Chapter 622
Sir Santo didn’t speak. He simply raised his hand, and golden light gathered in his palm, not soft, not healing, not gentle. It was sharp, jagged, and hungry.
He struck.
The light hit the worm king’s body, and the creature screamed. A wound opened on its side, deep, jagged, smoking. The flesh around it blackened and curled, and black blood sprayed across the room.
Sir Santo struck again.
Another wound. Another scream.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each strike was precise, calculated, cruel. He aimed for the soft spots between the scales, for the joints, for the eyes. He aimed for the places that would hurt the most, that would bleed the most, that would make the creature suffer the longest.
The angels watched in horror.
"Sir Santo," one of them whispered. "What is he doing?"
"He’s killing it," another answered, her voice shaking.
"But priests don’t—they can’t—"
Sir Santo struck again.
The worm king thrashed, trying to retreat, trying to burrow into the floor, but Sir Santo’s light blocked its path. The creature slammed into an invisible wall of golden fire and recoiled, its skin blistering.
"You can’t leave," Sir Santo said.
His voice was calm. Too calm. It sent chills down the spines of everyone who heard it.
"You don’t get to leave."
He struck again.
The worm king’s blood sprayed across the room, black and thick, splattering against the walls, the ceiling, the angels’ robes.
"Sir Santo, please—" an angel begged.
Sir Santo didn’t seem to hear.
He walked toward the creature slowly, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. His wings dragged behind him, leaving trails of golden light. His halo flickered, casting strange shadows across his face.
He raised his hand again.
The light gathered.
The worm king tried to speak, tried to beg, tried to offer something, anything, to make him stop.
Sir Santo didn’t listen.
He struck.
And struck.
And struck.
Dante arrived at the door, his shadows swirling around him, his eyes taking in the scene, the worm king bleeding on the floor, Sir Santo standing over it with blood on his hands, the angels watching in horror.
"What’s happening?" Dante demanded.
No one answered.
They couldn’t. They were too shocked by what they were seeing.
Sir Santo had stopped striking. He was standing over the worm king, his chest heaving, his hands shaking. His robes were torn. His face was splattered with black blood. His eyes were still burning.
But he wasn’t moving.
He was just standing there, staring at the creature.
The worm king was barely alive. Its body was covered in wounds, its blood pooling on the floor, its breathing ragged and shallow.
"Sir Santo," Dante said carefully, stepping forward. "It’s over."
Sir Santo didn’t respond.
"Sir Santo. The creature is defeated. You can stop now."
Still nothing.
Dante took another step.
The barrier, invisible until now, pushed back against him, hot and burning.
"Sir Santo, let us through."
"No."
The word was quiet, flat, and final.
"Sir Santo—"
"No."
Dante’s shadows pressed against the barrier, but the golden light held.
"Sir Santo, I understand you’re angry. I understand you want revenge. But this isn’t—"
"You don’t understand."
Sir Santo turned to look at Dante.
His eyes were red. Not with tears. With something else. Something that looked like grief and rage and pain, all twisted together into something unrecognizable.
"You don’t understand what he took from me."
Dante was silent.
Sir Santo turned back to the worm king.
The creature whimpered.
Sir Santo raised his hand.
The light gathered.
And then a sound.
Small. Quiet. Terrified.
"Dad?"
Sir Santo froze.
Everyone turned.
Boo was held by Alina in her arms, his silver eyes wide, his body flickering, his cap tilted. He was looking at Sir Santo, at the blood on his hands, at the wounds on the worm king’s body, at the destruction around them.
"Dad?" he said again.
Sir Santo’s hand lowered.
The light faded.
"Boo," he whispered.
"What are you doing?"
Sir Santo didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stood frozen.
The angels stared at the little ghost. At the priest. At the word that had just been spoken.
Dad?
The worm king took the opportunity to flee, burrowing into the floor, disappearing into the darkness below. But Sir Santo didn’t chase it.
He could only stare at the little ghost who had called him Dad without moving.
"Sir Santo," one of the angels said slowly, "did that ghost just call you—"
"No," Sir Santo said quickly. Too quickly. "He’s confused. He calls everyone—"
"Dad?" Boo said again, floating out of shocked Alina’s grip to move closer toward Sir Santo. "Why are your hands red?"
Sir Santo looked down at his hands.
Black blood. Thick and foul.
"I’m sorry," he whispered. "I’m sorry you had to see that."
Boo tilted his head.
"Did that worm do something bad?"
Sir Santo nodded.
"Did it hurt someone?"
Sir Santo nodded again.
"Someone you loved?"
Sir Santo’s eyes filled with tears.
"Yes," he said. "Someone I loved very much."
Boo floated closer and wrapped his arms around Sir Santo’s neck.
"Then I’m glad you hurt it," he said. "But don’t be sad, okay? The person you loved wouldn’t want you to be sad."
Sir Santo held him, and the angels watched in silence.
They didn’t understand what they had just witnessed.
---
The room was frozen in a heavy, suffocating silence.
Alina stood at the doorway, her arms still half extended from where Boo had flown into her moments ago. Her heart was pounding, her mind struggling to process what she had just witnessed. The golden light. The brutal attack. The priest who had always been so calm, so composed, so gentle, transformed into something terrifying.
And then, Dad.
Boo had called him Dad.
She exchanged a glance with Gabriel, who stood behind her, his face pale, his usual easy smile completely gone. He looked as confused as she felt. Behind him, Miss Kelly pressed her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. Professor Hobb’s clipboard had slipped from his fingers and lay forgotten on the floor.
None of them spoke.
None of them knew what to say.
The angels were still gathered at the edges of the room, their wings half spread, their faces mirrors of shock. They had served Sir Santo for years, decades, some of them, and they had never seen him like this. They had never heard him speak of a son. They had never seen him lose control.
The worm king’s blood was still fresh on the floor, black and foul, pooling in the cracks between the stones. The creature itself was gone, fled through the hole it had torn in the floor, desperate to escape the priest’s wrath.