Step one complete. I felt a little more at ease.

According to Bishop Corlmo, implanting the Angel Heart alone should’ve shown some effect by now.

Closing my eyes, I pressed my palms together before me and began to pray.

This was the formal prayer ritual Holy Clerics performed to commune with the divine and strengthen their cultivation—not the casual petitions ordinary folk made when begging gods to grant wishes.

Holy Clerics prayed daily; without it, progress reversed like a boat fighting the current. Fanatics prayed relentlessly, day and night without rest.

I’d learned prayer at twelve during my initiation rites. Yet no matter how often I prayed, I never sensed the Breath of the Sun. I was born without the gift to feel Divine Power.

But now—everything changed. Warmth and holiness radiated near me. I opened my eyes. A pure white ribbon of light descended from the heavens, piercing through the ceiling to connect with my head. Divine Power poured into my body through it. For the first time, I felt the Breath of the Sun.

He was like the first beam of light in infinite primordial darkness—a colossal star orbited by celestial bodies. So magnificent. Faith carried humanity’s worship and pleas through countless light ribbons into the Divine Realm. In return, he scattered Divine Power and granted wishes like light and heat upon the mortal world.

Since my initiation, I’d sensed an invisible thread connecting me to something greater. Yet I’d never seen it—only heard others describe their visions during prayer. Now, I witnessed it myself.

I wept with joy. Father Sir watched me with quiet relief. Mistflower beside me was also reacting, practically dancing with excitement.

“Enough gawking—you’ll have plenty of time to stare later,” Father Sir said. “Prepare yourselves. We’re heading to the Divine Church. Bishop Farina’s been waiting long enough.”

Soon, our carriage rolled through the aristocratic district’s boulevards again. This time, Bishop Corlmo and Mistflower hitched a ride with us.

At the end of the Imperial Capital’s Central Avenue stood the Divine Church headquarters. Even a hopeless navigator could find it by following the artificial sun above. No matter how many times I visited, the Central Cathedral’s golden splendor still stole my breath.

We bypassed the main cathedral today, slipping through a side entrance. After twisting through corridors, we reached a discreet door guarded by hooded, black-robed devotees. Beyond it lay stairs descending underground.

The subterranean hall defied my expectations—not dark and hidden, but opulent. Gleaming white tiles, a luminous ceiling, plush sofas and armchairs arranged like a noble salon’s lounge. Only the surrounding frescoes and reliefs revealed its true nature: angels depicted in every scene—descending to earth, battling Demons, living among mortals.

Inside, over a dozen youths in various academy uniforms clustered in small groups. Most were girls; only three or four boys stood out, radiating confidence and talent. Every face was strikingly refined. These must be the top students Bishop Corlmo mentioned—candidates willing to reincarnate as Angels.

A pink-haired girl rose. Though draped in Supreme Bishop robes, she blended seamlessly with the students. Bishop Farina. Don’t let her youthful face fool you—she could be my great-grandmother twice over. Mention her age? Call her “auntie”? Trust me, you don’t want to know the consequences.

“You’re late,” she chided. “Keeping a lady waiting is terribly rude.” Her scolding melted instantly as her gaze landed on me. “Wald? I never expected to see you here. Don’t worry—I’ll personally oversee the ritual.”

“Yes, Sister Farina.”

The only title she’d ever accept from me.

Three wide-eyed girls approached. “Teacher Farina,” one asked, “who are they? Are they joining the reincarnation ritual too?”

As head of education—and a part-time professor at half the academies in the capital—Farina was adored by students. They all called her “Teacher.”

“Who are they?” Farina’s voice sharpened playfully. “Show some respect! This is Supreme Bishop Pol and Supreme Bishop Corlmo. Bow properly—they might be your superiors soon enough.” Her tone was teasing, but the girls instantly curtsied, awed by the titles.

We moved deeper into the inner sanctum. There, at last, was the ritual site.

A pure white tree grew at the chamber’s heart—trunk, branches, leaves, all luminous ivory. Thin mist swirled through the air like a hot spring’s vapor. Droplets gathered on the leaves, falling into a pool below. The entire basin glowed with milky liquid, reminiscent of the milk baths noble ladies adored. At its center stood the white tree.

Before the pool lay a stone tablet inscribed in divine script:

*Angel Conversion Pool*