Since she’d already left the church, she decided to visit the shop one more time and sell the Carlisle ring she had.

The door chime rang as she pushed inside again, still wearing her black cloak.

The shop was just as empty as when she’d left. The monsters in the Holy Land hadn’t all been wiped out yet, and the customers would rather watch the priests fight there than sit around chatting.

The owner set aside his work and recognized her at once.

“We meet again, customer.”

“Could you appraise this for me?” With that, she placed the Carlisle ring on the table.

“Of course.”

He picked up the ring. A flash of red, and an unsharpened longsword appeared in the palm of his other hand.

The longsword was exquisitely crafted. The sheen across its surface made it look like a work of art displayed in a museum. The owner’s hands glided gently over the blade, as though caressing a young girl’s naked body. His expression held a hint of satisfaction—and lechery.

Then he suddenly noticed something. His expression stiffened, and he hurriedly pulled an old magnifying glass from his clothes, carefully examining the area around the hilt.

Soon, he took out the other pieces of armor in the ring and inspected them as well.

“Customer, these are stolen goods, aren’t they?” He lowered the magnifying glass, a strange look of relief on his face—as if he’d just narrowly escaped with his life.

“Why do you say that?” Sherry asked in a low, heavy voice from beneath her black hood.

If he could tell at a glance that these were stolen, there had to be something fishy about Carlisle’s collection.

The owner gave the blade another fond stroke and clicked his tongue. “My eyes aren’t playing tricks on me. These are royal crafts from Amluh Royal City. Ordinary people can’t get their hands on things like these. I wouldn’t dare buy them.”

“Amluh Royal City?”

Sherry had heard the name before. It seemed to be a city-state quite far from here.

“Customer, don’t tell me you stole these from a member of the royal family?” The owner suddenly leaned closer and lowered his voice.

“A member of the royal family? How could that be?”

“If you didn’t, then you’d better get rid of them soon. They’ll only bring you trouble.” As he spoke, the owner returned the longsword and armor to the ring, his voice shrouded in mystery.

“Trouble?” Sherry asked, puzzled.

“Amluh Royal City forbids trading these royal artworks. As far as I know, the son of a duke in the Santas Empire once thought it would be fun to sell off some Amluh royal crafts he’d gotten his hands on. It was only the next day...” The owner paused, holding up two fingers. Deep in his eyes lurked a trace of fear.

“...that he vanished under mysterious circumstances. No matter how hard they searched, they couldn’t find him. In the end, a Witch’s divination led them to the slave market. By then, he’d become a commodity for anyone to do with as they pleased.”

“...” Sherry stared at the ring in the owner’s hand and said nothing.

“This happens to everyone who trades in Amluh royal artworks. You won’t even find them on the black market.” The owner put everything back in the ring and handed it to Sherry. “Get rid of them.”

Sherry didn’t answer his advice. She thanked him, then hurried out through the door.

Throwing them away would be such a waste.

The Knights of the Round Table really did have all kinds of strange things.

A necklace that vanished when touched. Artworks that couldn’t be traded. A Golden Sword Scepter that could contain bizarre objects...

She didn’t have nearly as many treasures. Apart from the Witch’s crystal ball and the Spirit-Summoning Bell, she had practically nothing.

If keeping them was fine as long as she didn’t trade them, then there was no harm in holding on to them.

If someone ever robbed her, she could egg them on to trade the artworks. That way, the bastard who robbed her would be done for without her having to lift a finger.

Make the most of what you’ve got!

As she thought carefully about everything she’d gotten from Carlisle, she suddenly realized she’d come off terribly shortchanged.

Carlisle’s ring was crammed full of things, but almost none of them could be sold. In the end, she’d made only a few gold coins off him—and in return, a Knight of the Round Table was hunting her.

If she hadn’t lost his necklace, she’d have loved to return the ring and everything else, then tell him they were even.

Tsk. Meeting Carlisle had been the worst luck of her life.

Knock, knock, knock—

Sherry knocked on the door of Ackerman’s office. A voice called, “Come in,” and she stepped inside.

Ackerman wasn’t at his desk. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood facing away from her, gazing through the clear window at the Holy Land in Ayideen, where smoke still rose into the sky.

Before Sherry could speak, he said, “I know what you want to ask. I didn’t cause that explosion. The people I’d assigned didn’t make a move.”

“Then who did?”

“We’re still investigating. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it soon.” He turned away from the Holy Land and walked back to his desk, gesturing for Sherry to sit with him. “Did you go down to the basement? Find anything?”

“Yeah. I want to know why Cyril refused to promote the Gerald Spell.”

“Cyril? The previous pope?” Ackerman seemed to know even less than she did. A flicker of surprise crossed his face at the name. “I never had any contact with him, and I don’t know much about him.”

Morse had replaced Cyril as pope before the disaster in the Holy City even began. Ackerman, who hadn’t arrived in Ayideen until several years after the disaster, could never have met the former pope.

Still, there had to be others in Ayideen who’d met him.

He clasped his hands beneath his chin and thought of an elderly figure. “Perhaps the dean of Saint Perrod’s academy knows. You could find a time to ask him.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” Sherry had thought of the dean, too.

The dean of Saint Perrod was the most respected Spellcaster in Ayideen. He was already over three hundred years old, knew Cyril, and had lived through the disaster in the Holy City.

Sherry had tried to indirectly ask him about the truth behind the disaster in the Holy City, but he’d always deftly dodged her questions. It was as if the truth were forbidden. Everyone who knew it had chosen to keep silent.

“By the way, because of what happened at the Holy Land, Morse will be back tomorrow.”

Ackerman’s words interrupted Sherry’s thoughts. She frowned deeply and asked, uncertain, “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow. Be ready for questioning, and make absolutely sure we don’t let what we’ve done come to light.” Ackerman instinctively glanced at the seal to his left, disguised as an ordinary box, then stood and warned her.

The box held the Church’s sacred relic: Gerald’s heart. If Morse discovered that they were the ones who’d stolen it, they’d be waiting on the pyre reserved for heretics.