Holy light filtered through the stained-glass windows, spilling across the back of the majestic statue.

Snow-white wings stretched wide. The nearly four-meter-tall figure stood deep within the chapel—a giant gripping a peerlessly sharp spear, silken white cloth draped over his powerful frame. Every feature of his dignified face radiated divinity and noble grace.

Priest Muir stood before the pulpit, back to the Statue of Kariel, attending to the last believer of the day.

An elderly woman pulled her shawl tighter, eyes bright with hope. She lifted the basin of holy water before her, carefully dipped her hands, then slowly wiped her face—missing not a single inch of skin.

After the water cleansed her wrinkled cheeks, she clasped her hands tightly, bowed toward the statue behind the priest, and murmured the sacred words of the Divine Lord.

Priest Muir listened in silence, pleased by her devotion. A gentle smile soon crept into the corners of his eyes.

About two minutes later.

The old woman finished her prayer, closing with the phrase every follower of the Holy Order knew by heart:

"Great and Almighty Kale, may Your radiance shine upon the world."

The priest gave a slight nod.

He closed the sacred tome, offered a quiet prayer.

"May the Lord’s light bless you."

She lifted her head, her eyes now filled with contentment and joy.

Thanking Priest Muir, she chatted briefly about daily matters, then left with deep satisfaction.

The chapel of Arvin Hamlet soon fell silent.

Priest Muir concluded the day’s prayers and almsgiving with a long, quiet sigh.

As the town’s sole priest for thirty years, his face remained strikingly youthful—indistinguishable from an unmarried young man. Even now, several local girls secretly harbored crushes on him.

Muir had explained it once: a blessing from the archbishop in his youth granted him sacred power unlike ordinary believers—the very force preserving his youth and vitality.

For thirty years, he had performed these rites without weariness, just as his faith in the Lord had never wavered.

Yet devotion was devotion. Doubt was doubt.

Fragmented colored light pooled at Priest Muir’s feet. He frowned, turned, and gazed up at the four-meter Statue of Kariel. A hand pressed to his chest.

"Why, my merciful Lord?"

He simply couldn’t understand—how could this be?

Just then, an elderly nun emerged from the side chamber.

Seeing Muir’s furrowed brow fixed on the statue, she paused, then understood. She stepped closer. "Are you pondering last night’s event again?"

Muir recognized Sister Laisa’s voice instantly. Without turning, his gaze remained locked on the statue’s face, as if ensnared by invisible magic.

"Sister Laisa… do you think I imagined it?"

"I… don’t know," she replied gently, her expression troubled. "Unlike you, I cannot precisely sense shifts in the sacred power."

"But the change was real."

Muir’s voice turned firm. "Last night, as I prayed as always, I felt something… indescribable woven into the Lord’s holy energy. As if… tainted."

Sister Laisa drew a breath, her eyes sorrowful. "That’s impossible… Priest Muir. It cannot be."

Muir fell silent for seconds.

He knew.

Kale the God of Holy Light was their supreme deity—untouchable, pure. Should any corruption arise, His flawless power would annihilate it without hesitation.

Yet nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

Muir had clearly sensed the shift in Kale’s power.

And afterward… faint divine decrees—none meant for him, nor for Arvin Hamlet. He could only feel their presence, not their meaning.

Highly unusual.

Kale the God of Holy Light hadn’t issued a decree in fifteen years.

"It must be a misperception on your part," Sister Laisa said softly. "Perhaps… you’re simply exhausted. Rest might help."

"Exhausted?"

Muir offered a faint, wry smile. He appreciated her concern, but fatigue was no excuse. His body felt vibrant—*lively* was an understatement.

He couldn’t lie to himself.

Gazing at the statue’s solemn face, he murmured, "Perhaps… our Lord faces some trouble."

Sister Laisa shook her head with a sigh and said no more.

Just as she turned to leave, the chapel doors swung open.

Two unfamiliar figures stepped inside.

Sister Laisa initially assumed unannounced believers—but her expression tightened the moment she recognized them.

Anna led the way, arms swinging like battle-axes, striding in with brazen confidence, zero regard for decorum.

Noah followed closely, already deciding he’d stay silent if she got punched.

*Last guy who walked like that got pummeled all night.*

Thankfully, chapel folk had manners.

Though displeased, Sister Laisa permitted the rudeness—strutting wasn’t illegal.

She glanced at Priest Muir, still lost in thought before the statue, and called gently, "Reverend, we have guests."

Muir blinked back to awareness. *Guests*, not believers.

He turned. Crimson hair. A stranger beside her.

Anna was a familiar face. The man, however…

Muir’s mind raced. He extended a polite hand. "The new guildmaster of the Azure Round Table?"

"Yes," Noah replied, surprised by the insight. They shook hands. "You’ve heard of me?"

Muir smiled faintly. "Your guild certification was processed right here."

*No wonder.*

Muir studied Noah briefly—unlike yesterday’s Arbiter York, he offered no judgment, only warmth. "To what do we owe the honor? And… Miss Witch?"

Noah cut straight to the point. "Not urgent. Just checking on my guild’s third member."

Muir’s smile tightened slightly. "Miss Pascal?"

"I’d like to see her. Now, if possible."

"Certainly. Her prayers concluded, and this month’s 'routine' is nearly done. I’ll escort you myself."

"'Routine'?" Noah echoed.

A trace of helplessness flickered in Muir’s smile. "Are you aware of Miss Pascal’s unique constitution?"

Noah recalled Monica’s dossier. "Read the basics. Roughly."

"Then it’s simple."

Muir nodded to Sister Laisa.

The nun’s knowing gaze swept over Noah and Anna. She walked to the third window on the left, pressed a spot just above her head on the pillar.

A low rumble echoed through the chapel.

The floor trembled. Left-side pews and tiles rotated smoothly, sliding aside to reveal a dark staircase descending into shadow.

*Holy shit.*

Noah kept his face neutral, but internally reeled twice. *A hidden mechanism this massive? And judging by the steps… at least twenty meters deep.*

"Pretty cool, huh?" Anna bounced forward, pointing proudly into the abyss. "Eighty percent of this tunnel’s design and digging was *my* work!"

Noah gave her a dry look. "I hope one day you brag about your Ritual Magic… not your tunnel-digging skills."

"Guildmaster," Anna pouted. "That’s crushing a member’s confidence. Counts as emotional abuse. Serious cases go to guild court."

Noah blinked. "…Really?"

"Hehe. Nah."

He nearly rolled his eyes. Ignored her.

Muir approached, murmured a short chant. Three orbs of holy flame floated beside them, lighting the path.

"Miss Pascal awaits below," he said gently. "This way, please."

They followed him down the steps.

The moment Noah stepped into the darkness, icy cold slithered up his spine—a phantom hand tracing his skin. Goosebumps erupted. He shivered.

"She… lives down here?"

Worry flickered. Trapping someone in pitch-black, bone-chilling depths? Even the toughest mind would fray. *Our guild’s got enough eccentrics already.*

Muir seemed to read his thoughts. His smile faded. Voice grew heavy.

"Yes. Since age fourteen. To protect Arvin Hamlet’s people… she chose this. Rarely leaves."

"A selfless choice." He paused. "And… proof of our inadequacy."