Low-Fantasy Occultist

Chapter 451

With the magical cover stripped away, the others could finally get to work.

Devon used his steel scabbard to parry knife strikes, delivering bone-bruising counters that incapacitated the cultists before they could mount a coherent defense. The soldiers worked in concert to overwhelm the remaining enemies, helping each other and moving in lockstep, a level of coordination that held even when they used their skills, showing just how hard Darien had pushed them.

It wasn't a battle so much as a curbstomp. The cultists were bullies accustomed to preying on starving, exhausted refugees. Against a highly trained knight, a veteran ranger, and a squad of disciplined town guards, they crumbled. Within thirty seconds, eleven cultists lay groaning on the floorboards, clutching their broken ribs and bruised jaws.

In the meantime, Nick held the sphere of compressed ash around the leader's head until the man’s eyes rolled back and his knees buckled. Only then did he release the spell, letting the soot dissipate harmlessly to the ground. The gaunt man collapsed, hacking and wheezing desperately as fresh air rushed into his burning lungs.

I guess that should be enough? It’s hard to tell how much I can push it without killing him, and we need him alive for the public portion of this mission.

Though Nick was very proud of how much he’d grown, he’d found that facing weak enemies without immediately overwhelming them had become something of a common problem for him.

Usually, he’d just resort to [Spirit Blasts] until the target passed out, but this guy had a way of tapping into the ether of his own, and while it was a bit reckless, he wanted to see what the man could do.

If it becomes dangerous, I’ll stop it immediately, but it’s uncommon for me to encounter someone else who can use spiritual magic, however weakly.

As Devon stepped forward with a pair of manacles, the gaunt man’s eyes snapped open. They burned with a rabid, suicidal fervor. He knew he had lost the warehouse, his followers, and his freedom. Rather than face justice, he clearly decided to turn the building into a pyre.

He reached deep into the ether, deliberately fracturing his own mana channels to force an uncontrolled overload. The iron braziers scattered throughout the room flared violently, and the ambient heat spiked, drawing all the residual ash and latent sparks in the air toward the center.

Clearly, he was preparing to detonate himself, aiming to turn the confined space into a roaring furnace that would incinerate the guards, the Crowley heirs, and the innocent family huddled in the corner.

"Die in the flame!" the leader screamed as his skin blistered, the runaway mana rushing toward the ignition point.

Nick hummed, eyeing the broken spell with interest. It wasn’t particularly well made, but it approached fire magic from a different angle than his own, while still using zeal as the fuel, if not the fulcrum.

Still, he couldn’t justify letting it come to fruition, so he imposed his will on the physical world, weaving a sphere of spiritual wind, anchored entirely in his absolute sense of order and justice.

A suffocating stillness blanketed the warehouse.

The spiritual wind sheared the energy directly from the air, freezing the swirling ash midair. The roaring flames within the braziers stiffened, their heat violently suppressed by the conceptual weight, and the runaway mana building in the cult leader's chest hit an immovable wall and unraveled, bleeding harmlessly into the ether.

The spell died before it could even spark.

The gaunt man stared at his hands in horror, realizing his connection to the flame had been severed by a force he couldn't comprehend. Before he could do anything else, Devon crossed the remaining distance, grabbed the man by the collar, and drove a gauntleted fist into his jaw.

The leader went limp, his eyes rolling back as he slumped onto the floorboards.

"Secure them," Nick ordered, stepping past the unconscious fanatic toward the huddled family.

He dropped to one knee, filling his presence with calm to project a harmless image. The mother held her son so tightly that her knuckles were white, trembling as she stared at the armored men filling the room.

"You are safe now," Nick said gently, offering a reassuring smile. "These men are under arrest. They will not bother you or anyone else in this camp ever again.”

That seemed enough to break her composure, and the woman let out a broken sob of relief, burying her face in her son's hair. "Thank you... Thank you, my Lord.”

The guardsmen did their job quickly, hauling the incapacitated cultists to their feet and locking irons around their wrists. Devon directed a few soldiers to secure the ledgers stacked on a nearby table, along with a locked wooden chest holding extorted copper and silver.

As the squad began marching the prisoners out into the muddy street, Nick caught a flicker of movement near the rear exit. A young acolyte, his face hidden beneath a deep cowl, stepped briefly from the shadows. Without a word, he set a small, heavy velvet pouch on a stack of crates, bowed respectfully, and vanished back into the night.

