Chương 130: Vivienne, the Saint of the Choir

Within the main human encampment, the shot Count Fischer lay upon a military cot, having drifted into a deep coma. He had lost an entire leg. The old mage Fortier was personally overseeing his medical treatment. Because the colossal long-musket wielded by Gobu-Gong possessed such preposterous kinetic velocity, the single shot had completely pulverized the Count's thigh into unrecognizable fragments.

Facing a total shattering of bone and muscle structures on this scale, even the most reality-defying high-tier healing spells possessed zero functional capacity to reconstitute the mash back into a living limb; consequently, amputation was the only viable medical recourse. Channelling a vibrant orb of glowing therapeutic magic into the Count's torso, the old mage Fortier rose to his feet, settling onto a nearby stool to methodically tend to his tobacco pipe.

The surrounding vassal lords and aristocrats immediately crowded forward, frantically inquiring about the Count's medical prognosis. The old mage Fortier executed a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Calm yourselves. His Lordship's life forces are under no immediate threat; he has merely lapsed into a comatose state due to extreme, acute blood loss. He shall regain consciousness before long." The exact second his syllables concluded, the figure sprawled across the cot let out a series of strained, violent coughs.

"Water... grant me... water..." Seeing that the Count had genuinely bypassed the threshold of death, the assembled aristocrats hurriedly snatched up a water cup, greedily pouring the fluid down his throat. Having imbibed the liquid, the old codger managed to recoup a baseline measure of physical strength. He instinctively attempted to hoist his upper frame off the cot, but the surrounding lords forcefully pinned him back against the mattress.

"My Lord Count, your physical frame has sustained extreme trauma. It is vastly superior for you to remain recumbent for the duration." Count Fischer froze, a look of blank confusion painting his features.

"Trauma? What manner of trauma?" The surrounding nobles shifted uncomfortably, entirely unsure of how to articulate the reality. Left with zero verbal answers, Count Fischer began to frantically inspect his own physique; his gaze locked onto the left side of the heavy wool blanket draped over his body, noticing that the fabric collapsed into a completely flat, hollow depression. His complexion turned deathly pale.

Struggling against the hands pinning him down, he violently yanked the blanket aside—revealing that his left leg had entirely vanished from the absolute root of his hip.

"AAAAAHHHH—!!" Count Fischer unleashed a piercing, blood-curdling shriek of pure horror, his consciousness instantly blacking out as he tumbled back into a dead faint. The tent erupted into another wave of absolute panic and administrative chaos, the commanders running around in a frantic, disorganized circle. It required more than a full hour for Count Fischer to once again regain consciousness from his swoon.

His gaze had turned completely ashen, not a single spark of vitality remaining across his physical features. The surrounding aristocrats were similarly consumed by deep, agonizing sorrow—though their grief was directed entirely toward their own personal fortunes. At this crossroad, every single individual present had fully accepted the operational reality: they had suffered a total, unmitigated defeat.

Reclaiming the municipality of Poloia was now a statistical impossibility, and the entirety of their initial financial and strategic investments had been completely vaporized. Count Fischer remained locked within a profound, silent state of existential emo for a considerable duration before his lips slowly, methodically parted.

"The walls... did we fail to secure the breach..." The assembled lords sank into a dense, suffocating silence. The Count's psychological state plummeted into an even deeper abyss of despair; as I calculated, our forces failed to force a permanent lodgement. He knew with absolute certainty that his career was entirely finished. He had single-handedly squandered the accumulated wealth, strategic reserves, and historical prestige amassed by five successive generations of his house.

In a single campaign, he had caused his lineage to plummet from a first-tier aristocratic house of the kingdom down into a second—or perhaps even third-tier—status. He had transformed into the ultimate, unpardonable sinner of his bloodline; once he crossed into the afterlife, how could he possibly face the spirits of his ancestors? Seeing him locked within such a hollow, lifeless state, the surrounding nobles hurriedly began to offer a series of superficial consolations.

Yet, while their mouths spun empty platitudes, their tactical calculations were already entirely fixated on the logistics of immediate military withdrawal. Every single syllable filtering through their speech was saturated with defeatist talk of returning to home territories, refitting their banners, and starting anew. Hearing these words, Count Fischer felt an even sharper, more agonizing pang lance through his heart.

