, broken and shaking.
Her cry rang through the church grounds, carrying something far heavier than a child's pain. Allen felt it like a knife driven straight into his chest.
His eyes darkened.
That sound—
It was the sound of a child seeing the truth of the world for the first time.
A child learning what humanity looked like when it laughed at suffering.
Elena cried harder, hiccups shaking her small body.
"Papa said humans are good," she sobbed.
"Papa said they are kind…"
Her voice cracked completely.
"Papa is a liar," she cried, clutching her chest.
"I hate humans!"
The words fell like shattered glass.
Around her, the laughter faltered.
Some of the crusaders shifted uncomfortably, their earlier laughter dying in their throats. Others fell completely silent, unable to meet the sight before them.
Elena was crying.
The sound of it was small, broken, and painfully sincere. Her chest heaved as tears streamed down her face, the same suffocating feeling clawing its way back into her heart—the feeling she had once known in the Kingdom of Altanis, where people had looked at her not as a child, but as something lesser. That memory returned like a blade, reopening wounds she had never truly healed. Her hands trembled as the weight of that past crushed her fragile heart.
She wiped at her eyes again and again, but the tears would not stop.
When she cried that humans were bad, several crusaders flinched. Her words struck deeper than any accusation, because they carried no hatred—only the painful honesty of a child who had just learned something she never should have. Shame spread across many faces. They had laughed moments ago, yet now they stood exposed, confronted by the consequences of their cruelty.
But not everyone felt remorse.
Those who had placed bets showed nothing but irritation, as though her tears were an inconvenience rather than a wound they had caused.
Before the silence could grow heavier, several maids rushed forward and gently lifted Elena into their arms. They held her close, whispering soft reassurances, trying desperately to wrap her in warmth and safety. Elena clung to them, burying her face in their clothes, her sobs muffled as she cried out everything she could no longer hold inside.
Around them, other maids and crusaders burned with anger. Their gazes turned sharp as they stared at the filthy group still lingering near the betting circle—twelve of them, led by their knight captain, unmoved and unapologetic.
Allen stood frozen.
His hands trembled as he clenched them into fists.
For the first time in his life, he felt rage—pure, uncontrollable rage. Elena was the child of his master and mistress. She was the one who called him Uncle Allen. That bond pierced his heart now, making it ache unbearably as he watched her break.
His furious gaze snapped toward the balcony.
"Great Sage."
But his eyes met nothing.
The old man was gone.
Only Father Nelson remained, standing alone above, silent and unmoving.
No orders came.
And without them, Allen could do nothing.
The restrictions bound him like invisible chains, leaving him helpless—forced to endure the unbearable sight of a child crying while the world stood divided between shame and cruelty.
Meanwhile, Yuuta continued to climb.
More than three hours had already passed. In theory, the ascent should have taken no more than two. But theory meant nothing under this merciless sun. The heat pressed down on him like an unseen weight, and the burden in his arms made every step crueler than the last. Carrying Erza in a princess hold was never meant for an ordinary human body—certainly not for one already pushed beyond its limits.
At last, he reached the halfway point.
Only half remained.
Yet Yuuta's body was already standing at the edge of collapse. His breath came ragged, shallow, each inhale scraping his lungs. Strangely, he wasn't even sweating anymore—a terrifying sign. The decision to remove his shoes earlier now returned to punish him. With every step, his bare feet burned against the stone, the pain so intense it felt as though he were walking straight into death itself.
Erza watched silently.
She could do nothing.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked at Yuuta's face—at the way his jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed in grim resolve. This was not the Yuuta who joked, not the one who teased her with gentle smiles. This was a man stripped bare of everything except determination—a man trying to prove something, not to the world, but to the woman in his arms.
She wanted to stop him.
She wanted to scream at him to put her down.
But his expression stopped her. There was no hesitation there. No doubt. Only an unyielding will.
Then—something changed.
His face shifted, just for a moment. The strength faltered, replaced by something hollow. Something hopeless.
