Demonic Witches Harem: Having Descendants Make Me Overpowered!-Chapter 135: The Mob Justice

"You fool. You'll regret this, Theresia," Regulus said. His voice was calm—but it carried a weight that chilled the room.

"This is exactly what the Lord of Calamity wants! To weaken us… and then strike when we're vulnerable."

Silence fell. No one dared look one another in the eye. Both Saints made compelling points—but the Church lacked the strength to act on both fronts.

Theresia's voice sliced through the stillness, sharp and unwavering. "Regulus, do you want us—the holy people—to perish?"

Regulus frowned, surprised by her tone. "What are you saying?"

"You know just as well as I do that many of our soldiers are sick. Do you want to send them into battle and spread this plague even further?" she pressed, stepping forward, the tied strands of her golden hair swaying behind her.

Regulus said nothing. He didn't need to. She was right.

The disease had already infiltrated the temple through the guards—and now it festered within the clergy and holy knights alike. Every touch, every breath in the sacred halls carried risk.

Theresia inhaled deeply before continuing. "So I believe it's wiser to care for our own before waging war."

"I understand your suspicion. Perhaps the daemon race did send this disease to weaken us."

"But if that's their strategy, then I doubt they'll act while we're still in chaos. They're cursed by the Goddess, yes—but they are not fools."

Her words struck hard, and one by one, the gathered clergy nodded in agreement.

Regulus sighed. "Fine. Do what you want." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out, his heavy robes trailing behind him.

As the door shut behind him, a weight lifted from Theresia's shoulders. She sank into her chair, shoulders tense but no longer on edge.

"We move forward," she said, her voice steady once more.

"We know some people develop immunity after surviving the illness. We'll call on those survivors to volunteer in care units."

"We're low on medicine," a priest warned, "Especially for the bleeding symptoms and the fevers. We've been relying on basic remedies."

"I told you to stock them," Theresia snapped, her palm slamming onto the table. "I gave you exact numbers. Did I not?"

The room remained silent. The truth was, not all the cardinals had taken her warnings seriously. Some believed their faith alone would shield them. And now, they paid the price.

Theresia exhaled through her nose, biting back her frustration. The Promised Land's doctors were too few, and mass-producing the necessary medicine took too long.

"We'll prioritize the young," she ordered at last. "And those with the highest chance of survival."

She stood, a flicker of sacred resolve lighting her tired green eyes.

"Now—let's get to work."

***

Claude hummed softly, pleased with the results of his handiwork. It had been six months since his arrival in Cortinvar—and five months since his so-called "medicine" had been distributed among the populace.

The death toll had stabilized at 2,000, with around 5,000 confirmed recoveries.

The spread of the disease had been contained at around 7,000 cases—impressive, considering the capital's population hovered near 20,000.

He scribbled onto parchment, neat and methodical.

"The spread was swift due to the dense population of the city, particularly because the outbreak began in the slums—areas with significantly poorer conditions."

Claude paused, dipping his quill once more before continuing.

"This implemented protocol has proven effective, limiting total infections to roughly 35% of the population."

He set the quill down and leaned back, exhaling slowly.

"However, the data is not yet absolute. Numerous bodies were found in their homes, unreported until days later and not included in this data."

"Furthermore, some refused to visit the temporary hospitals and noble or military cases are often omitted from these reports."

He sighed, glancing over his finished report with faint satisfaction.

"Still... this is good progress."

Claude stood from his desk and dressed in his usual black robes, leaving his armor behind.

Today wasn't a day for battle—it was a day of celebration. Cortinvar was finally free from the plague.

The streets were once again lively. Markets buzzed with chatter, children played under the sun, and vendors called out their best deals.

Claude wandered calmly through the crowd, eyes scanning the stalls before stopping at one that sold grilled monster meat skewers.

He bought one, savoring the rich aroma as he took a bite. It was a rare moment of peace.

Soon, he made his way toward the city hall, where a large crowd had already gathered. A grand stage had been erected in the plaza's center.

Atop it stood Queen Emmalise, regal in her formal robes, alongside Aurelia. Today, the Queen would recognize the woman who had done the impossible—not only helping to heal the capital, but curing the Queen herself.

This ceremony wasn't official; the banquet later tonight would serve that purpose.

But the Queen had insisted on a public gesture to show the people just how much Aurelia's efforts meant to Cortinvar.

When Emmalise placed the medal over Aurelia's neck, the crowd erupted in cheers.

"The Hero of Cortinvar," Emmalise declared, her voice carrying across the square, "May your brilliance guide us until the end of your days!"

"Long live the Queen! Hail to the Hero!" the people roared in unison, over and over again.

