Roland gripped his staff tightly, sensing the vast blessings sealed within it. His gaze swept across the few remaining undead, and with a few simple incantations, he dispatched them one by one.
While he was cleaning up the aftermath, Hela had already risen from where she'd been thrown. Step by step, she made her way to his side.
Though the transparent shield that had protected her had been shattered, the alchemical potion that had given her skin the texture of stone had absorbed the brunt of the high priest's blow. She wasn't seriously hurt.
Seeing the fine cracks across her abdomen, Roland pulled an alchemical vial from within his cloak and handed it to her.
Hela didn't hesitate. She uncorked it and drank it down in a single gulp.
After she swallowed the potion, Roland reached out and gently tapped her stomach with his right hand.
With a soft flow of magic and the potion's healing properties, the stone-like texture of her skin began to flake away, revealing her real flesh beneath.
Roland glanced at her, then pulled out a spell scroll that had already been used. With a delicate application of mana, he manipulated the scroll to mend her torn clothing, covering her now-exposed midsection.
Then, with measured steps, Roland approached the severed head of the high priest. He calmly lifted it, and a layer of frost spread out from his hand, encasing the severed head in solid ice.
Without a word, he tossed the frozen head to Hela.
"Hold this," he said, before turning and walking toward the altar to begin preparations for the sacrificial rite.
The moment the black curtain that cloaked the skies above the altar lifted, the cultists outside rushed in.
From their perspective, it was impossible for two youths like Roland and Hela to have defeated the high priest. Not only had they not fled the scene, they had in fact crowded in eagerly every single cultist in the stronghold had gathered, hoping to impress the high priest.
What they saw instead was chaos wreckage and ruin across the battlefield.
And when they looked up at the altar, they were met not by the familiar figure they worshipped, but by Roland, standing tall in his place. His cold gaze met theirs.
But it wasn't Roland's presence that truly broke them.
It was Hela, standing just below the altar, holding a severed, frozen head in her hand.
The shattered dark-gold mask still clinging to the head was all the proof they needed.
The high priest was dead.
The first few cultists to arrive froze in place, stunned by the sight. Then one of them, reacting faster than the rest, fell to his knees and began kowtowing frantically.
"My lord, I surrender! I surrender! He forced us into this none of us had a choice! Please, have mercy! I just want to live a good life from now on!"
His cries snapped the others out of their daze.
If even the high priest had fallen, what chance did they have?
With that realization, they made their choice.
One by one, every single cultist in the stronghold dropped to their knees, raising their hands in surrender.
Roland, however, had no intention of accepting their submission.
These cultists had blood on their hands. They should have died long ago.
His reason for eradicating the cult was not some lofty pursuit of justice. It was vengeance, plain and simple.
Among the cultists, there may have been some who were just caught up in the chaos. And among their families, not all were necessarily guilty.
But Roland didn't care to distinguish.
Anyone who had lived in this stronghold, even if they hadn't personally committed evil, had still benefited from the cult's butchery and bloodshed. And since they'd accepted the fruits of that darkness, they would share in its price.
He had made a promise: if the cult had slaughtered his family, then he would slaughter theirs in return. No one would escape.
Amid the kneeling and pleading, Roland began the sacrifice.
As a terrifying and familiar presence descended upon the area, the entire stronghold every cultist, every structure, even the altar itself was swallowed by the ritual. Not even the corpses were spared, sacrificed to the otherworldly plane in exchange for blessings.
All except for the high priest.
Roland needed the blessings these sacrifices provided but he refused to compromise his own dignity.
Even if it meant receiving less in return, he would not offer the high priest as part of the bargain.
With the exception of his first major sacrifice, Roland had not sent any subsequent victims to be reborn as undead in the otherworld. Instead, at the cost of one-third of the blessings he would have received, he had chosen to obliterate their bodies and souls entirely, scattering their remnants into that realm as nourishment for lesser undead.
When the ritual was complete, Roland descended to the ground and began walking toward the stronghold's main gate.
"Let's go," he said calmly.
Hela nodded and followed, still holding the frozen head.
Having wiped out every last soul in the stronghold, there was no longer any need to sneak through hidden passages. They left through the front gate, walking in broad daylight.
Once they reached the foot of the mountain, they re-equipped their weapons and loaded their remaining supplies onto the chocobos. Then, mounting up, they rode away.
Behind them, as they descended the slope, Roland remotely activated a series of spell scrolls he had hidden along the dark passage.
The mountain shook with several deep rumbles, and the stronghold above crumbled into the snow.
Having slain the high priest, they didn't bother cleaning up the remaining altars. Instead, they headed to the nearest town for a night of rest.
At dawn the next day, with the high priest's head in tow, they set off toward the site where their former tribes had once lived.
After a day and night of hard riding, during which they fended off several groups of bandits, they finally arrived.
In a quiet graveyard, Hela stepped forward and placed the high priest's head gently in front of a tombstone, holding it in both hands.
Roland stood beside her in silence, his gaze fixed on the grave marker.
After Hela had agreed to train under him, Roland had brought her here. While teaching her, he had also taken the time to gather the remains of the dead from both their destroyed tribes.
Following the traditions of the North, he had prepared over seven hundred urns, cremating and burying all the fallen, including his parents from this lifetime.
He remembered all too vividly the mangled bodies of his mother and father.
Without a word, he stepped forward beside Hela, took the high priest's head in his left hand, and conjured a green flame in his right.
He held the head over the fire.
The rotting flesh burned swiftly, leaving behind only a dark, ghostly soul.
Bathed in the eerie green light, the soul slowly began to wither.
It took the shape of the high priest, screaming and cursing as he was consumed.
Already in no mood to entertain the spectacle, Roland intensified the torment. As the soul burned, wave after wave of psychic shock battered it mercilessly.
Under the pain raw and unrelenting the soul could only wail in agony.
Roland didn't intend to let him die quickly. The soul flame burned at a deliberate pace.
So the high priest's screams dragged on for an entire day and night.
When the sun rose the next morning, the last trace of his soul disintegrated into ash, scattered to the void.
With the deed done, Roland looked to Hela, who was still kneeling before the tombstone.
"Let's go," he said softly.
She nodded, rising to her feet without a word.
The two of them cast one final glance at the grave.
Then Roland waved his hand, and the wind swept in, lifting the snow and burying the tombs beneath a thick, silent blanket of white.