Holy Mountain was shrouded in rain and mist, and the torrential downpour lashed the towering ranges until they roared with a ceaseless whoosh, whoosh.
At this time of year, Holy Mountain would ordinarily still see a few light snowfalls. Only when the mild sea winds from the south arrived would spring warmth bring blooming flowers and drizzling rain. In past years, the cold winds from the Odin Icefield would still linger over Holy Mountain for a while before reluctantly departing.
But this year was different. North of Holy Mountain, within the former territory of the Gallic Empire—now the Gallic Autonomous Territory of the Dragon Mountain Empire—the allied forces of the Church and the Dragon Mountain Empire were locked in a bloody, head-smashing battle with the foreign races. Rolling killing intent and surging murderous aura mingled with the heat rising from the blood of the dead, as well as the warmth given off by countless warriors swinging weapons, shouting at the tops of their lungs, and sweating profusely, forcibly steaming even the cold winds of the Odin Icefield scorching hot.
With the cold current gone and the warm winds from the southern seas arriving especially early this year, the snow on Holy Mountain had not even melted before this torrential rain, bearing more than a hint of late spring, came pouring down. Such strange rainfall made some elderly, steady, well-traveled Bishops mutter anxiously in private—was this a change in the heavens, an omen of coming chaos?
The former bedchamber of the Crown Pontiff had become a den of wine and meat, where Blackbeard, temporarily overseeing all Church affairs, indulged in extravagant revelry. Many young clergy members who had only just graduated from the religious academies had been led astray by the thugs of the Black Tiger Family. The whole of Holy