"Moen actually got away with it?"
"Well, what can you do? His uncle is a Grand Mage."
"A nation has its laws, a family has its rules... So it was all a lie..."
"They both colluded with devils, but a Grand Mage's nephew gets off scot-free, while a farmer's son has to die..."
Within the Sinvirans' fortress, mage after mage was weighed down by troubled thoughts.
The higher-ups had intended to handle the matter quietly out of consideration for Grand Mage Dorin.
But those beneath them were no fools. They had eyes to see and ears to hear, and the affair had dealt them a crushing blow.
The banners they had once regarded as symbols of lofty ideals had faded at last. Worse still, they had discovered that those banners were nothing more than the nobles' fancy underwear.
No amount of passion or fervor could withstand such relentless erosion. Giving up and doing the bare minimum became the norm, and morale sank.
Even routine patrols and defensive duties grew lax.
Resisting demons was exhausting and dangerous. Many had never seen much hope to begin with, persevering only because of their upbringing, or even sheer inertia.
Once their convictions collapsed, nothing remained worth sacrificing for.
Merely doing enough to justify their meager wages already counted as conscientious.
Under these circumstances, the spies lurking within swiftly seized their opportunity and went into action.
Inside the fortress, beneath the cover of night.
In a dark, unlit room.
Someone furtively laid out a magic array, pouring blood by the moonlight falling through the window and filling grooves carved with a dagger.
A moment later, a Goat Skull Emblem enclosed within an inverted pentagram emerged.
The man prostrated himself on the floor, chanting incantations as he began to pray. "Great Lord of Hell, War