Summoned by the Heretics – Even in Another World, the Zealot Who Worships Death Remains an Outcast - Vol 3 Chapter 67

Ambush.

Squee calmly observed the ground splitting beneath him.

The fissure was too vast to reach safety in a single leap. Instead, he chose a stable-looking rock among the crumbling terrain and jumped toward it.

The moment he landed, the rock disintegrated into fragments.

Squee narrowed his eyes.

Realizing he had misjudged the rock’s stability, he instantly adjusted his thinking. Drawing a knife, he plunged it into the ground beyond the collapse, using its attached rope to dangle safely.

Even though falling wouldn’t have meant death, this was clearly an attack. He needed to regain his footing quickly. Pulling himself up with the rope, he stood on stable ground.

Looking around, he noticed that the knights, the townsfolk, and even Martiel, the deacon, had all fallen into the collapsing earth and the hole below.

Was the ground unstable? Squee wondered. Yet there had been no warning signs of such a large-scale sinkhole forming.

Being close to the village, he felt confident that this was not a natural occurrence.

“This much, I can avoid.”

That led him to a single conclusion: it was deliberate.

The voice that had been speaking earlier now echoed from a spot slightly away from Squee.

“Impressive. High skills, sharp analysis, and a handsome face to top it off. Makes me wanna be held by you.”

The speaker was a woman, unfamiliar to Squee.

She was stunning. Tall, with an abundance of blonde hair cascading down to her waist.

Her wide grin looked as though it was her default expression. Her teasing demeanor matched her revealing, loose clothing, which barely concealed her curvaceous figure.

Her background was unknown.

Squee chose not to engage in conversation.

Calculating that his knife wouldn’t reach her from this distance, he immediately hurled a throwing knife instead.

“Ah, futile, futile.”

But the knife missed her entirely—not due to interference or defense, but pure inaccuracy.

Squee knew such a miss was impossible.

“You can’t hit me,” she said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, walking toward Squee without a trace of fear.

Who is she? Squee wondered.

She wasn’t a follower of the Religion of Love—her demeanor made that clear. However, her appearance at this moment suggested a connection.

Given her knowledge of the previous battle and Squee’s capabilities, paired with her unwavering confidence, it was likely that her immunity to attacks stemmed from some extraordinary power. Such arrogance couldn’t exist without strength to back it.

That meant she was an asset of the Religion of Love. Someone who surpassed the deacon Martiel in ability, even more so than Squee.

“An A-rank mage…?”

Squee’s muttered words brought her steps to an abrupt halt.

“Whoa, how’d you know? That’s right, I’m an A-rank mage. And not just that—I’m a user of Sacred Magic, the Trickster’s Play. The name’s Scione Donnaio.”

Trickster’s Play.

One of the most powerful magics, said to have aided heroes in defeating demon lords.

Its method of acquisition, its history of users, and even its abilities were shrouded in mystery.

One theory posits that the magic’s playful nature is so subtle that its very existence goes unnoticed, making it an anomaly even among Sacred Magics.

Squee had encountered the worst-case scenario.

He had never defeated an A-rank mage.

Against warriors, a mere wave of their hand could cleave him from the neck down. Against hunters, he had managed to force a retreat but never even put up a proper fight.

“Your ability…is probability manipulation?”

“Oh, fancy words. Yep, you got it.”

Probability manipulation.

With the existence of a probability, any phenomenon could be actualized.

If there was a chance of a sinkhole, if there was a chance of a rock breaking, if there was a chance of a knife missing—she could choose to make it happen.

A magic truly worthy of being called the strongest.

Yet Squee thought, understanding her magic might give him a slim chance at victory.

“Thinking hard, aren’t you? Oh, so you wanna fight? Got it, got it.”

Scione mocked his calculations with a teasing tone.

“Sorry, sorry. Earlier was just a little fun. I don’t plan on attacking you or anything.”

“Relax,” she said, waving her hand casually.

But that didn’t matter to Squee.

Regardless of her intentions, if she was involved in the village’s destruction—

She was an enemy.

“Oh, right, I should say this too.”

“I had no part in the killings here.”

Scione stated this plainly.

“I did mess around with the Religion of Love, or rather, the priest Mistrel, because it seemed amusing. I also came to check out this situation, but acts of extreme brutality like this? Not my style. Honestly, the villagers and you guys are victims of a tragic situation. I was even thinking of comforting you.”

That seemed unnecessary.

For a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—her voice carried genuine emotion amidst her otherwise nonchalant demeanor.

