Kal'tsit watched the scene expressionlessly. For someone of her age, such events had long since become mundane, everyday occurrences.
The battle-hardened Sarkaz mercenaries appeared utterly powerless before a Mon3tr that was swift yet lost none of its strength. This was especially true since Mon3tr had prioritized eliminating the casters, who posed the greatest threat.
"I am quite curious. You are clearly from Kazdel, one of Her Majesty's most trusted subordinates. Why have you chosen to act as a dog for the Sankta now, even going so far as to eliminate fellow Sarkaz for them?"
Seeing that there was no longer any possibility of escape, the mercenary captain chose to provoke Kal'tsit. Since he was going to die anyway, he might as well say whatever he wanted. Perhaps she would draw closer out of anger, giving him a slim chance at a counter-kill. Though the thought was absurd, in this situation, no method—no matter how improbable—was worth testing. After all, the worst that could happen was death, so what was there to fear?
"I see much further than you do, and you are in no position to criticize my actions. Having taken money from several nations simultaneously, you are hardly as noble as you claim."
"You... how on earth do you know what I've done in secret? Don't tell me you are the mastermind behind all of this..."
The Sarkaz looked at the white Feline in disbelief. It felt as though every one of his actions had been seen through by her.
"Hmph... I am omniscient."
As the words fell, Mon3tr's claws pierced the heart of the Sarkaz before her. The Sarkaz captain collapsed to the ground, his breath fading, his face frozen in an expression of total disbelief.
Kal'tsit did not concern herself with the disposal of the bodies; the old man at Azazel would surely send someone to clean up the battlefield. She had only intervened for the sake of her own interests. Furthermore, if these Sarkaz were allowed to do something brainless, and the Sankta—once their hands were free—decided to march on Kazdel again, it would be a loss for Babel. When war broke out, those Sankta wouldn't care which army you belonged to; as long as your race was Sarkaz, they wouldn't let you off.
"This... how is this possible! How has someone like this lived until now? Given his condition, shouldn't he have died long ago?"
The Sankta guard looked at Judas with utter disbelief, as if he were looking at a monster he had never seen before.
After entering the room, Judas had removed his outer clothing, revealing a body so ravaged by Originium that his skin was almost entirely invisible. According to modern medical analysis of Oripathy, someone in Judas's condition should have exploded into a pile of Originium long ago. Yet, based on the conversation just now, the old man's health seemed decent!
How was this achieved? He had never heard of a Sankta being able to resist erosion of this level... no, even the Sankta Infected he knew had never reached this stage of the disease.
"That you are alive to speak with me is truly a blessing from God... I have honestly never seen an Infected like you. Do you still have any functioning organs? I think that old car I cobbled together at home has more parts than you."
The Pope and Judas had not seen each other for many years. In his memory, Judas was merely a Fallen Angel with a diamond-shaped Originium cluster on his arm. But looking at him now, he could easily be mistaken for an Originium creature. If those people in Columbia discovered his existence, they would likely send troops to kidnap him for research. They might even use him for human experimentation to create some dangerous weapon.
"A blessing from God? It feels more like a punishment from God! If it weren't for the revelation a while ago, I would have been immobile for years. What kind of blessing is that?"
Judas recalled his former self; back then, his legs had turned into Originium, and he had completely lost the ability to move. He clearly should have died, yet it felt as though death had been denied to him. Judas believed this was a punishment, for in that state, even he felt that dying would be a mercy. But he could not commit suicide; he could only wait for a death that seemed like it would never come.
"But you're right. Even the scrap metal in a junkyard has better parts than I do now. Azazel has studied this body of mine for years and hasn't found anything of value."
Looking at the pile of stones on his body, everyone who saw him thought it was a miracle of nature. Only Judas understood that this was actually caused by God not allowing him to die.
"..." The Pope looked at his old friend in this state, unsure of what words of comfort to offer. Though that "incident" had happened, the friendship still remained.
"You should have personally witnessed the legendary Saint by now. What kind of person is she? Is she truly the Saint of legend?"
Before the Pope could speak, Judas asked about Jeanne first. It seemed this Fallen Angel, who had left Laterano so many years ago, had still not abandoned his faith.
"Aren't you right here in the Azazel clinic? She's been staying here so long; didn't you go see for yourself? You're a very incompetent leader; I was going to ask you about the Saint."
The Pope couldn't help but let out a small smile, as if mocking Judas's helplessness.
"Cut the talk. If I could go out and investigate the Saint, would I be asking you? There is too much Originium in my body; right now, just getting close to the clinic makes my entire body ache."
As he spoke, Judas patted his "aged stone leg," indicating that his condition prevented him from going to crowded places, let alone going to Azazel to see what kind of person she was with his own eyes.
"Besides, I told you, I transferred the leadership of Azazel to someone else long ago. I am merely an Infected now; I can't think of any way to get close to her."
"...She is indeed the Saint. I can guarantee you that. If you still don't believe it, you can go see her yourself. I doubt the Saint would look down on you just because you are an Infected and a Fallen Angel."
The Pope looked at the old man lingering on like cooling embers, his heart filled with countless sighs. He could only lament that time was truly a sharp tool for grinding people down.
"This stuff has a miraculous effect on conditions like yours. It can make your remaining days a bit easier. But use it sparingly; I don't have much stock left."
Saying this, George took out two small vials of Holy Water and handed them to the old man. A hint of heartache could be seen on his face. The Church had only been willing to give him these two small vials because of his years of hard work as Pope. This was Holy Water gifted to Laterano by the Saint; it was meant to be enshrined.
"Holy Water? This hasn't worked on my body for a long time... Where did you get a treasure of this grade? As far as I know, Laterano has no way of producing Holy Water like this anymore!"