At dawn the next day, as the sky hovered between night and light, a thin mist drifted through the air.

Noah, still awake after a sleepless night, immersed himself in records about the Spire inside the guild president’s office, pouring his full focus into preparing for the trial.

As a true living dead, Noah required no sleep. He efficiently absorbed knowledge of the 34th century New Era to avoid future elementary mistakes.

Of course, the Spire remained his top priority.

The only Spire within the Grand Duchy of Alvia—the Aether Spire—boasted over nine centuries of history, older than most towns in the duchy.

Though even that paled beside Noah, an ancient being over twelve centuries old.

The sun rose slowly, piercing the mist. Golden beams streamed through the office window, chasing shadows from the desk and warming the ancient tome in Noah’s hands.

Hearing the bustling street sounds nearby, Noah cast one last glance at the notes on the fifth floor, then closed the thick, heavy book and returned it to the shelf.

Knock, knock, knock.

A timely knock echoed at the door.

Monica’s voice came through: “President, everyone is ready.”

“Coming.”

Noah glanced at the bright sky outside, checked the wall clock, and stepped out of the office.

…

The three members of the Azure Round Table had gathered early in the hall.

When Monica and Noah joined them, Anna and Shirley—unusually—weren’t bickering.

The red-haired girl in a witch’s hat and long coat leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head slightly bowed. Her gaze drifted far away, lost in deep thought.

Shirley stood quietly beside her, mirroring Anna’s posture—back to the wall, arms folded, silent.

The nun from the Holy Order nervously clutched the gem at her chest, eyes shut, lips moving in hushed prayer. Her brows furrowed repeatedly—a clear picture of unease.

To any outsider, it might seem their new president had just passed.

Noah knew well: though a living dead, the “living” part currently dominated. They weren’t mourning him.

He approached, noting their unchanged gloomy expressions. After a pause, he frowned. “What’s wrong? You all look so downcast.”

They’d been fine at dinner last night. Something must have happened.

Anna reacted first. Guessing Noah had secluded himself all night and missed the news, she leaned close and whispered two sentences.

Noah’s faint frown deepened. After her words, a grave seriousness settled on his face.

“Declaration of war?”

Yesterday, the Third Church of the Southern Continent and the First Church of the Northern Continent had formally declared war on each other.

The news swept across the Ayn Continent overnight. Remote Arvin Hamlet received it late; Anna’s group only learned from this morning’s paper.

War was never good news.

Even ancient Noah knew the Southern and Northern Continents had long been at odds.

Centuries of grudges ran deep. Unless one side was utterly destroyed, the conflict would never end.

Though both churches worshipped the God of Holy Light under the Holy Order banner, their doctrines diverged—sometimes diametrically. Both now claimed sole orthodoxy.

Recent years saw frequent clashes, yet full war seemed avoidable. Tensions held in a brittle stalemate.

No one expected it to erupt so suddenly.

More shockingly, both churches declared war simultaneously—proof both sides welcomed this bloody conflict.

“A civil war within the Holy Order is messy,” Anna remarked. She shrugged, tugging her witch’s hat lower out of respect for Pascal’s presence. “Their fanatics outnumber the feathers on Shirley’s body. Once it starts, they won’t stop until it’s to the death.”

Her gaze drifted silently to Pascal.

As a follower of the Cult of the Death Goddess (however insincerely), Anna saw the rival sect’s war as spectacle. She cared little who won.

But she deeply cared for Pascal.

As a Holy Order nun, Pascal was undoubtedly the most distressed.

Anna’s solemn face came from concern—you couldn’t gloat while a guildmate suffered.

She was shameless, not heartless.

Sensing Anna’s worry, Pascal ended her prayer, opened her eyes, and offered a gentle smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just… a little surprised.”

“Worrying is natural,” Anna drawled. “But the front lines are concentrated on a distant plain. The fighting likely won’t reach us.”

“That’s a relief.”

Pascal pressed a hand to her chest, tension easing slightly. Yet she murmured, “But… why call it a Holy War? Bishops only declare Holy Wars against heretics… or… unless they received a divine revelation from Divine Lord Kariel.”

Holy War?

Noah’s eyebrow twitched.

Why did that sound so familiar?

Memories of his Ascension surged—the sixteen Star River Giants, the chain of events he’d unintentionally triggered, the giant’s final human words:

—“Then let us declare a Holy War.”

Noah: “….”

While Pascal and Anna pondered, the true mastermind behind it all was inwardly panicking.

Thankfully, Monica stepped beside Noah, addressing the group calmly. “The reason matters less than the fact. The north-south conflict is irreversible. We can only pray for a swift end—and that the Southern Church does not fall.”

“A peaceful resolution would be ideal,” Pascal sighed, her expression softening. “You’re right, Miss Monica. I’ll pray to Divine Lord Kariel to protect the Southern believers.”

After all, Arvin Hamlet lay within the Grand Duchy of Alvia—Southern territory. Her church followed the Southern Third Church’s doctrines.

If the South fell, the North would purge and forcibly convert all Southern sects. Even spared “heretic” trials, they’d face doctrinal overhaul.

Silence hung for seconds. Anna puffed her cheeks, exhaled sharply, and snapped back to her carefree self. She patted Pascal’s shoulder.

“Enough dwelling! We’ve got the Spire to climb.”

“…I know.” A relieved smile touched Pascal’s lips. “Thank you, Anna.”

The supposedly carefree red-haired Ritual Mage froze. Such direct thanks flustered her.

*There’s a saying for this.*

*Natural girls disarm tsunderes.*

To hide her blush, Anna turned to Shirley—still deep in thought—and tugged her arm. “And you? Why so serious?”

Shirley lifted her head, eyes suddenly profound, voice deadpan:

“What’s ‘Holy Dip’? A sauce? Can you dip fries in it?”

Anna and Pascal: “….”

Thanks to Anna’s comfort and Shirley’s absurdly off-topic question, the hall’s mood lightened.

Monica smiled faintly watching them, then turned to Noah—still wearing lingering seriousness.

Ever dutiful, she offered a concerned glance. “President, do you have any insights?”

“None.”

Though inwardly frantic, Noah replied with perfect calm. “Absolutely none.”

Monica gave a soft “Oh,” cast him a barely perceptible glance, and her smile deepened.

Unaware of its meaning, Noah walked toward the others.

The Holy War and Ascension memories warranted thought—but climbing the Spire came first.

“Let’s go,” Noah urged. “The fifth-floor trial is tricky. Stay sharp.”