Nick walked over and claimed the pouch, noticing it was made of Ghostgrass. Even through the fabric, he could feel the heat of the Crimson Basilisk's core, warming the air despite the suppression.

The Temple had honored its debt.

I’ll have to take a day off to study its makeup and prepare the correct ritual. This much power could be dangerous if I mess anything up, but it’s good to see that Marthas isn’t playing games. Or, well, not too many games.

Stolen story; please report.

The rest of the night passed in a blur as the prisoners were marched to the dungeons and locked away under heavy guard, while the stolen funds were cataloged and secured. When Nick and Devon finally returned to Crowley Manor, they found Elena waiting in her study, wide awake and clearly expecting a full report.

"The operation was a success," Devon confirmed, removing his gauntlets and setting them on the desk's edge. "No casualties among the guards or the civilians. We even secured their ledgers, which should prove they were systematically bleeding the refugee camps dry.”

Elena listened intently as Nick described the raid, including the leader's desperate suicide attempt. Her expression stayed composed, but her eyes hardened with cold fury.

"We cannot simply lock them away and forget about them," she said, tapping a manicured finger on the mahogany desk. "If the northern nobles backed this sect to test our resolve, quiet imprisonment would send the wrong message. It’d make us look weak.”

“What do you suggest, then?" Nick asked, knowing she had something in mind.

"A public trial," Elena decided. "And it must happen quickly to prevent anyone from even thinking of interfering. By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, we will hold it outside the gates, next to the refugee camps, so they might see it.”

Devon raised an eyebrow, but after a moment of thought, nodded. “I see. That would allow us to squash any unsavory rumor while looking righteous.”

"I want the refugees to understand that House Crowley’s protection extends to them, even if they are not yet formal citizens of Floria," Elena said with a thin smile. “So that everyone might see that we do not tolerate predators of any kind in our territory. Furthermore, I want the spies hiding in our lands to witness exactly what happens when they attempt to undermine our authority.”

"A spectacle requires an audience," Nick mused, catching the political angle she was aiming for. "And it would let us spin the narrative in our favor. The people would see that this isn't just a frontier Lord executing undesirables.”

After a moment of thought, he added, “We might want to invite the pillars of the community. Having them stand behind the verdict would ensure nobody could claim foul play.”

It was perhaps a bit too paranoid, but he’d had his fill of stage trials and machinations. Letting everything be known in the cleansing light of the sun would help them avoid further problems.

“Yes," Elena agreed as a sharp smile touched her lips. "I will preside over the trial, with you and Devon at my sides. We will invite our most esteemed guests to bear witness.”

Invitations were dispatched before dawn. Ogden, entirely predictably, sent back a gruff refusal, saying he had no interest in the petty theater and too much work to do. The others, however, understood the assignment perfectly.

By the time the afternoon sun began its slow descent toward the western horizon, the staging area was ready.

A wide, elevated wooden dais had been erected just outside the eastern gates, overlooking the sprawling canvas tents and timber shanties of the refugee camps.

Word had spread through the slums like wildfire, and thousands of displaced northerners, merchants, and locals pressed against the perimeter set by the town guard, all too eager to see the spectacle.

Some were there just to gauge the mettle of the ruling family, but for once, Nick welcomed their presence. This was as much to see justice done as to use these spies to send a message, after all.

Elena Crowley sat in a high-backed wooden chair at the center of the dais, looking every inch the perfect lady. She wore a tailored dress of deep navy and silver, holding herself with impeccable posture. Nick stood to her left, while Devon stood to her right in his polished armor, as was his right as the Heir.

To the side of the dais stood the invited community leaders, forming a lineup that drew just as many looks from the audience.

Arthur stood with his arms crossed over his chest. The legendary adventurer wore simple, sturdy clothes, but his sheer presence was impossible to ignore. Beside him stood Xander, wearing a dark, impeccably tailored coat. Few knew who he was, but those who did eyed him with undisguised interest.

And completing the trio was Prelate Marthas in his flowing crimson robes, projecting a serene, fatherly aura that instantly drew the eyes of the faithful in the crowd.