Tragically, the cosmic trials the heavens had orchestrated for his person were far from concluded. A minor vassal lord, his face entirely drained of color, violently thrust open the entry flaps of the command tent. The assembled nobles whipped their heads around to glare at the intruder, thoroughly annoyed by his absolute lack of administrative protocol. Sprawled across the cot, Count Fischer noted that the young noble's complexion was significantly whiter than his own.

He murmured in a weak, hollow tone: "Has yet another wave of catastrophic news materialized? Speak freely; at this juncture, how much worse could the calculation truly become?" In his estimation, his current reality had already touched the absolute nadir of misfortune; what could possibly surpass it? Noting the Count's prompt, the young noble slowly, tremulously articulated the intelligence: "Lord Count... an enemy cavalry detachment numbering precisely one hundred riders has initiated a rapid westward sortie.

They have systematically shattered a vast network of our home castles, fortified estates, and agricultural communes! Every single defending soldier and resident aristocrat crossed by their path has been ruthlessly executed without exception!"

"At this current hour, this hundred-strong cavalry node has successfully breached the perimeter of New Xiya! They are currently fanning across New Xiya, initiating a massive campaign of indiscriminate slaughter and structural arson!"

"According to the absolute latest dispatches, more than one-tenth of New Xiya's primary urban sectors have been completely reduced to cinders by the conflagration. Immense columns of displaced refugees are actively fleeing the municipal boundaries, the regional tax infrastructure has completely collapsed into total ruin, and the enemy cavalry forces continue to rampage through the interior streets, generating an unceasing wave of compounding devastation!" BOOM—!

This intelligence functioned precisely like a heavy explosive charge detonating directly within the brains of the assembled aristocrats. The horrifying realization that their direct kin, spouses, and children who had remained behind to safeguard their ancestral estates might have already been brutally butchered caused several lords to let out visceral, agonizing shrieks. Breaking formation, they sprinted out of the command tent in a state of absolute hysteria, desperately mobilizing their respective house cohorts.

Without offering a single word of formal departure or administrative protocol to the high command, they abandoned the camp and launched into a frantic sprint back toward their home territories. Left to process this catastrophic revelation, Count Fischer's consciousness beautifully and magnificently blacked out yet again, plunging the entire command tent into a total, chaotic madhouse. Standing silently within the structural shadows of the corner, the old mage Fortier executed a slow, rhythmic shake of his head.

In his internal estimation, this entire collective of secular aristocrats comprised nothing more than absolute, unmitigated garbage. They had arrayed a colossal host exceeding seventy thousand men against an enemy force falling short of ten thousand, yet they had failed to reclaim the masonry of Poloia, allowing themselves to be systematically broken into this horrific, mangled state.

It was entirely clear that the primary objective of retrieving the magic tide observation instrument had completely decoupled from the realm of statistical possibility. However, having gone to the immense trouble of mobilizing his person for this southern expedition, he fundamentally refused to return to the Guild empty-handed; there had to be a baseline harvest secured from the theater. His mind reverted to the highly specialized, terrifyingly efficient kinetic weaponry deployed by the Demon Army.

It was high time he personally secured a series of functional material samples to conduct a thorough, academic investigation. He straightened his robes and completely disregarded the frantic screaming of the remaining secular lords, marching directly toward the sector where the Guild's mages were quartered. He forcefully aggregated the entire magical contingent before his person.

"Personnel, pay heed. The primary objective regarding the retrieval of the magic tide observation instrument is hereby formally abandoned. Pack your operational gear and material arcana immediately; our column is executing a rapid redeployment toward New Xiya." Hearing the formal termination of the failed campaign, the assembled mages did not exhibit a single shred of professional sorrow or regret. On the contrary, their features lit up with immediate, intense excitement. Finally!

This godforsaken, miserable deployment has finally reached its absolute conclusion! How could high-born, noble practitioners of the arcane arts be expected to continuously cohabitate with a massive pile of foul-smelling, unwashed common soldiers? Such an environment was entirely devoid of basic civility, completely lacking in scholarly refinement! They frantically scurried off to pack their personal effects.

However, a small cluster of junior mages remained behind, tentatively approaching to inquire: "Professor, what is the precise calculation driving our redeployment to New Xiya? The Guild maintains zero physical facilities or arcane research laboratories within that municipality; why are we not executing a direct tactical withdrawal back to the Central Headquarters?"

