The witch hunters stood still, none of them moving.
The older witch hunter's brow furrowed into a tight knot as he muttered a low warning, “Just make it look convincing.”
“The Holy Court isn't blind.” Herwin turned his head, his gaze landing directly on Colin. “You do it.”
Colin snapped his head up. “Me?”
“Out of everyone here, you're probably the one who wants to hit me the most,” Herwin said. “Kid, you won't get an opportunity like this very often.”
At those words, the emotions Colin had been bottling up finally began to crack.
He stepped forward and swung a heavy fist straight into Herwin's cheek.
With a dull thud, Herwin's head snapped to the side, his lip splitting instantly.
Colin's hand froze in midair, trembling slightly.
Herwin tilted his head back, spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, and raised an eyebrow with a hint of mockery:
“Are you trying to tickle me?”
Colin grit his teeth, and his second punch landed even harder than the first.
The other witch hunters wanted to step in and stop him, but Herwin's sharp glare forced them back.
The blows rained down on his abdomen, ribs, shoulders, and back. While avoiding any vital spots, the resulting injuries looked terrifying.
Blue veins bulged on Herwin's temples.
Finally, Colin smashed a fist into Herwin's cheekbone, panting heavily as if he were the one about to collapse.
Herwin knelt in the snow, his face a bruised mess of purple and blue. Half of his face was swollen high, and the blood trickling from his temple ran down his cheek, dripping onto the snow.
Isolde watched for a moment, feeling that if this went on any longer, his health bar would be completely depleted. She spoke up:
“That's enough.”
Colin stopped, but his hand was still shaking.
Herwin looked up at him, his voice raspy. “Now that you're done, wipe away your tears and act like a man.”
Colin whipped his head away and sniffled hard.
Isolde walked over, slipped the thin chain of a Holy Court monk over Herwin's wrists, and pressed an inquisitor's clasp taken from a corpse onto the outside of the knot.
She had used her Soul Thread to damage the inner mechanism of the clasp. As long as Herwin exerted some force, he could break free at any moment.
Herwin looked down at her movements, his breathing heavy.
“You're very skilled at this.”
“If the weak want to survive, they have to pick up a few odd skills,” Isolde replied without looking up.
“You don't look very old.”
Isolde looked up, her hands never stopping. “Captain Herwin, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.”
Herwin stared at her lean, youthful face. The corner of his split lip twitched, forming a complicated expression.
“True enough.”
Once everything was ready, Isolde took hold of the chain and led Herwin toward the side gate of the monastery.
Suddenly, Colin shouted from behind them, “Captain! Bring my brother back alive!”
Herwin remained silent for a moment. Without turning back, he continued forward:
“By the Silver Frost as my witness, to all that I swear: destiny shall not bend, gods shall not strip away, fear not the long night, kneel not to the Holy Light, and never betray.”
Colin instinctively muttered the second half of the oath in a low voice. His eyes filled with a resolute pride as he watched the two of them disappear into the distance.
Isolde recalled that the deity worshipped by the northerners was known as the God of Silver Frost.
They placed great importance on loyalty and oaths. Once they swore an oath in the name of the God of Silver Frost, they would spend their entire lives fulfilling it, and it would even be passed down to their descendants.
It was said that to make an enemy of someone who held a Frost Oath was to make an enemy of the entire Frost-Ridge Northern Alliance.
Thus, people often compared holding a "Frost Oath" to becoming a "Demigod," debating which of the two was more difficult.
But the debate always ended without a clear conclusion.
Precisely because the territorial feud between the Frost-Ridge Northern Alliance and the Holy White City dated back to ancient times, minor and major conflicts constantly erupted along the border. Both nations sought to annex the other, holding nothing but mutual disdain.
Herwin walked very slowly.
He was injured. Although no bones were broken, he had taken several punches to the abdomen, and his breathing was visibly strained with pain.
Midway, his figure stumbled, and he let out a low groan.
“The little brat really didn't hold back.”
Isolde kept her eyes straight ahead. “He didn't break your leg bones, so I'd say he was being quite respectful.”
Herwin panted as he looked at her. “You really... know how to comfort people.”
“I usually only comfort those on the verge of death.”
“So I don't qualify yet?”
“I assume you wouldn't want to hear it anyway.”
Herwin scoffed, which agitated his wounds, making his expression darken even further.
Walking one after the other through the snow, they drew closer and closer to the side gate of the monastery.
