Mages spend their entire lives studying those laws.
Heroes, on the other hand, are not bound by them.
A Hero can create a perfect spell without ever understanding the formula behind it. Their Will forces the world to comply. Because of this, the spells created by Heroes are often impossible to replicate. Many of them even contradict established magical logic. Mages' attempts to imitate them often end in futility or fatality.
But Agrini was different.
Instead of letting her spells vanish upon her death, Agrini did something no Hero had ever thought of before. She simplified the miracles of her Will, reducing them into new formulas that could be studied. Not by observing nature… but by observing humanity itself.
The spells she left behind became known as Holy Spells.
Unlike conventional magic that focuses on external phenomena, Holy Spells take human biology and psychology as their primary subjects. Wounds, pain, fear, toxins, emotions—all are treated as systems that can be influenced, restored, or suppressed through specific formulas.
From these foundations were born the Healing spells that close wounds, the Purification spells that cleanse toxins from the blood, and the Brave Heart spells that suppress fear and despair. An entirely new school of magic was formed, and from it, the Church of Agrini was established.
Those who study and wield Holy Spells are called Priests.
However, the power of Holy Spells has a significant limitation.
Every human being is a unique individual. Biological structures, mental conditions, even emotional responses—nothing is truly identical, not even in identical twins. Consequently, a Holy Spell that is effective on one person may not necessarily work perfectly on another. Most Priests are only capable of manifesting less than ten percent of the original quality of Agrini's Holy Spells. Even a Tier 10 Priest rarely exceeds thirty percent.
And that is where the exceptions emerge.
Individuals capable of surpassing those limits do so not because of Mana talent, but because of empathy. They are able to feel the suffering of others as if it were their own. This extreme psychological understanding bridges the gap toward a deeper biological comprehension.
They are called Saints.
Those capable of manifesting Holy Spells up to fifty percent of their original quality. Their existence is so precious that the Church protects them at all costs.
Therefore, Pritty's words were not an act of arrogance.
With power equivalent to a Tier 10 Priest and her status as a Saint, a single Holy Spell from her was enough to rival hundreds—even thousands—of ordinary priests.
Mujun gave a bitter smile upon hearing that.
Pritty's cheerful expression collapsed instantly. Her brow furrowed, her lips tightening as if a sudden bitterness had filled her tongue.
"What about that man?" she asked, her voice losing its characteristic softness. "Will he come to the deployment ceremony for this army?"
Mujun knew exactly who she meant. The name didn't even need to be spoken to make the air feel heavier. He only shook his head slowly.
"I don't know. But I think he will come," he answered calmly. Too calmly. "He has no other choice. This is the final war between two factions. It is his duty… to face the Demon King."
"I see…"
Pritty nodded slightly, more like confirming something within herself than responding to Mujun. She then tilted her head, signaling for Mujun to follow her.
They walked side by side; Pritty's pace was quick yet controlled, while Mujun's steps remained light as usual—too light for someone who had just discussed the end of the world. Whispers flowed around them, gazes followed from a distance, yet both seemed to walk through an invisible corridor, separated from the crowd.
The route they took led further away from the center of the camp. The sounds of iron, the shouts of soldiers, and the clanging of war preparations faded, replaced by a silence that felt unnatural in the midst of a war of this scale.
There, Pritty stopped.
Her face was now entirely different. No smiles, no softness. Only a cold seriousness, like a priest standing before the altar of death.
"Are you sure you're going to do this?"
The question was not asked as a request for explanation. It was a final plea.
Mujun went silent for a moment.
The silence between them stretched, long enough for the wind to flutter the hem of his robe. Then he nodded, without hesitation, without wavering.
"I am sure. We have no choice but to do this."
Pritty's face darkened, as if the light around her dimmed to match her feelings.
"You know… you don't have to do this," she said, low yet firm. "I or Reina could bear this burden. You don't have to sacrifice yourself like this. This is too big a gamble—with too high a risk."
Mujun stopped walking. Pritty stopped as well.
They looked at each other.
The difference in their heights vanished in that moment. There was no Saint, no slave, no Tier 10 mage. Only two humans standing on the threshold of something that could not be taken back.
"You have no responsibility to do this," Pritty continued, her voice beginning to tremble despite her efforts to restrain it. "You've already sacrificed too much for this world. No one will blame you if you fail."
Her hands clenched unconsciously.
"That collar no longer shackles you. Reina and I have never considered you a slave. You are our friend. And to us… you are precious."
The words were spoken without doubt, full of conviction—as if, if she were honest enough, the world might change its mind. Pritty gazed at Mujun, searching for a gap. The slightest doubt. The smallest crack.
But all she found was a calm steadfastness… and an unshakeable resolve.
There was no burning determination. No anger. Only a decision that had already been finalized.
Pritty took a long breath, then turned her face away. Her shoulders shook slightly. From Mujun's perspective, he could see a wet shimmer in those golden eyes before Pritty lowered them, as if refusing to let a tear fall in his presence.
They stood in silence for a long time.
Long enough for the silence to feel like the answer itself.
Finally, Mujun's voice was heard—soft, almost like a whisper intended not only for Pritty, but for the world itself.
"Pritty…"
He paused for a moment, as if choosing words that no magic had ever taught.
"Do you know…"
His eyes gazed far away, beyond the tents, beyond the battlefield, beyond the Hero and the Demon King.
"…this world is sick."
"It's not because of the Kingdom… not because of the church… not because of the four races," Mujun said softly, as if releasing each word one by one from his chest.
"Not because of the nobles… not because of the commoners… not because of the slaves. Not because of the Demon King… and not because of the Hero, either."
He paused. His breath was not labored, but it felt heavy, like someone who had carried a burden on his shoulders for far too long.
"This world is sick," he continued, his voice remaining low, "not because of anyone in particular… but because this world chooses to be this way."