The old mage Fortier calmly elucidated: "I have just received verified intelligence indicating that a minuscule vanguard of the Demon Army's cavalry is currently rampaging across the territory of New Xiya. I possess an immense academic curiosity regarding the unique kinetic armaments utilized by their formations; we require the acquisition of functional physical samples to conduct deep material research.

Furthermore, it is highly advantageous if we can securely capture a handful of goblin combatants alive, allowing us to forcefully extract inner logistical details regarding the domestic hierarchy of the Demon Army." Hearing his explanation, the psychological states of the assembled mages turned instantly sour. Son of a bitch... so we aren't permitted to return home just yet; we are actually being ordered to actively re-engage the combat elements of the Demon Army!

The unique kinetic weaponry wielded by those monsters was far too devastating; even though they possessed the prestigious title of mages, they couldn't prevent a deep, localized tendril of fear from creeping into their hearts. As the ancient proverb dictated: a wise scholar never positions his person beneath a structurally compromised wall that is on the precipice of collapse. They genuinely did not desire to spend a single additional minute within the operational boundaries of an active theater of war.

Regrettably, given that the old mage Fortier was their direct academic superior and administrative commander, they had zero recourse but to execute his mandates with absolute compliance. Half an hour later, the contingent of two hundred mages completed their preparations, settling comfortably into a massive caravan of two hundred specialized transport carriages as they launched into a rapid, dust-billowing march toward New Xiya. Every individual practitioner possessed a dedicated carriage to his person.

Far beyond merely housing upwards of a hundred individual sets of diverse, changing robes and luxury vestments, the interiors were tightly packed with dense libraries of academic texts, premium magical components, exotic rations, and even personal cast-iron bathtubs. To guarantee that the parameters of the journey conformed to absolute standards of luxury and comfort, every individual mage was assigned an entourage of three to five personal servants.

These common retainers were tasked with driving the draft beasts, preparing gourmet meals, laundering vestments, and boiling bathing water, ensuring that the esteemed lords of the arcane were continuously pampered and insulated from the baseline hardships of the road. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. The absolute departure of the magical contingent stripped away the final shreds of inhibition holding back the remaining secular aristocrats.

One after another, they mobilized their respective house banners and abandoned the lines; their psychological states were entirely consumed by a frantic anxiety to discover whether their immediate family members back home were still among the living. As the auxiliary echelons continuously leaked out of the perimeter day after day, the grand host commanded by Count Fischer grew increasingly hollow and structurally compromised.

When their campaign initially materialized, their host exceeded seventy thousand personnel. Upwards of ten thousand regulars had been systematically liquidated by the combat assets of the Demon Army; over the ensuing five days of disorganized noble desertion, the remaining forces plummeted until a mere twenty-five thousand troops remained within the trenches. These twenty-five thousand regulars comprised Count Fischer's absolute personal house army—the core retainers of his direct territory.

The sole calculation preventing their immediate tactical withdrawal lay in the fact that the old Count remained locked within a deep, unbroken coma; the house retainers simply lacked the courage to authorize a march. Were they to subject his mangled frame to the violent, unceasing vibrations of a rapid retreat along the rugged dirt roads, there was an exceptionally high probability the old lord would expire on the journey.

Furthermore, the trusted house captains of Count Fischer rapidly made a terrifying tactical discovery: they were no longer capable of executing a withdrawal even if they desired to. With their numbers reduced to a mere twenty-five thousand men, the structural threat they posed to the goblin garrison inside the city had dropped below the baseline threshold. Consequently, the Demon Army inside the walls began to grow intensely aggressive and restive.

They deployed continuous details of scouts to maintain an unceasing, hawkish surveillance over their entrenchments, showing clear tactical indicators that they were actively preparing to launch a full-scale sortie out of the gates to initiate a decisive field engagement.

Any general possessing a modicum of battlefield experience understood the psychological reality driving this development: the Demon Army had firmly locked its sights onto their remaining twenty-five thousand personnel, fully intending to completely swallow and liquidate their entire house army in a single stroke! This was far from an idle theoretical threat.

The precise second they broke camp to initiate a march, the Demon Army would inevitably press their entire vanguard forward; under such extreme tactical pressure, a standard military retreat would inevitably devolve into an absolute, unmitigated rout.

