The Papal Hall, the kingdom’s highest governing body, resembled a temple or cathedral from the outside. Its towering white spires radiated solemn holiness… Stained-glass windows formed intricate patterns. The golden dome wasn’t mere paint—it was gilded with molten gold. The ten-meter-tall brown doors required complex arcane mechanisms to swing open with a mere touch…

Statues carved from gold and silver flanked the entrance, their eyes set with sapphire gems. Crimson banners edged in gold draped from the second-floor galleries, their emblems stitched with fine golden threads. The luminous, spotless hall floor was paved with black-and-white diamond-patterned tiles from the countryside, overlaid with a dust-free crimson carpet…

Directly opposite the entrance, behind the throne, loomed an extravagantly oversized golden eagle sculpture. Light streamed through the massive window behind it, enveloping the throne’s occupant in a divine, untouchable radiance. Steps below the throne stood robed clerics at intervals, their ornate ceremonial sashes and insignia marking their exalted ranks… Archbishops of the White Oak Kingdom’s Papal Hall.

Bai entered through the grand doors—a knight clad head-to-toe in white. He strode toward the throne, his face still veiled in white gauze. His eyes, now icy-cold, seemed to lower the temperature around him.

*Holy Silver Sword… It’s you… I’ve heard about the Wings of Light. A mere insect with a tiger’s ambition courts self-destruction. The Papal Hall will assign you new subordinates shortly…*

Pope Majesty’s voice was gentle as he waved a hand. Blinding light obscured his features, revealing only the imposing silhouette of a powerfully built man.

*……*

Bai drew his sword, point downward, and knelt on one knee.

An archbishop descended from the dais—a man in his fifties with a hawkish nose and narrow eyes gleaming like a viper’s. Clean-shaven and crowned with a high clerical headdress, only streaks of gray at his temples betrayed his age.

*Your Holiness… Even with such mercy, the Holy Silver Sword must bear responsibility. We’ve lost the Sea Storm Knights. Now the Wings of Light vanish inexplicably. Alan escaped punishment for bringing vital intelligence, but the Holy Silver Sword… claims they fell to an "undefeatable" foe. No identity. No motive. Total ignorance… I call this dereliction.*

*Hmm… And what punishment does the Grand Prelate of Armies propose?*

*Wartime demands restraint—we cannot crush morale. Yet his failure requires correction. A light penalty to remind him of his duty. We trust he’ll redeem himself in future missions.*

*Very well. Oversee it yourself, Grand Prelate… I’m weary. The Empire’s next move rests with you all.*

*Farewell, Your Holiness…*

Pope Majesty rose and departed, attendants trailing behind. The archbishops followed, several flashing unsettling smiles as they passed Bai.

Grand Prelate Tiberius—the kingdom’s most powerful bishop, second only to Pope Majesty—approached Bai with a stern face.

*Follow me.*

Bai’s brows furrowed slightly, but he sheathed his sword and rose to follow.

They passed through palace chambers and art-lined corridors until Tiberius led him to a confessional-like chamber. A single prayer mat faced a window where sunlight cast a double helix encircling a star—the insignia of the kingdom’s seven-deity faith.

*Kneel. Remove your tunic.*

Bai hung his sword on the wall and stripped. His wheat-toned, sinewy frame held not an ounce of excess—every muscle coiled with contained power. Religious tattoos covered his back, chest, shoulders, neck, and face: totems and sacred script.

Kneeling on the mat, Bai’s eyes swam with hatred and confusion.

*Crack!* A whip’s bone-deep sting echoed. Tiberius lashed Bai’s back with a barbed iron whip, leaving bloody, shredded flesh… though the wounds visibly sealed within seconds.

*Hmph… You never used your healing before. Defying me now? Showing off? Think you can escape? Hah! What’s that look? You—a filthy mongrel—think anyone will accept you?*

Tiberius’s fury flared at Bai’s hate-filled glance. He began chanting a spell mid-strike.

Bai’s tattoos glowed faint crimson.

*Ughhh~! Aaah…! Nngh~! Yaaah~!*

Bai collapsed, writhing. His body refused to heal. Soul-rending agony tore through him alongside the whip’s bite. Sweat beaded on his forehead; his stoic face twisted in pain.

*Think you can rebel? We know you inside out… You crave your past? Then stop provoking me! Hmph!*

*Ugh…! Hah…! Aaah~!*

Tiberius’s whip fell relentlessly. His dignified face contorted into a mask of vicious ecstasy.

*The legendary Holy Scion… reduced to this. I—a commoner, a speck of humanity—climbed here through grit. Endured mockery, crushed my tormentors… Now I’m Grand Prelate of Armies. And even a sacred Scion grovels beneath my whip. Exquisite…*

*Still unrepentant?! Still resisting?!*

Panting and roaring, Tiberius whipped harder.

*I hear of your… distractions. Doing it for my benefit? Fine—I tolerate you killing idiot clerics and incompetent knights. But don’t treat me like a fool! You think I don’t know it’s you? You think I rely on those fools to hold power? Hah… You’ll never leave this place. You’re my pawn. Mine to wield. Stop wasting my time, bastard!*

Exhausted, Tiberius dropped the whip. Bai lay broken, flesh torn to ribbons. Tiberius unfastened his trousers, knelt, and forced Bai’s head down while yanking at his shredded waistband…

*Riiip.* Fabric tore. Robes rustled. Thick breathing mixed with curses.