The message was clear. The greatest warrior of the frontier, the most deadly sword of the Royal Court, and the supreme divine authority in the West all silently endorsed House Crowley.

Once everything was in place, the town gate groaned open, and a dozen guards marched the cultists out into the sunlight.

The prisoners had been stripped of their ash-smeared robes and now wore simple burlap tunics, bound in iron chains, their faces pale and bruised. The gaunt leader walked at the front, his eyes darting nervously toward the towering figure of the Prelate.

A low, angry murmur rippled through the crowd of refugees as the men who had extorted and terrified them for weeks were brought to their knees before the dais.

Elena stood up, and the murmur died instantly, aided by a subtle manipulation of the wind by Nick.

"Citizens of Floria, and those seeking harbor within our lands," Elena began, her voice carrying clearly across the open ground without the need for magic. “Our town is a fair place, where everyone is offered a place to rebuild their lives away from whatever trouble they might be fleeing. This was true at its founding, and it is true now. In exchange, we demand only one thing: adherence to the law.”

She gestured toward the kneeling prisoners. "These men broke that covenant and preyed on the vulnerable. They used fear, violence, and the guise of salvation to line their own pockets.”

At Elena's nod, Darien stepped forward. The lieutenant directed two guards to carry a heavy wooden table and set it at the front of the dais. They emptied the locked chest onto the table, and hundreds of copper and silver coins clattered loudly, a fortune stolen from the starving. Next to the coins, they placed the branding tools and the meticulously kept ledgers.

"The evidence of their crimes is extensive," Elena declared. She turned her gaze to the heavy hitters standing to the side. "Master Arthur, as a man who has dedicated his life to defending this town, what is your assessment of these tools?”

Arthur uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, looking genuinely angry. "Those brands are meant for human flesh, spelled with magic most foul. It was a coward's weapon, wielded by men who have no place in civilized society.”

Elena nodded, turning to Xander. "Grandmaster. Your expertise in martial law is unmatched. What do these ledgers tell you?”

Surprisingly, Xander hadn’t even hesitated to accept his role in this spectacle, which only underscored how hated the cult was. "These are the meticulous accounts of a criminal enterprise. They detail quotas, extortion targets, and planned violence against those who could not pay. Under the laws of the Crown, this constitutes organized treason against the peace.”

Finally, Elena turned to Marthas. This was the most delicate moment in the theater, the moment that would defuse the political bomb the northern nobles had tried to plant. “Your Holiness, these men claim to act in the name of the Burning Path. Do they speak for your Temple?”

Marthas stepped to the very edge of the dais and looked down at the gaunt cult leader with profound sorrow. It was a masterful performance.

“The Goddess Sashara demands discipline, purity, and the protection of the innocent," Marthas said, his voice echoing with divine resonance. "These men have perverted her teachings. They have twisted the holy flame into a tool of greed and oppression. They are an insult to the faith. The Temple of Sashara formally disavows them. They hold no religious authority and are entirely subject to the secular justice of this land.”

The cult leader slumped forward as the last remnants of hope shattered when the Grand Exorcist publicly stripped away his protection.

To seal the proceedings, the mother from the warehouse was escorted up the wooden steps. She clutched her young son's hand tightly, trembling slightly as she faced the crowd of thousands.

"Tell us what happened," Elena gently encouraged her.

The woman inhaled deeply, her fear giving way to anger as she pointed a trembling finger at the cult leader. "They visited our tent weekly to take our food and the few coins we had saved. When we had nothing left, they dragged us away. They nearly burned my boy and told us no one would hear our screams.”

The crowd erupted. Any lingering apprehension among the refugees vanished, replaced by a roar for blood. Many of these people had lost their homes, livelihoods, and families to the war in the North. Seeing the parasites who had tried to exploit their misery brought to their knees ignited a collective fury that could only be quenched in one way.

Elena raised a hand, and the guards slammed the butts of their spears against the wooden dais, calling for silence.

As she looked down at the condemned men, her expression was utterly devoid of pity.

"You entered our territory, seeking to exploit those under our protection. You armed yourselves, extorted the weak, and attempted murder when the law arrived to stop you," Elena pronounced, her voice ringing with finality. "House Crowley does not tolerate parasites. I declare you agitators and enemies of the state.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch for a long moment.

"The sentence is death," Elena ruled. "To be carried out immediately."