After the Battle

Backlund, North Borough, Saint Samuel Cathedral.

In a spacious underground plaza, many people clutched their heads and were forced to squat down. There were men and women among them, young and old, well-dressed middle-class citizens and shabby, pitiful vagrants. Before today, they might have held different identities, but at this moment, they had only one designation: cultists.

"Don't move."

"Don't raise your heads!"

Nighthawks and Red Gloves elites were stationed throughout the area, their dark gun barrels sweeping over the people. If any of them dared to move recklessly, they would be shot down without mercy.

Luther moved through the crowd.

"This one, this one, and this one..."

His crimson eyes reflected the figures of the cultists as he continuously raised a hand to point at certain people. Whenever someone was singled out, a Nighthawk immediately came over, pulled them from the ground, and dragged them out of the plaza.

Like a butcher selecting lambs to be sent to slaughter.

"Ah, no, spare me! I can believe in the Goddess..."

"Hahaha! The Lord will descend eventually, and our souls will be reborn in the Apocalypse..."

These cultists were all ordinary people after the Beyonders had been removed. They were fundamentally incapable of contending with powerful Nighthawks. As they were pulled up, some wailed and begged while others maintained their fanatical faith. However, the Nighthawks had been trained well. They knew they could not believe a single word cultists said, so they remained utterly unmoved, gagged them directly, and quickened their pace as they dragged them away.

The plaza soon fell silent. A heavy sense of oppression filled everyone's hearts, and they feared that the figure announcing death would come to stand beside them.

"Mm, that should be all of them."

Luther made three rounds through the crowd before finally stopping.