“When someone who worships death loses those close to them, everyone wonders how they feel. But your life, more than I expected—”

She looked into Squee’s eyes.

“—has been hell, hasn’t it?”

Squee didn’t react. Scione wasn’t familiar with Squee’s past, but she could sense it.

At first glance, seeing the village and the death of those dear to him seemed to wound him.

Yet now, he had reverted to his usual self—silent and composed, not because he was emotionless, but because he simply had no one to speak to or smile at.

He was accustomed to it.

The death of loved ones.

The death of those he sought to protect.

Inevitable Reality, Time and Time Again.

Squee had endured this countless times.

Perhaps it was precisely because of that.

Because of that, he—

—could only move forward by believing that death was salvation.

He had never saved anyone’s life.

Scione understood this.

His faith in death as salvation was more than a belief—it was a recognition that death was the ultimate equalizer.

He had witnessed inequality more than anyone else.

He had despaired at the unfairness of the world.

“A religion incomprehensible to the fortunate, huh.”

With a tinge of pity, she stood before Squee.

“The tragic fate of someone who’s never turned a blind eye to the world’s evils, huh?”

“I don’t think of myself as serious,” Squee responded, recognizing that the woman before him wasn’t merely frivolous. She had grasped something about him—about his very core.

“I just don’t know anything else.”

“I see.”

Her reply was curt, as if she had little interest. If she had only intended to question him, she had already achieved her goal.

Squee smiled.

“I misunderstood. I still have someone I need to save, so I’ll take my leave now.”

With that, he turned to walk away.

An A-rank mage. Squee wasn’t one to choose opponents based on whether he could win or lose. However, if she was merely associated with the Religion of Love and not directly involved in this incident, there was no need to fight her.

His priority was the cathedral. As he passed by Scione, she spoke up.

“I just don’t get it.”

Squee didn’t stop. Her words alone weren’t enough to halt his actions.

“The world’s unfair, unreasonable. There are people who are doomed from birth, while villains get to live carefree lives.”

That was irrelevant.

Happiness could be found by ignoring all that.

“And those same people, oblivious, go on to preach from their pedestals.”

“Life will get better eventually, just don’t die,” they say.

Those words made Squee pause.

“It’s just… not possible, is it?”

“No,” he replied.

“In that case,” Scione said to Squee, who hadn’t turned back.

“Let’s settle this with a fight!”

She proclaimed it brightly, cheerfully, and joyfully, as if starting a game.

At that moment, the ground fractured again.

The earth cracked as far as the eye could see. Trees snapped, their fragments hurtling toward Squee.

“There’s no such thing as impossible. That means anything can happen.”

Unlike you, I’m forward-thinking. That’s what being a Trickster is about.

Scione leapt.

Everything was a coincidence. The ground cracked by chance, the trees snapped by chance, and the gust carried their debris toward Squee by chance.

Even the sudden updraft that lifted Scione was mere coincidence.

Squee didn’t evade. Instead, he threw another knife.

“It’s not gonna hit,” she said confidently.

As before, his knife sliced through the air and missed.

At the same time, a tree branch impaled Squee’s torso.

Blood sprayed. Despite the relentless barrage of disasters, Squee’s focus remained razor-sharp.

“Let’s see what’s next,” he muttered.

Scione watched him with interest, amused.

Preparing another throwing knife, Squee didn’t deviate.

She didn’t think it was repetitive.

As he threw the knife, Squee charged toward Scione.

Before she could even process his intentions, the knife had already embedded itself in her side.

“You didn’t think it was possible, did you?”

Squee’s voice echoed nearby.

Impossible. She had used her magic to ensure he couldn’t reach her.

Yet, there he stood, with the knife buried in her body.

“To someone resolute, even a 100% certainty—”

Probability manipulation.

Scione couldn’t help but grin.

Had he overcome every scenario she created? Or had he prepared answers to all possible outcomes?

“No way I can win.”

Even with Sacred Magic, Scione realized this and blasted herself away, retreating immediately after the battle had begun.

Simultaneously, the surrounding chaos abruptly ceased.

The updraft carrying Squee dropped him back to the ground.

Watching her flee, Squee sighed.

Most likely, unlike warriors or hunters, she hadn’t trained her magic for combat.

That had left her vulnerable.

But Scione murmured something to herself as she fled.

“People like that exist, huh. Absolute humans.”

It was pity.

Against someone completely resolved, neither magic nor words had any effect.

Still, Scione didn’t dwell on that sentiment for long.

“Well, I’ve had enough fun with Mistrel.”

She took off, ready to seek her next playground.