The rank-and-file soldiers were currently consumed by an absolute, desperate yearning to return to their home villages; their minds were entirely fixated on flight, and not a single soul possessed the structural resolve to volunteer for a rearguard action to hold off the monsters. No one was willing to trade his personal life to buy operational space for his comrades to survive.

When every single individual refuses to stand and fight the Demon Army, the ultimate mathematical outcome dictates that every single individual shall die! As long as they remained firmly entrenched behind their complex network of defensive trenches and earthworks, they could still project a baseline degree of tactical deterrence against the goblins. The exact second they abandoned those works to initiate a retreat, they would be sealing their own execution warrants!

At this current juncture, they desperately desired to flee, yet lacked the absolute tactical courage to move a single inch! The house retainers of Count Fischer nurtured a localized fury that burned with the heat of a thousand suns against the alternate secular aristocrats. Those noble-born sons of whores had executed a tactical flight that was clean, absolute, and thoroughly unburdened by a single shred of solidarity!

Under standard military protocol, the various noble houses should have executed a phased, mutually supportive withdrawal, allowing the entire host to securely and methodically peel away from the theater without exposing a vulnerable flank.

Yet, those miserable bastards were so utterly consumed by a frantic desire to secure their personal municipal capitals that they completely disregarded the survival parameters of the core house army, forcing Count Fischer's retainers into a lethal, static deadlock where a single movement spelled immediate destruction.

This chilling reality forced the house retainers to firmly recognize that the grand tide had entirely receded; the colossal flagship that was Count Fischer's house was on the absolute precipice of sinking into the dark abyss. With Count Fischer still locked within his deep coma, the house captains spent their days and nights entirely consumed by frantic anxiety, completely unable to derive a viable trajectory out of the crisis.

Yet, as the ancient philosophical maxim dictated: the heavens never permanently seal every avenue of mortal survival. Just as their despair touched its absolute zenith, an entirely unanticipated wave of strategic reinforcement managed to locate their positions entirely on its own initiative! Vivienne was the formally invested Holy Saint of the Choir serving directly beneath the Church of the Goddess of Life.

At the physical age of twenty-four, she possessed a remarkably tall, elegantly sculpted frame and an absolutely breathtaking countenance. Having spent her entire formative existence undergoing the continuous spiritual baptism of the divine, she had been personally designated as the Holy Saint of the Choir by the hand of the High Primate himself.

The raw density of the magical reserves circulating within her physical frame was exceptionally elevated, and she held absolute operational command over a specialized contingent of one hundred Holy Daughters of the Choir. The organizational apparatus designated as the "Choir" was fundamentally a specialized proselytizing and public relations structure comprised exclusively of exceptionally beautiful, spiritually pure young maidens.

It functioned as the primary external promotional window for the Church of the Goddess of Life, while concurrently serving as a highly specialized, elite military asset—a tactical detachment engineered specifically for the absolute eradication of magical beasts and demonic entities!

The individual Holy Daughters composing the Choir did not possess high levels of conventional physical martial prowess, nor could they manipulate the arcane elements to unleash highly destructive, explosive evocation spells in the manner of traditional mages. However, these maidens underwent a lifelong regimen of rigorous, highly specialized spiritual conditioning.

When aggregating their spiritual intents to chant in unison, they could collectively channel a unique, high-tier divine manifestation capable of executing the absolute, systemic eradication of all magical anomalies and demonic entities across an entire regional sector!

The Commander of the Choir, Holy Saint Vivienne, had been personally granted an imperial audience by the High Primate deep within the primary grand cathedral situated inside the capital city of Sarthos, where she was formally invested with an absolute mandate. The demonic goblin chieftain who had single-handedly executed the legendary Hero, Leon, had explicitly materialized within the regional parameters of Poloia, leading a massive host of the Demon Army to forcefully breach and occupy the municipality.

The High Primate commanded Vivienne to lead her specialized Choir directly southward to Poloia. Her operational objective was to integrate her assets with the secular military hosts organized by the local nobility, systematically chastising and eradicating the demonic entities, salvaging the common populace of Poloia from their agonizing trials, and magnifying the boundless, universal benevolence of the Goddess of Life across the earthly realm!