Outside, clouds swallowed the sunlight. The room plunged into gloom…

———

In the Holy Varnishel Empire’s capital, the Empress lay in bed, watching storm clouds gather.

*What should I do…? My son on one side… my nation on the other. When I die… no worthy heir remains. Even now, threats loom… yet my son lets ministers fracture the realm. How can I entrust it to them?*

An elderly maid approached, bowing before offering a bowl of lukewarm medicine.

*Your Majesty, the two princes await outside. Shall I summon them?*

*Let them wait. Sometimes I wonder… should we hold new elections? Abdicate to someone who can truly lead? But the cost… chaos. Innocents—nobles and peasants alike—would die in the turmoil. I cannot bear that.*

*Your Majesty, I’m but a servant… Would you like fruit? The medicine is bitter. A pear, perhaps?*

*You’re a servant… but my most trusted one. Indulge an old woman’s need to confide.*

*Understood. Shall I peel the pear? Or carve patterns into the skin?*

The Empress shook her head. This attendant had served since her own youth—ten years old then, now nearly sixty. A lifetime devoted to her… never married. *What a poor mistress I’ve been.*

The maid carefully peeled the pear with a silver thread, her aged hands moving slowly.

*What of Duke Kein? If I entrusted the Empire to him… Would my sons accept it? Or…*

A flicker of lethal intent crossed the Empress’s eyes before she shook her head. *Killing my own sons… Is that a mother’s thought? But I am Empress. For millions… sacrificing two lives… isn’t that rational?*

*Your Majesty, it’s ready… just the right size for you. Oh! Yesterday, a port admiral gifted rare black tea. I… secretly tasted it. Exquisite. May I brew some?*

The old maid stuck out her tongue playfully, her wrinkled face crinkling into a warm, grandmotherly smile.

*Tea, then. And sweets… Sugar aids thought.*

*At once.*

———

At Stonehold Fortress, Aelionolund inspected defenses between coughs. The arrival of naval marines had stalled the kingdom’s assault, granting the battered fortress breathing room… Conscripted laborers and soldiers repaired cannon-shattered walls under officers’ commands. Yet the enemy encampment beyond the ramparts weighed heavily on every defender’s heart.

Xisar watched the patrolling marshal with boredom, his thoughts drifting somewhere unknown. The naval reinforcements that had arrived a few days ago were led by none other than his own brother, Dios.

The two had proposed launching a surprise attack on the enemy together, only to be met with a torrent of abuse from the marshal. The insults had been vicious… and Xisar had borne the brunt of them, as if he weren’t family but a sworn enemy.

*You brainless idiot! A glory-hunting pig!*

“I’m not!”

“Hm? Lord Xisar, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you unwell?” A nearby soldier, startled by Xisar’s sudden outburst, rushed over with obsequious concern, mistaking his muttered frustration for physical distress.

“I… I’m fine. Go check that section over there. Last time, cracks appeared there—nearly let the enemy breach the walls. Stay vigilant… they’re as cunning as foxes.”

“Yes, sir!”

As the soldiers hurried off to inspect the ramparts, Xisar was left alone. He rubbed his face, trying to clear his head. *Maybe the marshal’s grown too old. It’s time for a younger commander… Damn it. What am I thinking? But… why did this thought even cross my mind? Damn it. Damn it all… He’s my grandfather. He’s the marshal.*

Huh!? Who’s there—? Xisar rubbed his eyes and squinted toward a shadowed corner, but saw nothing. *Must be the strain getting to me. Can’t afford this… I’ll go spar with swords with Dios later.*

Unseen in that very corner, a hooded figure flickered and vanished. Only the ashes of a spent magic scroll drifted silently in the air.

---

At the same moment, Mary knelt beside Lady Franlen in the chapel, offering prayers.

In truth, whether it was the Fire Eagle Duchy, the Holy Varnishel Empire, or the White Oak Kingdom, their core faith differed little. All worshipped the same seven deities: the God of Light, the War God, the Goddess of Love, the Weather Goddess, the Sea God, the Nether God, and the God of Arcane Arts (though reverence for the latter ran thin in the Kingdom).

The distinction lay only in governance: the Kingdom held its priests highest in status, the Duchy placed them second, while the Empire granted them relatively less prominence.

“Finished, Mary?” Lady Franlen extended a gentle hand to help her rise, her eyes brimming with maternal warmth.

“Yes, my lady. I’ve completed my prayers…”

“You’ve been praying longer each time. Let me guess… were you praying for Keane?”

A blush spread across Mary’s cheeks. Meeting Lady Franlen’s kind gaze, she couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“Yes. And for all the Empire’s soldiers… and Father… and Her Majesty the Empress… and others… so many people. I prayed they’d all pass through this safely…”

“That’s good. You have a kind heart, Mary. Come, let’s head back.”

“But my lady… aren’t you worried about Keane?”

Lady Franlen paused, then smiled faintly, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“How could I not worry? But showing it now would help neither Keane nor his duty—it would only burden him. You’ll understand when you become his wife someday.”

“Huh? W-wife?! My lady, what did you just say?”

“Oh? I said nothing of the sort. I was wondering what to cook tonight. Langzhu’s such a good lad—he hunted a deer yesterday. We’ve only eaten half. Shall we dry the rest into jerky? Or stew it?”

“Uh… yes, of course…”

“Heh heh…”

Lady Franlen rose, taking Mary’s hand as they left the chapel. Outside, a servant bowed deeply, holding open the carriage door for them.