Chapter 27:It turns out she was prepared all along.

Isn’t Lady Isabelle indifferent to their fate?

The doubt flashed in Melin’s mind, but before she could dwell, Leanna and the others rushed over, pulling her to safety.

Isabelle’s fingertip traced the longblade’s edge; killing intent flickered in her eyes.

The monster, long confined to Floor 10, had been deeply corrupted by abyssal magic, mutating into something akin to an abyssal demon.

LV85.

If it escaped the Golden Dungeon, it would spell catastrophe for the entire Aust Empire.

Unfortunately for it, she was here.

Raising the blade, Isabelle inhaled deeply. A magic storm erupted across Floor 10, converging at the tip of her knife.

Sensing mortal peril, the creature recoiled two steps in terror.

Then the blade fell.

Contrary to the team’s expectations, no thunderous boom followed—just utter silence. The monster, in that silence, was bisected from crown to crotch.

No struggle. Instant death.

“Press on. No more like this on Floor 10.”

With that, Isabelle vanished in a flicker.

Came like wind, left like wind.

Leanna didn’t relax at the claim. She crept to the halved corpse, confirmed death, then exhaled.

But soon, Isabelle’s power awed her.

Following the cut along the body, a hairline fissure scarred the floor. Raising her lantern—she couldn’t illuminate its end.

Did the saintess… cleave the entire floor?

Absurd thought—yet longing sparked in Leanna’s eyes.

When could she reach such heights?

Elsewhere, Melin fell silent.

In her heart, the protective silhouette flickered—Isabelle, then Celis, then merged.

Reason screamed impossible—yet she couldn’t stop wondering.

What if?

…

Oracle Hall. Queen Frandor paced anxiously.

Second rite done—third overdue. Isabelle absent. Nora, escorting the Blossom Bouquet, missing too.

“Your Majesty… something happened to the saintess?”

“No rush. She’ll come.”

Frandor soothed restless nobles while dispatching a maid to Renia for Isabelle updates.

Shock—Renia gone too.

A marquess fanned her face, whispering to a count: “Our time isn’t cheap. Isabelle’s airs—too grand.”

Young viscount chuckled: “Both saintesses absent—internal strife?”

“Possible. Else why Celis fled in haste.”

“Likely. If I were Isabelle, I’d hate sharing power with a newcomer.”

Delay bred gossip. Nobles slandered Isabelle.

Past saintesses—publicly pure, privately tied to noble interests, lenient.

Isabelle? Desireless. Only Frandor knew her.

Old allies seethed—wanted her ousted, puppet installed.

Unseen, Frandor narrowed eyes, memorizing faces.

Then smiled.

“Long peace and luxury have sharpened tongues like market gossips, yet stiffened knees and hearts—forgotten reverence.”

“Complaining over waiting for the goddess’s envoy? This your noble breeding?”

“Empire’s founding—nobles were elegant, merciful, kind. Not arrogant, spoiled, foolish.”

“Fail basic silence and patience? I’ll gladly strip your coronet, revoke Oracle protection. Live ‘free’ like foreign refugees.”

Hall deathly quiet. Marquess paled, unsteady. Viscount bowed low, avoiding gaze.

Satisfied, Frandor nodded, resumed seat. Offenders—listed.

Queen’s duty: occasional chicken-slaughter.

“Sorry for the wait.”

Isabelle’s voice at entrance. Frandor relieved—then worried.

“Ver… the Bouquet…”

Nora had it. Absent—issue. No bouquet—what offering?

Shouldn’t have agreed—Nora escort.

Foreign nobles—never trustworthy!

“No worry. New one.”

Frandor fretted, clutching sleeve. Isabelle smiled, waved—fresh Blossom Bouquet materialized.

Faint floral scent. Frandor’s eyes lit. Released sleeve, turned with mock anger.

“You planned ahead!”

Arm around waist, Isabelle whispered.

“Always. When have I disappointed?”