"For the eternal glory of the Goddess of Life, and for the preservation of the innocent masses of Poloia, this humble maiden shall unreservedly commit the absolute entirety of her existence to chastise and eradicate the demonic blight!" The young maiden executed a solemn, binding vow directly before the colossal, soaring divine effigy of the Goddess of Life.

Immediately following, she led her contingent of one hundred Holy Daughters of the Choir—all mounted upon pristine, milk-white destriers—and initiated a rapid southward march under the heavy, elite protective escort of precisely three hundred Holy Paladins of the Church. The column moved with immense celerity, rapidly crossing the territorial boundaries of the Haluin region.

On this specific evening, as the twilight hours began to bleed into darkness, the column required the location of a substantial agricultural estate or an aristocratic stronghold to secure lodgings for the night. They had conducted the entirety of their long march under this identical logistical pattern; every single territorial lord, landed gentleman, and wealthy estate owner encountered along the thoroughfares had welcomed their arrival with unbound enthusiasm, pulling out all the stops to ensure their comfort.

The Church of the Goddess of Life held the absolute status of the State Religion across the length and breadth of the Kingdom of Sarthos. When navigating the domain of secular society, the Holy Saints and Paladins who directly served the divine apparatus were continuously accorded one hundred and twenty percent of the baseline societal respect and deference.

This entrenched cultural reality ensured that the long journey of the four hundred riders had been exceptionally smooth and unburdened by administrative friction. However, the precise moment their column crossed into the regional perimeter of Poloia, that casual, unburdened atmosphere was instantly replaced by a dense, suffocating weight. Along the dirt thoroughfares, their eyes locked onto countless columns of displaced refugees.

Entire families of commoners were dragging their threadbare earthly possessions through the dirt, stumbling along the roads in a state of absolute, hollow exhaustion. Witnessing this heartbreaking spectacle, Holy Saint Vivienne's delicate eyebrows knitted into a tight, strained frown, her small fists clenching with intense physical force.

In her internal philosophical estimation, the absolute displacement and agonizing suffering of these innocent commoners was the direct, unmitigated consequence of the savage invasion executed by the Demon Army. She firmly believed that the precise second the demonic forces were systematically eradicated, these masses could securely return to their ancestral homesteads, allowing the radiant, benevolent illumination of the Goddess of Life to once again securely blanket the entire collective of sentient creation.

The Commander of the Paladin escort detail was a remarkably handsome, dashing young knight named Thor. Executing a gentle pull of his reins, he guided his steed directly adjacent to Vivienne's mount, articulating his thoughts with absolute, profound deference: "My Lady Saint, precisely two li ahead along this thoroughfare sits a fortified noble castle. We can securely request lodgings within its walls to rest our frames for the night, before resuming our rapid march at the break of dawn."

Vivienne's gaze remained completely anchored to the crawling lines of refugees, her eyes swimming with deep, unyielding sorrow and empathy. Noting her emotional state, the Paladin Commander softened his delivery, offering a warm, reassuring consolation: "My Lady Saint, your person has endured a grueling, uninterrupted day of travel along the roads; it is strictly necessary for you to secure a proper measure of physical rest.

Only by ensuring that your physical frame remains at the absolute peak of vitality can our column rapidly reach the gates of Poloia, systematically liquidate the Demon Army entrenched within, and restore absolute peace and security to the common populace." Vivienne executed a gentle, compliant nod of her head.

"Very well, Commander Thor. Let us proceed." Commander Thor cast a fleeting glance toward Vivienne, his eyes entirely saturated with an intense, deeply suppressed romantic adoration, before surging his steed forward to lead the column. He could firmly register the reality that he was rapidly approaching the absolute limit of his capacity to suppress his profound affection for the Holy Saint. The Lady Saint was preposterously beautiful.

She possessed a sweeping cascade of long, golden hair that shimmered like spun silk, a pristine, teardrop-shaped pendant representing absolute spiritual purity dangling elegantly across the center of her forehead. Her tall frame was encased within a lightweight, custom-tailored suit of supple brown leather armor that perfectly accentuated the contours of her physique.

Suspended across her chest was the heavy, intricately wrought holy icon of the Church of the Goddess of Life, while an elegant, exquisitely crafted rapier hung securely from her waist. Her lower limbs were ensconced within a pair of polished, high-topped brown leather riding boots, and a flowing, pale-green cloak drifted gracefully behind her shoulders.