The protective wards flickered in and out of sight before them, reflecting on the holy lantern in Isolde's hand.
The wick flickered gently, as if in resonance, and a gap opened in the ward, allowing them to pass.
She lowered her eyes, adjusted her breathing, and actively enhanced her disguise ability to lower the guard of anyone with intelligence lower than hers.
Herwin sensed the subtle change and whispered:
“Are you casting a spell?”
Isolde was slightly surprised. She hadn't expected Herwin to notice. Considering his previous wariness and scrutiny, his intelligence was likely quite high.
“A little trick to keep myself alive.”
“Does it work on me too?”
“If you want to shout for help right now, you're welcome to try.”
Herwin let out a cold laugh and said nothing more.
He simply felt that this woman in front of him, despite her young appearance, was remarkably calm.
Soon, two guarding Holy Court knights noticed the commotion. They crossed their spears in front of the gate and shouted:
“Halt!”
Isolde paused. The lantern light illuminated her pale face as she panted, her voice raspy from fleeing.
“This is bad! After capturing this intruder, the outer patrol was ambushed by an unknown force... So many people are dead.”
The expressions of the two knights shifted. One of them immediately looked at Herwin.
“He's the intruder?”
Isolde yanked the chain, forcing Herwin to stumble half a step forward.
“Yes, a Northern Witch Hunter.”
The other knight stepped closer, examining the old scars on Herwin's face under the dim light. He suddenly gasped:
“He looks like Herwin Hartmann!”
Hearing this, Herwin slowly raised his head. Even with half his face bruised and swollen, his eyes remained as sharp as steel blades dipped in ice.
Forced back by the powerful pressure, the two knights instinctively retreated half a step.
One of them looked at Isolde and asked, “Where is your patrol badge?”
Isolde's heart tightened. She didn't have a patrol badge.
The corpses had the holy lantern and robes, but no patrol badges.
They had probably been taken by the Black Tower warlocks, or perhaps they had fallen into the snow and been overlooked.
She lowered her head, her shoulders shrinking slightly. Catching sight of her shadow flickering under the light for a split second, she blurted out:
“It was swallowed by the shadow.”
The knight frowned, “What?”
Isolde raised her injured palm.
As the light of the holy lantern hit the scorched mark, a faint burn from the holy glow became visible around its edges.
“My badge and the shadows of the two monks were all swallowed by that Black Tower warlock. I only managed to salvage the holy lantern and this prisoner.”
The knight looked at her hand. Their fear of the Black Tower's shadow arts was clearly far greater than any suspicion they had toward a low-level monk.
Herwin suddenly let out a raspy laugh. “If those bastards from the Black Tower hadn't ambushed and heavily injured me, you useless pieces of trash would never have gotten the chance to take the credit.”
“Shut up!” the knight barked.
Herwin's smile grew colder, his eyes staring at them with sinister intensity:
“Want to kill me? Go ahead. The moment you do, my vengeful soul will crawl right down your throats, corroding you from the inside out until you become pus-dripping walking corpses.”
This threat was highly effective.
The knights' faces turned pale. None of them dared to handle Herwin Hartmann on their own; after all, he was the son of the witch hunter leader.
Moreover, rumors said that when a witch hunter died, their soul would not easily dissipate because of their oath, and they would continue to fight for their beliefs.
Such a high-profile figure could trigger a war if handled incorrectly.
He had to be judged by the Silver-Robed Inquisitor before his ultimate fate could be decided.
One of them turned around and called out to those inside.
“Take the prisoner to the Discipline Office. I'll report this to the Silver-Robed Inquisitor.”
The two knights grabbed Herwin from both sides.
Herwin didn't resist. As he passed Isolde, his shoulder subtly bumped into her, as if venting his frustration at being a "prisoner."
In that split second, a small bottle of recovery potion slid from Isolde's sleeve, landing precisely in his bound palms.
Herwin's fingers curled imperceptibly, hiding the bottle in his hand.
“Well done.”
The knight walked past Isolde, casually tossing over his shoulder, “The Holy Court will remember your contribution.”
Isolde bowed her head submissively, her tone pious:
“May the Holy Light illuminate us.”
This was a short prayer she had seen in the pamphlet taken from the corpse.
The knight looked at Isolde and pointed in the opposite direction:
“You've just returned from the brink of death and have been tainted by impurity. Now, go receive your baptism.”
Rate on N.U.