Families embraced. Friends laughed through tears. Lovers held each other close. For the first time in weeks, the city felt whole.

But peace is fragile.

A scream tore through the harmony.

"THIS WITCH HAS DECEIVED YOU!"

Gasps broke the chants. The crowd turned toward the stage, eyes wide with disbelief.

An elderly man in priestly robes stood near its base, his grey hair disheveled, his expression twisted with fury.

High Priest Orson.

The people recognized him immediately. He had once been the one to bless them—though his blessings had done nothing against the plague.

Queen Emmalise's eyes narrowed. "High Priest Orson! I told you—we would speak in private. Guards!"

She motioned for the knights to seize him, but Orson was faster.

In a flash of magic, he was on stage. He grabbed Aurelia and conjured a blade of pure light, pressing it against her throat. A thin line of blood trailed down her neck.

"High Priest! Release her at once!" Emmalise barked.

"This is treason—an attack on the Hero of Cortinvar is as grave as harming the royal family. You will hang in the square!"

"I WILL TELL THEM THE TRUTH!" Orson roared, unmoved.

Aurelia trembled in his grasp, too stunned to fight back. The blade's edge bit closer to her skin.

Cries broke from the crowd—pleas for him to stop, desperate calls for him to let her go—but no one dared approach.

Even the knights hesitated, their hands hovering over their weapons.

"I TOLD YOU ALL! YOU HAVE BEEN DECEIVED!"

Orson screamed again, madness gleaming in his eyes.

Among the crowd, Aubree watched in horror, a hand covering her mouth. She surged forward, heart pounding, but was stopped mid-step. A firm grip closed around her wrist.

Claude.

"Don't," Claude whispered, his voice low and steady. "Let me handle this."

"But Claude! My daughter is in danger!" Aubree protested, trying to wrest her hand free.

"Believe me—she'll be fine."

His grip remained firm but gentle. His eyes, however, stayed fixed on the stage, sharp and unreadable.

Orson's voice then pierced the air once more, louder and more desperate than before.

"THIS GIRL IS A WITCH! SHE'S DECEIVED YOU WITH HER FILTHY TRICKS! ALL OF YOU HAVE BEEN FOOLED!" he roared, his hand trembling as it pressed the magical blade harder against Aurelia's throat.

"SHE IS A CURSED EXISTENCE—SHE MUST BE EXTERMINATED!"

But the response from the people was far from what Orson had expected. Instead of turning on Aurelia, the crowd's rage ignited—and it was directed at him.

"So what?! We don't care about her origins!"

"She saved us! That's what matters!"

"What did you do while we suffered? You parade around as a holy man, but your blessings didn't save anyone!"

"Your miracles were useless! You're the liar—not her!"

The outcry swelled from every direction. Furious voices rose, their words like flames devouring Orson's authority.

The crowd began pushing forward, demanding that he release their hero.

Orson shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide and disoriented. "They're too far gone... too far from the Goddess's light... They've been blinded," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

"Forgive me, Goddess... I couldn't save them..."

And then he moved—his hand jerking to slit Aurelia's throat.

Aurelia, panicked but fierce, bit down on his wrist and stomped hard on his foot. But nothing stopped him. His faith—twisted and absolute—had made him deaf to pain, blind to reason.

Before the worst could happen, a rock flew through the air and cracked against Orson's temple. Blood sprayed from the wound as he staggered, stunned.

"THAT HOLY BASTARD TRIED TO KILL OUR HERO!" a voice roared. "KILL HIM INSTEAD!"

It was Claude.

A roar of fury erupted as the crowd surged forward. They dragged Orson from the stage by his robes, his grip finally slipping from Aurelia as she fell toward the edge.

She barely caught herself, gripping the stage's edge to stop her fall.

But even then, Orson's bloodied hand shot out, grabbing her dress in a last, desperate attempt.

Below, chaos raged. Orson was pummeled by fists, feet, and rocks. His blood spattered across the cobblestones as the mob unleashed their fury.

His eyes locked with Aurelia's, pleading—begging for mercy.

But she was no longer the naïve girl anymore.

Aurelia stomped on his hand, breaking his grasp. The crowd consumed him again.

She climbed back onto the stage, breathless, her legs trembling as the last of Orson's screams were silenced beneath the weight of the people's wrath.

He died there, crushed and beaten to death, his body mangled so severely that the knights had to intervene just to prevent the mob from tearing him apart and hanging the remains on the capital gates

His subordinates were thrown into the dungeons—no trial, no verdict, just silence.

And with it, Aurelia's fate and other witches had changed—just as Claude had planned.