Erza felt it before she understood it.
The smell reached her nose—iron, sharp, unmistakable.
Blood.
Her heart skipped as she looked down.
Yuuta's feet were bleeding.
Blood flowed from the torn flesh, trailing down the steps like water leaking through cracks in stone. Each step smeared it further, a silent testament to how far he had pushed himself. Horror seized her entire being, her vision blurring as she stared at the damage he had never shown.
"Yuuta…!"
Her arms tightened around his neck as she began to cry, fear spilling over uncontrollably.
"Stop… please stop. You're bleeding."
Her voice shook violently, panic clawing at every word.
"You'll die like this… please…"
She was afraid—truly afraid—that he would collapse, that his body would simply give out and leave him broken at her feet.
But Yuuta didn't answer.
He didn't slow down.
He didn't even look at the blood.
He just kept climbing.
Many of the crusaders were still watching able to see blood steps from distance.
But something had changed.
One by one, regret crept into their hearts. The laughter faded. The betting tables stood abandoned, coins left where they had fallen. Some of the crusaders moved toward the top of the staircase, forming a line as if guided by instinct rather than reason.
They waited there—not as spectators anymore, but as witnesses. A few poured water onto the stone steps, watching it rush downward, praying it would reach him, praying it would cool the burning path even a little.
But it never did.
The distance was too great. The heat too cruel. Long before the water could reach the lower steps, it hissed and vanished, turning into pale steam that rose into the air and disappeared.
Hope shattered like glass.
Fear took its place.
The crusaders stared down in silence, hearts tightening as the realization struck them all at once—this beautiful couple might die here today. Not in battle. Not by judgment. But by the weight of cruelty and pride.
With no idea how else to help, desperation overtook them. One by one, they lowered their heads and clasped their hands together. Swords were forgotten. Pride was forgotten. Titles meant nothing now.
They prayed.
Not as warriors. Not as men of the church.
But as frightened humans begging God Himself to spare the souls climbing those endless stairs.
Below, the maids had clasped their hands together.
They prayed.
Not loudly, not proudly—just desperate whispers sent toward the heavens. Every eye remained fixed on the lone figure climbing upward, on the man who refused to fall no matter how cruel the world became.
From the church balcony, Father Nelson watched in silence.
He saw Yuuta's struggle clearly now—not as a trial, not as punishment, but as the journey of a man who had become the center of something far greater than himself. For the first time, Father Nelson felt it in his bones.
This was not just a test.
Yuuta had become the main character of this moment.
Erza begged him.
Tears streamed down her face, uncontrollable, unrestrained. For the first time in her life, she cried like a child—helpless, frightened, desperate—clinging to the man who refused to stop moving. Her arms trembled around his neck as her voice broke again and again.
"Stop, Yuuta… please… for God's sake, stop."
She repeated it endlessly, as if the words themselves might force his body to obey. Her voice cracked. Her chest hurt. Every breath felt heavy, crushing. Rage, fear, guilt, love—all of it collided inside her at once, tearing her apart.
She had not felt this way since her mother died.
She thought she had lost the ability to feel like this forever.
Yet now, watching the man she loved destroy himself step by step, that buried pain returned, sharper than ever.
"Stop!" she cried again, her voice trembling violently.
"I'll kill that priest if you don't stop, Yuuta! I swear I will!"
She didn't know what she was saying anymore. Threats poured from her lips without thought.
"I'll destroy this church… this world… everything—just stop!"
But Yuuta gave no response.
He didn't slow.
He didn't look back.
He climbed.
Blood poured from his torn feet, dripping onto the stone steps below. Every step left behind a crimson mark—a silent proof of devotion carved into the mountain itself. Each footprint screamed the same truth louder than words ever could.
Erza sobbed, shaking in his arms. She didn't know how to stop him. She didn't know how to save him. For all her power, all her pride, she was utterly helpless.
And then—
As if heaven itself could no longer endure the sight—
The sky answered.
To be continued…