This unique configuration of vestments caused Vivienne to exude the sharp, dashing aura of a highly competent, independent female swordmaster, while concurrently magnifying her baseline spiritual purity and ethereal beauty to an absolute crescendo.

Ever since he received the high assignment to command the Paladin escort detailing her southward expedition, spending successive days and nights cohabitating with this magnificent woman along the long roads, Thor's heart had been locked within a continuous state of profound, tumultuous vibration. He found himself clandestinely tracking every single fleeting expression, every gentle smile, and every soft sigh that materialized across her features.

He nurtured an intense, burning desire to fully articulate the absolute depth of his romantic adoration to Vivienne. Yet, because he held the prestigious responsibility of the Paladin Commander, he was fully conscious of the absolute boundaries of professional duty; consequently, he had forcefully clamped a lid over his emotional reality for the duration of the trip.

At this current juncture, however, he felt the internal pressure was on the absolute verge of shattering his restraint; he was running out of the capacity to prevent his lips from open, passionate confession to this breathtaking Holy Saint. The four hundred mounted riders accelerated their pace along the dirt thoroughfare. Covering the two li distance with ease, the outline of a fortified aristocratic castle loomed into view.

Their operational intent was to ride up to the main gates, exchange formal administrative protocols with the master of the castle, and securely establish their lodgings for the night. However, before their vanguard could even close within striking distance of the main castle masonry, as they trotted past a cluster of agricultural structures bordering the edge of the crop fields, the entire column was violently arrested by a series of piercing, agonizing shrieks. Vivienne's delicate brow creased into a sharp frown.

Executing a sudden, forceful pull of her reins, she redirected her destrier straight toward the interior of the agricultural commune.

"Commander Thor, let us immediately divert our course into this commune to inspect the underlying reality. What could possibly induce an individual to unleash such profoundly agonizing shrieks of torment?" Commander Thor barked his immediate assent, surging his steed forward to assume the vanguard as the massive contingent of cavalry streamed into the perimeter of the commune.

The precise second Holy Saint Vivienne's eyes fully locked onto the active scene unfolding within the center of the commune, her beautiful countenance was instantly consumed by absolute, unadulterated shock and horror. Standing directly within the dirt clearing, a detachment of heavily armed noble house soldiers had bound dozens of common agricultural serfs securely to a series of rough wooden execution posts.

They were wielding heavy leather bullwhips, cycling their arms with savage force to rain a continuous cascade of blows down upon the bare backs of the peasants. Long, horrifying, blood-weeping lacerations crisscrossed the flesh of the serfs like a macabre tapestry. The bound serfs were screaming in unceasing, absolute torment.

Yet, because their limbs were tightly pinned against the solid timber by heavy ropes, they possessed zero capacity to dodge or mitigate the trajectory of the whips, being systematically beaten to the absolute threshold of physiological death. Furthermore, a substantial volume of the bound commoners had already ceased all physical movement, their heads lolling limply against their chests—it was entirely clear they had already expired under the violence. An absolute, burning fury ignited within Vivienne's chest.

In her capacity as the spiritually pure, deeply compassionate Holy Saint of the Church, her entire earthly existence was dedicated to walking among the masses to propagate the boundless, universal benevolence of the Goddess of Life; how could she possibly stand idly by while mortal men actively manufactured such systematic, unmitigated torment before her eyes?! She unleashed a sharp, resonant command that rang with pure, authoritative anger:"HALT YOUR HANDS!!"

The house soldiers actively swinging the leather whips froze in their tracks, their arms hanging suspended in mid-air. The local territorial lord who was personally directing the systematic abuse of his serfs opened his mouth, fully intending to unleash a torrent of foul, aristocratic curses at the intruders. However, the precise second his eyes fully registered the majestic, elite composition of the approaching riders, the words died instantly in his throat.

Scrambling forward with immense frantic speed, he threw his body directly before the hooves of Vivienne's destrier, dropping cleanly onto one knee as he roared with absolute, trembling reverence:"Oh! Praised be the eternal glory of the Goddess of Life! That this humble servant should be granted the absolute, boundless honor of gazing upon the holy emissaries of the divine within the parameters of this wretched, backwater wilderness... this is truly the ultimate, crowning grace of my entire existence!"