Our Family Has Fallen

Chapter 1414: Chapter 760: Swift Cavalry Assault, Seizing the Initiative (Part 2)

Reynard led several dozen Cavalry straight at the church’s main gate, his clean, decisive manner showing not the slightest hint of pressure, as if he’d completely stopped caring about his former identity.

Or rather, it was precisely that former identity that made him so decisive now!

The Church’s power in this kind of small town wasn’t big; the intel clearly said they had only a dozen or so people, the rest were just believers.

Among them were two Priests who could use Divine Arts, plus some Crusaders as guards, and the rest were ordinary folk.

A Cavalry charge causing this much commotion should long since have been noticed, yet bizarrely the church had no reaction at all, just left its main doors wide open.

If Hamlet’s school were being invaded, they’d probably have slammed the doors shut already, then handed out weapons to the teenage militia trainees and started a proper defense.

Sure enough, living in a cushy environment had dulled their reflexes—but even more absurd was that someone actually came out and started scolding Reynard and the others for barging in.

”How dare you storm the church! Are you...?”

A man in a friar’s robe rushed out, and before he could finish, Reynard swatted him with one slash, knocking him to the ground, not even showing the slightest intention of stopping.

The man lay on the ground, clutching his chest, his face flushed red then turning bluish-purple as he suddenly started coughing violently, clearly winded, nearly suffocating himself; only after he spat that breath out did his complexion improve slightly.

It was only because Reynard had held back and struck him with the flat of the blade; otherwise the man would’ve been cleaved in two on the spot. As it was, his mind was a complete blank, and in that condition he couldn’t spare any thought for the Cavalry charging inside.

You couldn’t even blame the Church for being this ridiculous, because you lot are the ones shouting slogans about suppressing rebellions and exterminating the evil cult.

Remember: the Church doesn’t get involved in the struggles between nobles, and nobles likewise don’t offend the Church. This is the unspoken rule both sides accept—who would’ve thought you’d be the ones to break it?

That one slash had already scared the man badly; after glancing at the Cavalry outside, then at the people who had already forced their way into the church, he simply flopped onto the ground and played dead!

He hadn’t really counted as an obstacle anyway. Reynard and his men charged their horses straight in; only after crossing the front courtyard did they dismount and stride directly into the main building.

Coming in like that with undisguised malice—how could the Church’s Clergy possibly not react?

The remaining few Crusaders had already put on their armor, Longswords in hand as they formed up at the front. Behind them stood two friars in robes a bit more ornate than the one from earlier, and on the steps in the background was a whole group of nuns in plain robes.

The lineup’s configuration wasn’t bad: several Crusaders plus Priests, combining offense and defense, with Divine Arts to heal and buff.

The ones at the back weren’t Combat Nuns, but they were holding ritual vessels and chanting something, and an indescribable aura spread out.

Everyone there was getting an amplification of Divine Power—that was the Church’s confidence!

But Clerics assigned to some tiny place like this—you can imagine what their strength is like. Even if one plus one magically equals three, it’s still nowhere near a hundred.

Reynard gave them no time for further reaction when he entered; he simply lifted his Longsword and charged.

The Crusaders tried to block him, but the moment this Legendary stepped in, his terrifying power was on full display.

His seemingly heavy frame moved with inhuman agility; every swing of his Longsword met their blades and sheared them clean off—this exaggerated outcome was exactly what happens when ordinary Longswords meet the Legendary Longsword [Final Holy War].

Reynard didn’t go on a full-on slaughter; after severing their blades he used the pommel to slam into their helmets, dropping them into dizziness and knocking them to the ground.

Judging by the dented helmets and the blood seeping out, lying flat came with a price; and they went down so fast that the two friars didn’t even know whether they should be healing or attacking.

Then one of them cast Holy Light over the fallen Crusader Knights, while the other pointed at Reynard and released a flash.

Divine Arts on him were even more of a joke—do you know what this set of old-fashioned armor he’s wearing is? It was stripped from the body of a Church Legendary Knight.

As for that flash—are you aware he’s wearing a Sunlight Ring?

Not to mention your Holy Light is pathetically weak. Go repent under the sun!

Reynard raised his Longsword before him, and in the next second its blade burst with a radiance like a blazing noon sun...

Most of the Cavalry fanned out, circling around the church, their cold eyes sweeping over anyone who dared approach.

”Oh! My Holy Light!”

”No! You can’t do this!”

”You wicked people...”

Just as Reynard had said, the moment they pressed close to the Church it immediately drew the ire of some townsfolk, who hurled all kinds of questions and accusations at the Cavalry.

Seeing Reynard knock that friar flying with a single slash and break through the door only stoked their anger further, even though they hadn’t noticed there was no blood.

Faith is a powerful thing; to these fanatics, watching the door smashed open was as if it were their own home being torn apart.

”Holy Light will punish you!”

”Go to hell!”

”Aaahhh!”

Amid these furious shouts, the first to charge out wasn’t a hotheaded youth, but an old bastard.

Yes, the young are the easiest to rile up—but never forget, it’s the old bastards who are the most stubborn, the most deranged.

The reason’s simple: for those with not much life left, this is what all those decades of suffering have been for—to go to the sacred realm and finally enjoy themselves.

The Ascension Sect preaches an Ascension that doesn’t fear death; the Church likewise talks about entering the Divine Kingdom after death—the similarity is hard to miss.

In the end, all these religious outfits are about the same level. Everyone plagiarizes everyone else and forcefully latches on.

With the old bastard taking the lead and whipping them up, the others also grew restless, especially the young ones, their resolve not unlike Reynard’s back when he answered the Church’s summons and joined the holy war.

The Cavalry had already fought the evil cultists; that kind of fanaticism didn’t faze them at all and certainly couldn’t scare them, especially since Reynard had already given them the warning and granted them free rein.

One volley of musket fire and several old bastards went down. They didn’t have the evil cultists’ twisted, agonized Power of Flesh and Blood; the screams, wails, and spreading blood immediately cowed the crowd. Their forward surge instantly turned into retreat.

Yet just as the Cavalry were reloading, an old man with blond hair among them staggered back to his feet.

In that volley everyone else had dropped, but the shot aimed at him had merely grazed his right ear. Half his face was smeared with blood, yet nothing vital was hit.

This only made the old man even more fanatical, convinced he was special, protected by Holy Light. He clenched his fist, waving and shouting loudly.

”I’m fine! Holy Light protects me!”

”We will not bow to evil!”

”Keep fighting! For Holy Light!”

He shouted his encouragement, and the blood on his face made him look even more crazed—but that’s exactly what the faithful respond to. Their retreating steps were seized by zeal, and they all launched themselves at the Cavalry.

They’d barely taken a few steps when another shot rang out; the blond old man who’d been screaming moments ago had his chest burst into a spray of white mist and crumpled to the ground...

The Cavalry themselves couldn’t quite fathom why these people got so worked up over a single missed shot.

Musket accuracy is mediocre to begin with; pistols are even worse than rifles. Only a Sharpshooter can reliably hit at ten yards—five yards is already impressive for most.

And that’s not even counting the fact that they were firing from horseback at moving targets. Missing is purely a matter of probability—how in hell did that turn into ”Holy Light”?

These soldiers were mostly young, raised and educated under Lance; this sort of nonsense simply didn’t work on them.

One shot doesn’t kill you? Then we fire another.

As it turned out, whether Holy Light had chosen you or not, the bullet certainly had.

The moment that man died, the previously boiling atmosphere froze awkwardly. Should they charge or not?

Fortunately, they didn’t need to decide—because Reynard had already finished and walked out.

The church: taken.