What is an offensive priest?

Chapter 4 The Monk in Priest's Robes

Monastery forecourt

The drow mage Avir never imagined that he would be preemptively attacked by a country priest in such a primitive and crude way in a remote town in Sword Coast.

The moment the fist struck his cheek, a violent wave of dizziness washed over him, and a constant buzzing echoed within his skull.

However, as a professional adventurer with rich combat experience, he quickly adjusted his state.

He bit his tongue, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth with pain, forcibly dispelling the dizziness.

"Shield!"

After applying a protective spell to yourself.

An invisible magical shield appeared around Avel, blocking Richard's subsequent attacks.

But it was only a defense.

Bang bang bang,

The sound of a fist slamming into a magical shield didn't sound like flesh hitting bone; it sounded more like a gray dwarf blacksmith hammering an orogen ingot.

With each impact, the shield would flash violently, transforming the impact force into ripples that spread outwards.

Avir was physically suppressed by the priest and couldn't even find an opening to retaliate.

More importantly, Richard also added a light spell to his fist, making it so bright that Avel couldn't open his eyes.

What's going on? Shouldn't spell battles be turn-based?

Avel even suspected that Richard was actually a warrior monk disguised as a priest!

As the force of the punches poured down like rain, tiny cracks appeared on the surface of the shield, then spread like a spider web.

Avel finally panicked. He tried to speak, attempting to use his most proficient sophistry to gain a breathing space.

"I admit it..."

The sound disappeared the moment it left the lips.

Looking around, I noticed that Richard had somehow pulled out a scroll of silence spells, and magical energy was shimmering on the parchment!

Outside the monastery's stone walls, villagers from Blackrock Town stood on tiptoe to peer inside, unable to resist exclaiming in awe.

"As expected of an adventurer from the big city, although he's no match for Pastor Richard, he took so many punches without uttering a sound!"

At the edge of the crowd, the thief Maurice narrowed his amber eyes, clearly seeing the cracks spreading wildly across the shield.

And the almost imperceptible pale golden light on Richard's fist—that wasn't ordinary divine magic enhancement, it was more like…

"Swift Strike Combo?" Paladin Kro asked preemptively. "Isn't that a signature move of the Monk class? How did the Priest manage to do that?"

The answer is no longer important.

Because Richard's right arm was pulled back in an exaggerated arc at that moment.

The movements were as simple as a farmer swinging a hoe, but everyone present with combat experience—the paladin Kro, the thief Morris, and even Avel, who was barely maintaining his shield—felt a qualitative change in that instant.

The change in the strength of the merger is more like the condensation of some kind of will.

The statue of Losanda in the monastery's forecourt, weathered by a century of storms, seemed to cast its gaze upon that fist at this moment.

Click!

The crisp cracking sound was like the thin ice on the Seine in winter.

The magical shield shattered completely, turning into countless swirling, dark purple dust particles.

Avel's pupils shrank to pinpoints.

The fist stopped in front of his nose, less than half an inch from his dark purple skin, and he could even clearly feel the sacred aura unique to the followers of Losanda.

Cold sweat belatedly broke out, soaking through the robe he was wearing, which was worth three hundred gold coins.

"You know what to do."

Richard's voice was calm, like the penitential bell that rings every morning in a monastery.

Avel gritted his teeth.

Drow elves are naturally inclined towards intrigue and betrayal, but in the cruel laws of Menzoberranzan, there is one law that transcends all cunning.

The loser in a public duel must pay the price!

He went up to Sister Sharon and sincerely apologized.

"Please forgive my rudeness, madam!"

Avel's voice was a little hoarse, but every word was clearly audible.

Sharon, holding the ceremonial cloak, ignored the bowing drow mage and looked directly at Richard's back, her azure eyes gleaming with a girlish charm.

At that moment, Kro's hand, which had been gripping the sword hilt tightly, quietly loosened, leaving behind the sweaty imprint of his palm on the family crest gem inlaid on the hilt.

Seeing Richard's amazing fighting prowess only strengthened their resolve to recruit him into their team.

"Sir Richard, your battle just now was truly breathtaking!"

"I have never seen a pastor as... courageous as you!"

Paladin Crow's voice was filled with undisguised admiration.

"Thanks to the protection of our Lord."

Richard's answer was concise and calm, as if he were performing a sacred prayer.

Klose extended another invitation.

"With you on board, I swear in the name of the Sterme family, we will definitely capture that damned Cambion!"

After a brief silence.

Richard finally spoke.

"I need to think about it."

Chief of the Guards, Weiss, who had been observing the entire process, stepped forward at the opportune moment.

This veteran, who had served on the front lines for many years, was not only skilled in swordsmanship but also adept at reading people.

"Today is the main day of the Midsummer Festival. There will be a bonfire party tonight. Since you have come from afar, why not rest for the night and experience the local customs and culture of the northern part of the Sword Bay?"

A thoughtful look flashed in Chloe's eyes, then she smiled.

One of the Stemer family's precepts is that patience is the best whetstone for chivalry.

"In that case, see you tonight, Mr. Richard."

-

Night is falling

A bonfire of blessings burned brightly in the center of the square, and the flames of the eternal burning wood danced in the darkness.

Around the campfire, the residents of Blackrock Town sat in a circle, singing and dancing.

The sweet aroma of mead mingled with the smoky scent of roasted meat in the night breeze.

After Richard presided over the ceremony, he sat on the stone steps away from the hustle and bustle, the wooden cup in his hand filled not with fruit wine, but with moonflower tea prepared in advance by Sister Sharon.

"Tell me," he said, taking a sip of his drink and turning his gaze to the paladin Crow beside him. "Just who is this Cambion that you chased all the way to the border?"

Kro put down the roasted venison, wiped the grease from his fingertips with a linen cloth, and the flames cast dancing shadows on his silver armor.

"Have you heard about the Dragon Worship Cult's activities at Dust Eagle Mountain a while ago?"

Kro lowered his voice, making sure the crackling of the campfire masked his words so that no one else could hear him.

"Those madmen are performing a massive sacrifice, trying to tear open a rift to Avernas and summon Tiamat, the Mother of Rainbow Dragons!"

Richard nodded slightly.

Although Blackrock Town is remote, traveling adventurers still bring news from the outside world.

The bard I passed by last week, after finishing two jugs of wine at the tavern, vaguely mentioned that "the followers of the Queen of the Five-Colored Dragons are stirring again."

"But what does that have to do with Baldur's Gate?"

Kro gazed at the burning campfire and spoke slowly.

"In fact, the heroes who prevented this disaster from happening were none other than Will Rivendard, son of the Duke of Rivendard, and that devil from hell, Campionmizola!"